#spiritual red flats

[creature-wizard]

Hey Friend, hope you're well.

So, you got a better rundown of everything than I do so I wanted to hear your thoughts on the Profundity Yours cult. I found out about it from a Papa Meat short, from what I've seen, it kinda seems very horribly Lighthouse Summit type deal... Gives me the ick.

Thanks in advance,

Bottle

So I've never heard of Profundity Yours before, so I checked out the YouTube channel.

First I checked out their first video, "Candle Work by Linda Good McGillis."

It wasn't long before the video started dropping pseudoscience (the stuff about most of us supposedly not using all of our brains and brain laterality) . Then it went into some some New Age conspiracy theory stuff (talking about "the Matrix" and all that). Then the video basically says that the reason most of us can't meditate for thirty minutes is because we're lazy and undisciplined. And IDK, maybe it's my trauma as a 90's kid with undiagnosed ADHD talking, but when anyone starts talking about discipline like that, it makes my skin crawl.

Next I clicked "Linda Good McGillis 05-11-2021". In this video, she starts talking about what's basically your typical New Age ascension type stuff, including alleged ascension symptoms and a supposed imminent upgrade to a crystalline/silicon body. For anyone who doesn't already know, the whole concept of "ascension symptoms" is pure nonsense. The alleged symptoms range from stuff that's probably caused by stress to stuff you should probably see a doctor about right away. People have been on about ascension symptoms since at least the late 2000s, and not a single person has ever upgraded to a superhuman crystalline body.

She claims that people experiencing these upgrades will soon find that food has no taste, because the light body doesn't require food. This video being filmed in 2021, I think it's more likely that she or her audience were actually experiencing COVID. She makes a bunch of other weird claims, like that bloating is caused by your body holding onto too much light.

Next I clicked "The road to freedom - 05102021", and oh boy was this one full of red flags. It's not worrying just because she started talking about starseeds, Anunnaki, and galactic civilizations, but also because it's obvious that she's responding to criticism against some seriously concerning behaviors. People have apparently been calling her dark, draconian, evil, false light, and she's basically responding by claiming that if you judge someone by their personality and character, you're blinding yourself to seeing their soul, and you aren't ready for a "galactic, angelic civilization." She claims, "this is what has cause hurt in this world, you don't see through your heart, you see through your beliefs." She claims that people who abuse you are "playing a role for you" and are "very benevolent."

So yeah, I watched literally just three videos and all of them are full of New Age woo and red flags.

[rainychaoloveshack]

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞-𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐲. 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐠.

you accidentally woke up shadow after some drinking. oops.

⋆°•☁︎ content. shadow x gn!reader, mentions of drinking, slightly tipsy shadow (he’s pretty sweet), kinda ooc, very very fluffy, mentioned engagement

☂︎ wc. 1k ☂︎ a/n. this is kindaaa a spiritual successor to this fic, cause i ended up using the fiance idea again huehehe… (maybe like a sweet moment a few days after?) the stories aren’t directly linked but they can be! its sorta like a series but they work as standalones lol

likes, reblogs, and especially comments are extremely appreciated!!! (i like chatting to you guys!)

“What’s wrong, honey?” Your fiancé's gruff voice breaks you from your thoughts, and you turn your head to meet his crimson gaze, glancing up at you curiously from his laid-out form. You almost didn’t catch the use of your nickname at the end, one he rarely uses unless on a special occasion.

This special occasion happens to be from your late drinking party with him around three hours ago. A mission went well, spectacular even, deserved a celebration, even if it was something small between the two of you. Shadow rarely drinks, but he held his liquor better than you thought he would, downing more drinks than you’ve ever seen him do.

Not well enough that he had to be assisted by you to your bedroom, unfortunately. He was insistent on sleeping beside you tonight.

“Was it a nightmare?” He shifts around on his side, his eyes looking into yours with a half-lidded stare, still clearly drowsy, with the way his voice almost slurred at the end of his words. But you shake your head and try to ease his drunken worries with a smile, reaching over to pet his head.

Shadow accepts your gesture with no protest, not even a frown or a flinch away, and his eyes shut once you make contact, ears tilted down and twitching as you pet the red stripe on his head, whispering sweet nothings to him as you enjoy his favorable reaction.

“[N-Name]...” He purrs, letting a small smile spread across his mouth. “Ah, stop it, stop it…” He grumbles, his words not matching his mannerisms, giving up trying to sound menacing as his ear flickers in your direction. A chuckle gives out from your throat before giving him one last pet with the back of your hand, settling yourself down from waking up so suddenly. Flipping back over and lying on your back, your eyes shut as you try to catch some much-needed shut-eye after tonight's celebration, yet you can feel Shadow’s stirring and shuffling around from the mattress, and your eyes peel back open to see what’s the matter with him.

“You know it’s my day off tomorrow.” Shadow says gently, finding his way over to your side, the soft mattress compressing below you two. “Do you have anything special planned?” His chest fur brushes against your arm, rising and falling with his slow breaths as he awaits your answer in anticipation, tail wagging back and forth slowly under the blanket you two share. It seems he doesn’t care to hide it tonight like he usually does. “You do, huh? Is it a date?”

You respond with a small shake of your head, and a frown spreads onto his muzzle as he tenses up slightly, displeased at your bland answer as his tail stops immediately. You really didn’t have anything planned; a simple day in with Shadow is good enough for you.

But it looks like he doesn’t like the thought of that this time. “I don’t want to just stay in the apartment tomorrow.” He mutters, his ear flicking once you poke and fidget with the tip of it as he speaks.  “I want to go out. I want to spend time with you outside…” 

The fact that Shadow’s so blunt tonight catches you off guard, forcing a small twitch through your arm as your brain processes it and forces a double take.

“What?” Shadow registers the shocked expression on you, and tries to get out a menacing growl, but it falls flat. “What’s with that face?”

You shake your head, shrugging your shoulders as your fingers find their way to his quills, trying to distract him from your reaction to his forwardness. It seems to work well as he nudges his head up into your hand, before shuffling around to straddle himself above you, easing himself down onto your body as he leans forward, almost pinning you down against the bed, but then he drags a lone finger down your arm gently.

“Let’s go walk around Station Square.” Shadow murmurs, leaning down and tracing imaginary circles on your chest. “I want to go out with you; I want to…” His voice trails off, a blush spreading across his muzzle, along with a small frown; clearly aggravated by something. Perhaps it's about the fat, amused grin on your face? 

“You’re making fun of me in your head.” Maybe a little. Yet you lie to him by shaking your head no, but he already knows the truth.

He clicks his tongue, shuffling off and sitting back on the bed as another growl grows in his throat. “It’s not funny.” You sit up onto your elbows to meet his gaze, cocking your head to the side giving him an amused yet happy smile.

Your future husband is so cute, tipsy or not.

His brows furrow, yet he leans down and cups your cheek with a hand, pressing a small kiss on the other, then tilting your face up to give you a quick kiss on the lips, smiling during it as you lean into him. He scoots back to you, and rests his body down next to yours, snuggling his head against your chest as he hugs your torso.

It’s always been hard for Shadow to express his feelings directly, whether it be ones of love or sorrow. Maybe he won’t feel so embarrassed about it when the sun rises; perhaps he will. Who knows? While the embarrassment may be present, he means every word he says out of his mouth. Of course, he does. And you never doubt it for a second.

“I love you, [Name]. Goodnight.”

⋆°•☁︎⋆°•☁︎⋆°•☁︎

“Rouge, I was acting like a pure idiot that night. I woke up feeling like some imbecile. I couldn’t even look them in the eye. It’s not something that I can just-”

“Now why would they care about something like that, Shadow? You know they love you.”

“Yes, yes, of course, I know that, but-”

“Honestly, you worry too much about how you act around them. You’re both engaged for crying out loud! Some honesty with your emotions would do both of you some good. You’re lucky they’re such a patient lover.”

“Hmm.”

“So… How was your date with them? Was it fun? I haven’t had time to talk to them about it in detail, but they seemed happy about it when I brought it up in passing. Mentioned some real nice things about you. And about what happened that night…”

“Really? What did they say?”

“That’s between me and [Name].”

“Damn it, Rouge-”

“Yeah, whatever lover boy. I gotta go; shopping with the girls and all. See ya!”

"Rouge-"

"Ah..."

“Useless bat.” 

[daisys-reality]

𝙿𝙰𝙲.𝟶𝟷𝟾 : 𝙱𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚊 '𝙳𝚁 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏' 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎! - 𝙵𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚆𝚎𝚋𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 (𝙿𝚃. 𝟷)

Hello my fellow shifters 🌱 This pac reading is just for entertainment purposes and for everyone who plans on shifting to a DR that is fantasy/royal/webtoon/isekai-like + for those who want to get some inspiration on how their DR self should look like. Almost all of my DR selfs look different and I thought this would be a fun idea to get some inspo for future DR plans hehe. If you like to read more pac readings from me, feel free to check out my  masterlist as well! Also, I don't own any of these beautiful pics, they're all from pinterest.

🛑 This reading works a little different, so after choosing a main picture/pile, you'll have to choose some more numbers and they will be different for each pile. Please choose a number for each category and go to your pile:

EYE COLOR: 1️⃣ 2️⃣

HAIR COLOR: 1️⃣ 2️⃣

------

𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙾𝙽𝙴

Eye color: 1️⃣ strong pink / purple 2️⃣ yellow/orange (tiger eye)

Hair color: 1️⃣ dark blue / purple  2️⃣ dark blonde

Overall vibe: Skin complexion on the paler side (regardless of skin color), creamy skin, round face, strong jawline, round/soft body type with good amount of muscles, short to medium height, darker hair (so here: dark blonde or dark purple/blue hair), emotional/moody, dreamy, affectionate, passionate, dramatic, attractive, psychic, serious, melancholic, burdened/exhausted by life in general or by responsibilities and contracts?, dark colored and black clothes, long dresses, pearl jewelry, big jewels, piercing eyes, strong intuition, powerful presence, being restricted by something or holding yourself back, composed anger, embodiment of karma, fearless gaze, sensual, devoted and eager for power.  

Eye/hair color combinations: 1️⃣1️⃣, 1️⃣2️⃣, 2️⃣1️⃣, 2️⃣2️⃣

𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝚃𝚆𝙾

Eye color: 1️⃣ light green  2️⃣  black

Hair color: 1️⃣ light pink 2️⃣ icy blue

Overall vibe: Graceful, tall and slender, long legs, medium skin complexion (regardless of skin color), light colored hair, can’t stand still, arrogant/conceited, condescending, flat chested, cold, emotionless, hidden control freak, easily misunderstood, wise, tragedy as blessing in disguise, intriguing, willing to do the dirty work, you're someone who stands up for themselves, your words might sting, lowkey intimidating/scary to men, doll-like beauty, ribbons and frills, light-colored clothes, poisonous beauty, you’re like the poison that is being used as remedy to another poison, you bring balance and transformation into that world even if people can’t see it.

Eye/hair color combinations: 1️⃣1️⃣, 1️⃣2️⃣, 2️⃣1️⃣, 2️⃣2️⃣

𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴

Eye color: 1️⃣ red 2️⃣  orange/hazel

Hair color: 1️⃣ blonde 2️⃣ brown

Overall vibe: Warm colored hair, dark colored eyes, tending more to be muscular built, good posture, strong/heavy jaw, positive and warm energy, Lion-like, majestic, medium height, strong body and mind, spiritual, cultivated, mesmerizing, capable, responsible, peace-maker & peace upholder, humble, nourishing, caretaker, hardworking, abundant, generous and supportive, at times resentful or feeling trapped, you're someone who works a lot behind the scenes and who likes managing, someone with a helper syndrome but at the same time suspicious of others, resistant to change, keen-eyed, all-seeing, full and healthy hair, wearing clothes that enhance your body shape and curves.

Eye/hair color combinations: 1️⃣1️⃣, 1️⃣2️⃣, 2️⃣1️⃣, 2️⃣2️⃣

𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝚁

Eye color: 1️⃣ light pink 2️⃣  light purple/blue

Hair color: 1️⃣ red 2️⃣ white

Overall vibe: Curvy body shape but overall more lean, pretty waist-hip ratio, cute cheeks, a teasing beauty, perhaps a little fidgety or just nervous energy (?), a hard working person, robust or rough but more so in personality than in appearance, foreign or exotic looking, well traveled, a bit tired looking - perhaps your gaze/eyes but you have a youthful glow, you look like you went through a lot, perhaps that's also why you sometimes give off this ‘rough around the edges’ vibe, detail oriented, a little nit-picky, tendency to be a bit extreme sometimes, fearful vision of life, controlling, looking like someone who needs some time off because you're always overdoing it, organized and resourceful, very busy, someone who carries higher wisdom, perhaps religious or someone who deals with divine energy, someone who people wonder about who they really are or what they have in mind, you are someone who questions things a lot and you don't trust (opinions, informations) easily, there is also something innocent or pure about you, innocent arousal and naive sensuality, compelling and almost addictive to men and with other women there is always this unresolved tension, I see you long dresses with pretty low cut cleavage or turtle neck dresses with see through parts, very teasing dressing style, you might play around with different or even exotic styles, dresses with a tight waist cut or wearing corsets, and also something about cords, fans and scarfs (worn like a vest).

Eye/hair color combinations: 1️⃣1️⃣, 1️⃣2️⃣, 2️⃣1️⃣, 2️⃣2️⃣

𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝚅𝙴

Eye color: 1️⃣ grey 2️⃣ dark grape purple almost black

Hair color: 1️⃣ dark brown 2️⃣ blue

Overall vibe: Piercing eyes, petite and dainty looking, short, baby face, innocent look, very feminine, childlike-charm, adorable, dreamy looking or the vibe of a daydreamer, naive, hidden depth, light hearted, soft beauty, does not fear darkness, patient, prudent, seeking growth, visionary, beaming smile, mystical, easy-going, clever, soft and frilly clothes, light or pastel colored clothes, many layers on the dress (=volumios dresses), hard to grasp, very perceptive, clothes and accessories with ribbons, dots, frills and lace, cute hair accessory, perhaps flower themed dresses, delicate jewelry, adventurous spirit, intriguing, someone who is able to deal with tragedies in a light hearted way, clean beauty, someone very tidy, fresh and eager energy, perhaps sometimes lacking a sense of self, very moldable identity, loves learning and very open-minded persona.

Eye/hair color combinations: 1️⃣1️⃣, 1️⃣2️⃣, 2️⃣1️⃣, 2️⃣2️⃣

𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝚂𝙸𝚇

Eye color: 1️⃣ red 2️⃣ (apple) green

Hair color: 1️⃣ white 2️⃣ purple

Overall vibe: Round/soft body type, bold appearance, voluminous hair, intense eyes, attractive/alluring eyes, perhaps freckles, optimistic but also kinda nonchalant attitude, inspiring, shining beauty, tall, slightly arrogant looking, emotionless face/poker face, very good-looking, lush hair, no problem standing up for themselves, often clashing with other women and appearing bitchy to them, other women are often competitive around you, one of a kind type of beauty, dangerous like a panther, exotic jewelry, feathers, gold jewelry, there's something dark about you, some people could claim you’re secretly a witch, you seem powerful to others, a little rebellious as well, someone who causes chaos wherever they go, very brave, regal energy, god/goddess like or god-complex? lol, hard to get, naturally seductive, wide flowy clothes, showing skin, very luxurious clothing, intimidating, keen eye, a bit stealthy, someone who hates wasting time and energy (on useless stuff/people), easily bored, expansive presence, and wild passionate person, your the center of your own world, dangerous like still deep waters - which you shouldn’t underestimate...

Eye/hair color combinations: 1️⃣1️⃣, 1️⃣2️⃣, 2️⃣1️⃣, 2️⃣2️⃣

[thedemonknownasbilly]

Someone to Me

Based on this idea

Hurt/Comfort

Ineffable Husbands x GN!Reader

Takes place during and after Failed Armageddon.

“You can do whatever you like to me, I’m no one, don’t you dare hurt them!” You had yelled to Satan, standing firm even though you were terrified, your angel and demon behind you holding onto Adam. You needed to stall, needed to give your demon time to pause time, to talk to Adam. Not many humans would notice the shift, but having been around your demon for long enough, you knew. He had done it. Time was paused and now it is unpaused.

You stepped back into Crowley’s arm, holding Aziraphale’s free hand as Adam stepped forward to confront his spiritual, biological father.

“What was that you had said,” Crowley asked hours later, the three of you home in his Mayfair flat. “When confronting and stalling Satan-”

“Which was incredibly dangerous!” Aziraphale cut the demon off for a chance to scold you.

“Yes, yes, incredibly dangerous, but you had said something rather peculiar.” Crowley continued, watching you closely.

“I’m afraid I’ve forgotten already,” you tried to brush it off, tried to avoid the lecture that was sure to come.

“Don’t lie, that’s Aziraphale’s job.” Crowley murmured, walking over to you like a predator to his prey. “You called yourself something, something I’m not particularly fond of, and neither is our angel.”

“I simply said the truth,” you whispered, breaking your gaze from his piercing yellow eyes. “I am just a human, therefore, no one.”

“No, you are not,” Crowley said firmly, his slender fingers gripping your chin to make you look into his eyes, and a gasp escaping you as you saw tears in his own. “Do you have any idea how painful it is to hear that, Pet? How much it kills me inside?”

“And me,” Aziraphale stepped behind you, strong arms wrapping around your waist, “darling, you are absolutely someone to us, don’t think for a moment that you aren’t.”

“I’m just human, I’ll only cause you pain.”

“Stop it,” Crowley demanded, “stop trying to predict us, stop trying to belittle yourself, you’re ours. No matter what you are, you’re ours and we love you.”

“More than anything, more than my bookshop.”

“More than Bentley.”

“So when we say you’re someone to us, it’s the truth, you are ours, and we will do everything we can to keep you.”

“We’ll tell you everyday, make sure you never see yourself so meagerly again.” Crowley whispered, leaning down so his forehead pressed to yours, and you couldn’t help yourself as you reached up to his cheeks and wiped away his tears. He surged forward to kiss you, his hand holding Aziraphale’s. You turned yourself around to give your angel the same treatment, heart aching as you saw red ichor instead of watery tears flowing down his cheeks, you’d really upset him for that to occur.

“I’m sorry my angel,” you whispered as you did your best to clean the red from his cheeks and kissed him.

“It’s okay, darling, as long as you know that you’re always someone to us.” He tried to reassure you.

“My angel and my star maker.” You mused, pulling them to sit on the chaise couch with you.

“And our dearest heart.” They said in unison, smiling as Crowley pressed his head to your neck, and Aziraphale laid his on your lap.

[cheynovak]

Divine 

Michael/Dean Winchester x F/Reader Y/N   

Warnings:mentioning of emotional damage, slight sexual tension, ...  

Side note: English isn’t my first language.  

-- 

*Does not follow The SPN storyline * 

-- 

Dean made the mistake of letting Michael take over his body. While Michael made plans on destroying the humanity he met up with different monster leaders, a few of whom he meets up in a jazz bar he started to appreciate or was it the waitress, Y/N.  

A spark of curiosity hit him when he the young spiritual woman crossed his path. Realising he might have more in common with humans than he wants.  

-- 

Michael set foot in the dark lit bar downtown, marching to the same spot he had been claiming almost every day this week. He didn’t need to scan the area to know she was here. The soft smell of her parfum lingered in the air, mixed with the smell of alcohol.  

Michael noticed how a lot of women in this era smelled fruity and flowery, to him it smells cheap, but not her, no she had a scent that smelled like old money, deep and warm, almost...divine. 

He folded his coat neatly over the back of the chair next to him, the flat cap on top of his coat. Before he could turn around a glass of scotch appeared on the table in front of him. He saw how her nails were perfect as usual, slightly longer and a deep red colour, elegant.  

“The usual I presumed?” She said with a steady and sweet voice.  

His lips twitched almost into a smile. Slowly Michael looked up to the young woman next to him. Her lips were coated in the red lipstick that matched her nails. He noticed she wore that lipstick almost every night.  

Michael’s brow lifted while he looked at her.  

He saw how her lips turned into a soft smile. “I noticed you’re becoming a regular on my shift. If this is not what you wanted tonight, please let me know, sir.” Oh, he liked the respect she gave him. “This will be fine.” she nodded before turning on her heels.  

While his fingers moved the glass to his mouth, taking a slow sip, he couldn’t keep himself from glancing over to her. Seeing how she walked around with a flair, he could almost compliment his father on his creation. 

Almost a shame she too would soon be gone.  

After a few hours Y/N noticed him still sitting alone, the bar ran empty as she walked over to him.  

”Can I get you anything else, Sir?” She saw the look on his face, how it shifted from irritated to calm and well put together. “No, I think I might leave.”  

“They didn’t show up, did they?” She didn’t want to cross the boundaries, but she was too curious not to ask. Wanting to know a bit more about the handsome stranger walking into her bar every day for the last week.  

His eyes frowned, “The business partners, you meet here every day.” she added. Micheal realised she had been keeping an eye on him just like he had on her. “No...” he started “But why don’t you join me?”  

Y/N’s eyes widen, she looked around the bar, the place was empty, except from one customer at the bar who was talking to the bartender. She glided elegant on to the chair in front of Michael, “why not...” she lingered a little on the last word, wondering what his name was.  

And almost like he could read her mind he said “Michael.” she nodded slow, looking into his eyes. “Y/N” His eyes broke the connection and glided down over her. Stopping at her necklace. “You’re religious?”  

Her fingers instinctively reached for the small golden cross on her neck. “Well, I guess I am.” Michael’s eyes lock on hers again. “I hear doubt.” She smiled nervous “I believe... in god and... heaven and hell.” she thought for a second.  

“But?” he pushed. “I don’t believe in blindly following what people think is gods will.” Her breath hitched when Michael’s brow lifted again, his beautiful eyes scanning her body again. The weight of his eyes makes her feeling warm and blush.   

“How about Angels?” he asked casual. She smiled, “please don’t tell a cheesy pick-up line going to follow.”  

“Don’t worry, I know you are no angel.”  

Even though she hated the “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven, or heaven is missing an angel” lines. But his brutal answer did sting. “Jesus, thanks.” she sighs soft. Just as she wanted to lift her off her seat he continued.  

“But there is something... graceful about you.”  

A short silence fell upon them before she broke it. “How about you Michael, do you have fate?” This was the first time she noticed him smiling. He looked away when he answered. “My father made it impossible not to.”  

“I get it.” - “I doubt that” he answered sharp.  

 

“My father was a preacher.” She said, “A self-proclaimed man of God’s word. As a kid I called him a storyteller.” Michael’s lips curled into another soft smile. Fuck she burned up when he did that. “I guess our father are more alike than I thought.” 

“Anyway, I should leave you to it.” She said after a short silence between them. Just as she lifted herself of her chair Michael did the same. His hand wrapped around her arm. Even though it was a normal gesture she could feel the strength in his muscles.  

“Have you ever visited the old church on the edge of the city?“ he asked.  

Her eyes met his, only now realising how tall he is. “No, I haven’t it is supposed to be sold to an old art collector, many years ago. It’s private property now. Or that was what my dad said.” Michael nodded, “ I know the man who bought it.”  

“Let me take you.” he said stretching his arm out to guide her to the door. He saw how Y/N doubted. “I promise it is worth your time.” While she looked at the door her thoughts slipped past her mouth. “You know that’s what serial killers say.”  

There it was again, the grin on his perfect face. “I’m not planning on killing anyone tonight. “she could feel his eyes lingering on her. “Specially not you.”  

Once outside he put his hat back on, looking how she raised her hand.  

Y/N called for a taxi, which quickly stopped. Michael opened the door for her. “What a gentleman” she winked. The ride there was silent, filled with nerves and maybe even a little fear.  

The taxi dropped them off at the gate near the old church, the premisses seemed abandon but there was a soft light coming through the glass stained windows.  

Michael opened the large doors like he owned the place. “Who is there? Show yourself!” An old man yelled holding a riffle in his hand. “Joseph, it’s me old friend.” Y/N could see how the old man who seemed nearly blind was trying to figure who he was talking to.  

And then it hit him.  

“M-Michael?” he whispered “Oh good lord... You came back!” The man rushed towards the entrance. “I kept everything like you wanted sir! No one came in, everything is still in place! I told you it would be a good idea to keep me! I-I listened to every word you said, sir.”  

Y/N didn’t pay much attention to what the old man was saying.  

Her eyes roamed the inside, eyes trailing the paintings on the walls and ceilings, the stories that were told on the windows, the marble statues that were displayed. “Amazing.” she said while breathing out softly.  

“Leave us be Joseph.” Michael ordered the old man when he saw Y/N walking up to a painting hidden behind a curtain. Her perfect manicured hand pulled the fabric aside. Revealing a painting of Michael as an angel.  

Y/N felt the warmth of Michael’s body behind her. “Michael” she started mesmerised by the beauty of the painting. “What is this place.” her head turned to him, but her eyes lingered a second longer on the art before looking at him.  

“Call it a private collection.” He noticed how she really took in his features before looking back at the painting and again back at him. To distract her he decided to test her on her knowledge. “What do you know about archangels?”  

She answered on autopilot, she blurred out everything she had been told on Sunday school. 

Michael noticed the warm feeling he got when she started to talk, even though all she said was what humans learned in church.  

Michael could feel the warmth radiate from her skin, he wondered how soft her flesh would feel under his strong hands. “I often wondered...” she walked closer to his painting, breaking his thoughts. “Why god made humans while he already made angels.”  

“I mean...” she turned back to Michael. “When I got older, I noticed the similarity in angels and humans. Did that disappoint me, he just made more useless angels in human forms.” - “Explain yourself” Michael’s voice echoed in the empty church.  

“Well, take my family for example. I’m the oldest of 4 daughters. My dad used to be in church everyday, leaving me to take care of my little sisters. And whenever they did something they shouldn't it was my mistake.”  

“In a way I presume that god and his angels are just another fucked up family. I feel for Michael, the way he carried the weight of the family on his shoulders, while every last one of them took all he did for granted.”  

“You’re the oldest?” he asked taking a step closer.” hm-hm.”  

“No mother? Just a father?” she nodded in response to his question.  

 

“Let me guess, you did anything to please him, your father? But when the youngest fell out of line you were to one to blame, he needed you to get them back and punish them or their behaviour.” His voice sounded very close.  

Y/N looked beside her, seeing how Michael bended a little forward so his lips where near her ear.  

“Y-yes, how did you know...” the words came trembling out of her mouth, goose bumps covered her spine. Y/N turned fully around to look at Michael. He didn’t take a step back, their faces almost touched.  

Michael’s eyes looked back and forward between her glistering eyes and her soft red lips. Starting to understand why many of their angels where seduced to having intercourse with a human.  

Y/N’s eyes wander back into the old church, not idea of the thoughts roaming his mind “Joseph doesn’t own this place, does he?”  

 

“No.” Michael’s voice was stern, trying to get a grip. “How long have you known him? “ She added, trying to break the electric feeling rushing through her veins.  

“Few years.” He saw how the wheels in her head were spinning.  

“You know, Michael this place was sold over ten decades ago... So, when you said you know the owner you were referring to...” Her eyes locked back on to his perfect green pearls. “Me.” Her eyebrow flicked up before she started to laugh.  

“Nice try, but serious.” her smile faded.  

Just when she thought he couldn’t get any closer to her, he did. Her head tilted back. “You know... you and I are much alike.” the back of his hand caressed her cheek. “You really get me, Y/N. I never thought a human being would see through the stories that have been told since the beginning.” 

“Human being, beginning, what?” she repeated. He didn’t answer her. “I never thought I would be so invested in a human’s life. But you... you trigger something in me.”  

Y/N tried to take a step back, every warning sign inside her went off. Nerves where jumping, she wanted to get as far away from him as she could. But when she planned on taking the step she felt his free hand on the back of her neck.  

“It’s such a shame there is no inch of grace floating inside your veins.” Y/N’s breath hitched. “M-Michael, you’re scaring... what do you mean, who are you?”  

 

“I am, Michael.”  

Y/N’s brows frowned and then she followed his glance over to the painting behind her. “Wha... No.” she turned back and all she could see was the beautiful white blueish glow coming from his eyes.  

And although she knew it was best to run for her life, the revelation in front of her nailed her to the ground. As Michael took a step back the walls behind him covered with a black shadow portraying wings.  

Y/N breathed heavy, unable to tear her gaze of him while he walked slowly back to her. His hand took its place back on her cheek while his eyes looked at her slightly parted lips. Her hand hold onto his side. 

Trying to understand all that happened, she felt scared yet excited, a rush she couldn't quiet explain. When Michael bowed closer to her, she didn’t move.  

And right before he closed the gap between them, placing his angelic lips on hers, he whispered:

“Oh help me father, for I am about to sin.”  

--

Let me know what you think, like, share or comment <3

If you liked this, please check out my masterlist for other stories.

Taglist: -> If you want to be added let me know what you like to read!

@suckitands33 @mostlymarvelgirl @jackles010378 @yvonneeeee

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Elements of Art

The elements of art are components or parts of a work of art that can be isolated and defined. They are the building blocks used to create a work of art.

LINE A mark with greater length than width. Lines can be horizontal, vertical, or diagonal; straight or curved; thick or thin.

Horizontal lines suggest a feeling of rest or repose because objects parallel to the earth are at rest. In landscape paintings, horizontal lines help give a sense of space. The lines delineate sections of the landscape, which recede into space. They also imply continuation of the landscape beyond the picture plane to the left and right.

Vertical lines often communicate a sense of height because they are perpendicular to the earth, extending upwards toward the sky. In a church interior painting, vertical lines may suggest spirituality, rising beyond human reach toward the heavens.

Horizontal and vertical lines used in combination communicate stability and solidity. Rectilinear forms with 90-degree angles are structurally stable. This stability suggests permanence and reliability.

Diagonal lines convey a feeling of movement. Objects in a diagonal position are unstable. Because they are neither vertical nor horizontal, they are either about to fall or are already in motion. The angles of a ship and rocks on the shore convey a feeling of movement or speed in a stormy harbor scene.

The curve of a line can convey energy. Soft, shallow curves recall the curves of the human body and often have a pleasing, sensual quality and a softening effect on the composition. The edge of a pool in a photograph may gently lead the eye to the sculptures on the horizon.

SHAPE A closed line. Shapes can be geometric, like squares and circles; or organic, like free-form or natural shapes. Shapes are flat and can express length and width.

FORM A three-dimensional shape expressing length, width, and depth. It is the basis of sculpture, furniture, and decorative arts. Balls, cylinders, boxes, and pyramids are forms. They can be seen from more than one side.

Geometric shapes and forms include mathematical, named shapes such as squares, rectangles, circles, cubes, spheres, and cones. Geometric shapes and forms are often man-made. However, many natural forms also have geometric shapes. Example, a cabinet decorated with designs of geometric shapes.

Organic shapes and forms are typically irregular or asymmetrical. Organic shapes are often found in nature, but man-made shapes can also imitate organic forms. Example, a wreath uses organic forms to simulate leaves and berries.

SPACE The area between and around objects. The space around objects is often called negative space; negative space has shape. Space can also refer to the feeling of depth.

Real space is three-dimensional; in visual art, when we create the feeling or illusion of depth, we call it space.

COLOR Light reflected off of objects. Color has 3 main characteristics:

Hue - the name of the color, such as red, green, blue, etc.

Value - how light or dark it is.

Intensity - how bright or dull it is.

White is pure light; black is the absence of light.

Primary colors are the only true colors (red, blue, and yellow). All other colors are mixes of primary colors.

Secondary colors are two primary colors mixed together (green, orange, violet).

Intermediate colors, sometimes called tertiary colors, are made by mixing a primary and secondary color together. Some examples of intermediate colors are yellow green, blue green, and blue violet.

Complementary colors are located directly across from each other on the color wheel (an arrangement of colors along a circular diagram to show how they are related to one another).

Complementary pairs contrast because they share no common colors. For example, red and green are complements, because green is made of blue and yellow.

When complementary colors are mixed together, they neutralize each other to make brown.

TEXTURE The surface quality that can be seen and felt. Textures can be rough or smooth, soft or hard. Textures do not always feel the way they look; for example, a drawing of a porcupine may look prickly, but if you touch the drawing, the paper is still smooth.

Texture depicted in two-dimensions. Artists use color, line, and shading to imply textures. In a painting, a man's robe may be painted to simulate silk. The ability to convincingly portray fabric of different types was one of the marks of a great painter during the 17th century.

Surface texture. The surface of a writing desk is metallic and hard. The hard surface is functional for an object that would have been used for writing. The smooth surface of a writing desk reflects light, adding sparkle to the piece of furniture.

Principles of Design

[salantami]

FARMERS BANK, (Poltava Russian Peasant Bank), 1906-1909, Street: October 39, Poltava, Ukraine  Architect: A. Kobelev Engineer: SV Nosov The Farmers Bank building is a two-story stone structure adorned with decorative red brick, hipped roofs, and flat arches beneath trytsentrovymy balconies, situated on a corner. It features mythical birds such as Gamayun, Sirin, and Alkonost, and statues of the Phoenix, symbolizing spiritual and moral rebirth. The facade is embellished with mosaics of peacocks, siren sculptures, colorful inserts, and metalwork. Among the mosaics, one can observe the old coat of arms of Poltava province, which was used from 1878 to 1918. Now here is the regional department of the Security Service of Ukraine. (Photo courtesy: archi capital; credit to the original photographer) 

[preciouslandmermaid]

cold secrets, warm light (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 1/3

I wasn’t going to write more, but then I was like “okay what if…” and then this story was born. I’m splitting it into parts because this bitch lengthy as hell.

This takes place in the same universe as cold hands, warm heart and is seen as a continuation of that fic. A spiritual part 3, if you will.  

Rating: Mature (Explicit Language, violence, blood/injuries) 

Fic warnings: hurt/comfort, tending to injuries, touch!starved ghost, mentions of murder/suicide (not related to main characters), unplanned pregnancy, angst with a happy ending, forced proximity (haha bitches u gotta live together), injuries/discussions of lack of mobility, canon-typical violence/consequences, reader goes feral to protect ghost, then he goes feral to protect her, mutual respect, lovers to soulmates.

** All the names of politicians are fake/do not relate to any living or deceased person. I also created 2 entire locations because I don’t want to use the real world lmao. (Al-Qunbar & Noreth)

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, and no other descriptors are used.

Summary: Soap’s been shot. Price makes the call to bring him to a safe house occupied by an old associate. And when Lt. Ghost crashes into your orbit again, your treasured secret is revealed, and the aftermath inspires you to ask him to follow you into the light.

(Read on Ao3) ||| 🔪🔪🔪

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Fuck!” Soap shouts before he collapses into the muddy marsh. Ghost whirls around to provide cover. The ricocheting gunfire and Johnny’s desperate, pained breath in his earpiece fills his head. A migraine pounds behind his eyelids. They’re exposed. They’re sitting fucking ducks out here.

Ghost yells, “get up, Johnny!”

“I’m fucking tryin’” Soap grits out. He crawls through the mud and his leg drags uselessly and heavy behind him. His temples flare. His mud-streaked face flushes red under the hot Noreth sun. A stinging pain slits across Ghosts’ shoulder. He ignores it.

Ghost returns fire, “Price, tell me we’ve got evac!” He shouts brusquely into his comm. His voice crackles like a dry log. “Affirmative, Lieutenant.”

Bloody hell.  Ghost crouches into the tall, swaying reeds, his pants are slick with dark earth, and his reflection ripples in the rich, cloudy water before disappearing in a plume of umber. He pulls Johnny’s arm over his shoulders and lifts him from the muck.

“On your feet, soldier.”  He barks. The helicopter rains hell from above, covering their exit, as the Humvee’s tires squelch and squeal to a harsh, mud-splattering stop.

He yanks the door open, “Soap’s been hit!”

“How bad?” Price demands.

Soap’s face crumples and he turns his head away from Price’s line of sight. “I can’t feel my leg.”

Fuck.

The tires spin wetly. The truck jolts forward, jostling them, as Price’s boot slams onto the accelerator. Ghost doesn’t bother asking where they’re going. He trusts Price to get them the hell out of here and into safety. The wetland fades into dirt roads and tiny rocks rebound with sharp, tinny pings against the vehicle's undercarriage. Ghost hangs onto the handlebar above and frequently checks behind him.

“You’re bleeding.” Price observes. Shiny wetness glistens across his black sleeve. He doesn’t feel it. His body is thrumming with adrenaline. There is gunfire and grenades in his head.

Ghost glances at his arm. “Superficial.”

“Suit yourself.” The Captain murmurs under his breath. They pass farmland and wetlands. Most of Noreth is contained within these two biomes. It’s flat, and warm, and their winters are mild. Price joked that it wouldn’t be a bad place to retire.

“Still with us, MacTavish?” asks Price while glancing in the rearview toward him.

“Affirmative, sir.”

“Good. We’re here.” The truck crests over a small hill and Ghost stiffens at the sight of a woman approaching their vehicle. She raises a hand. Price slows to a stop. There’s a dilapidated barn behind her, its roof caved in, but he notices the flash of a sniper’s scope in the loft. On the side of the barn, a pickup truck is parked, and an obvious metal ladder juts from the truck bed. It feels like a set up. It feels like a trap. He stiffens. His finger poises over the trigger of his pistol.

“Price…” Ghost injects a note of warning into his voice. Where are they? Who is this woman?

“At ease, Ghost.”

She approaches the driver side window. Her head is wrapped in a navy Shayla and her chestnut brown hair peeks from the scarf. The right side of her face is scarred, her brown skin bumpy and ridged.

His chest aches. A phantom pain, an old memory. He doesn’t have a heart. Not even a cold one. He said goodbye to his heart nearly three years ago in a hospital room. But, if he were to think about it, about you, he’d remember your scars. He crushes the thought. He buries it among the rest.

“You’ve gone the wrong way, traveler.” She says, neither unkindly nor kindly. Her walkie-talkie crackles suddenly at her hip.

A voice slices through the static.

“They’re clear. Over.”

The words blind him. He grips the handlebar and his knuckle joints crackle under the pressure. It can’t be. It’s impossible. He must’ve misheard. But he doesn’t make mistakes. It is your voice. It’s you. It’s you, you, you–come back to haunt him, damn him, torment him with a life he cannot have.

You said goodbye. You both did. That was meant to be the end of it.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You peer through the scope one last time, seeing Ghost, seeing Price, and your heart threatens to detonate your ribs and send your organs flying. You scramble on your stomach, intending to rise and join her, but Samira’s voice comes through the walkie-talkie.

“Three in the vehicle, one wounded. Over.”

You bite your tongue. Ice slithers through your veins, numbing them, and your teeth chatter in your skull. You stop yourself from asking how badly, or where, or whom. Samira is an ex-army medic, and her knowledge greatly outclasses your own. She’s needed. And you are better suited here.

“Go.” You reply, “send Agathi to cover your shift, over.”

“Copy.”

Through the scope, you watch Samira wave at them, but Ghost clambers out of the passenger side. He looks directly into the loft. You nudge and wiggle yourself deeper into the shadows. It’s pointless. Awareness ruptures across your skin in equal parts euphoria and dread. You’ve dreamed of reunions. But that’s all they ever were, all they ever could be. Dreams. Paltry. Insubstantial. They were akin to the stories you created in the cemetery. A way to cope amidst the madness and subterfuge.

You bring the radio to your lips. Below, you can hear Samira arguing with Ghost that he cannot go into the barn because it’s dangerous.

“I bet it’s dangerous alright.”  He grouses. You snicker and roll your eyes.

Samira opens her arms to stop him. If the choice is between keeping you safe and helping strangers, then it is no choice at all for her. She will choose you every single time. You know this.

“It’s alright.” You announce into the walkie-talkie. “Go help the others and don’t make me pull rank. Over.”

Samira glares mutinously at the loft. She replies, “we have no rank. But I will go out of the goodness of my heart. Over and out.”

You stifle another laugh. Samira is pretending to be sarcastic and cold, but you know her better than anyone. She’s warm. She cares. You would not be here–you would not be alive–if not for her.

You set the rifle aside, though you are not unarmed as you climb down the rickety, wooden ladder into the decayed, rotting barn. You hear the truck pull away, gravel and dirt kicking up beneath its tires, and you walk toward the sliver of angelic daylight that pours between the large doors. You don’t use the barn door. It’s likely to fall off its hinges if you did. Instead, you push aside several wooden planks nearby and crawl out of the barn. You return the planks to their rightful place and kick grass with the toe of your boot to hide your tracks.

His shadow is the first thing you see. Big and imposing, stretching in the open sunlight, a dark splotch against the overgrown grass. You inhale slowly and prepare yourself.  

You meet his eyes for the first time in nearly a year.

The world stops spinning. Or it spins too fast. It’s hard to say. You feel, somehow, both grounded and completely out of orbit. Your throat is painfully dry, uncooperative, and you swallow around the strange tightness before breathing sharply through your nostrils. Ghost is as you remember. You are both relieved by his consistency and saddened by it. The world will change, regimens will rise and fall, ice caps will melt, but Simon will remain immovable and unchanging.

You observe, “you’re wounded.”

“It’s nothing I can’t manage.”

You roll your eyes. You don’t doubt it, but he should know as well as anyone that an injury can get infected without proper treatment. You walk to the parked truck and open the glovebox to remove the first-aid kit. The truck barely runs, but it’s good cover and makes it seem like someone is trying to repair the barn in case any patrols pass by.  

“Who else was in the truck?” You ask, setting the kit on the passenger seat and snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

“Soap.”

Your heart freezes. You’re thankful Ghost he cannot read your expression due to your turned back. Your mind flashes with images, with memories of MacTavish. Your time was limited with him, but his kindness and earnestness made a lasting impression.

You cannot stop yourself from asking, “how bad is it?”

“Don’t know.” He replies gruffly.

“Classified?” You venture, glancing over your shoulder to him.

Ghost hooks his thumbs underneath the straps of his tactical vest and shifts his weight. You take his silence as an affirmative. He has no reason to tell you, really. You aren’t part of his task force. You aren’t anything, anymore. Not to him, not to anyone. With that thought firm in mind, you grab the scissors and approach Ghost, your expression calm and neutral.

“May I?”

Ghost nods stiffly. You lift his t-shirt sleeve with your littlest finger and snip away a section of fabric that’s caked and sticky with blood. Thankfully, the wound is little more than a graze. A bullet passed him but did not lodge itself into his skin. You click your tongue and smile archly.  

“Lucky.”

“I told you it’d be fine.”

“Not if it gets infected.” You say in a singsong, wiping away blood with an alcohol pad. He doesn’t even wince. You avoid his eyes, focused on the injury, though you can feel Ghosts’ attention burning into the side of your face like an open flame. It doesn’t need stitches. You disinfect the area and tape a piece of gauze. Your touch is careful and practiced and never lingering no matter how badly you want to.

Once finished, you drag your eyes away from the glaring, white square of gauze on his skin and drift toward his skull mask.

He holds your gaze for what feels like a lifetime. You haven’t forgotten the intensity of those dark, mysterious eyes. You recall them in every variation–heavily lidded with lust, intense and serious, suspicious, or dark and narrowed, bright like coffee with sarcastic humor and bad jokes.

Beneath his gaze, Ghost makes you feel as if you are the only object in the universe.

You realize slowly that your fingertips are on his bicep. You tentatively pull your hand away and his muscle jumps reflexively at the absence of your touch.

“It’s good to see you.” You admit softly.

His gaze softens imperceptibly. Agathi’s voice comes through your walkie-talkie, informing you that she’ll be there in a minute, and that she’s bringing along Kaja, so you can speak with ‘Mr. Price.’

You laugh when Agathi calls him ‘Mr.’ instead of Captain. Ghost’s breath hitches in his throat.

You respond, biting your lip to stop your smile, “copy that. Over and out.”

Your stolen moments of reunion with Simon beside the barn dwindle like dry tumbleweeds across the desert. You are grateful for whatever little time you have considering you never expected to see him again. Yet, you are selfish and wishing you could have more time.

You organize and store the first-aid supplies, tucking your bloody gloves in your back pocket to throw them away once you’re in the house. Ghost says nothing. He watches you. If it were anyone else–you’d bark at them for leering, for being creepy, but this is Ghost, it’s Simon. You are – intimately -  comfortable with his gaze on you. A sudden flush of heat burns your ears.

Agathi rounds the corner with Kaja behind her. Agathi is nearly six feet tall and seeing her next to Ghost is impressive and it puts his massive height into perspective. Her hair is short and blonde, and her striking blue eyes are hidden behind her large, dark aviator sunglasses. Kaja is younger than Agathi and a foot shorter. She is olive-skinned and has dark, ruffled hair that lays across her head like a raven’s nest.

“Whoa.” Kaja says when she sees Ghost, then looks to you quizzically, “he a friend of yours?”

You nod. “Old friend.”

“You said all your friends were dead.” Agathi says. She is less welcoming than Kaja and rightfully distrustful.

You smile at her. “They are.”

Agathi scoffs and pushes her sunglasses up at her nose with two fingers. She doesn’t say anything when she walks away from you, but you can feel suspicion radiating from her. However, the task force is under your protection, and she won’t do anything to anyone beyond sneering. Kaja watches you leave with awe on her youthful face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After ten minutes of silence, you see your haven in the distance.

“Agathi has two boys. Sven and James.” You announce. “Try not to brood so much and scare them.” Ghost’s footsteps are light beside yours and you move like wraiths down the dusty road.

“That’s risky.” He intones, voice deep and scratchy.

You whip your face toward his, frowning. There is risk to everything, you think. But you know Agathi. You trust her. You care for her. You know Ghost isn’t judging her, only taking the intel he has, and drawing a pragmatic conclusion. Noreth is at war and traveling with multiple people–especially children–increases the overall danger. Still, despite knowing this, you cannot help but defend her.

“What? Was she meant to leave them behind?”  You shove your curled fists into your pockets. You made a similar decision six months ago. Although, in retrospect, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.

“Besides,” you continue, your tone and face hot, the sun beating down on the back of your neck like someone’s gaze. “It’s easier to think of this place as a sanctuary. A temporary place for refugees to recover before they continue onward.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Six months.”

“Since Al-Qunbar then.”

You wince at his steel-trap memory. Nothing slips by Ghost. Six months ago, you fled Al-Qunbar and settled into Noreth with Samira’s help. The recent conflict between East and West Noreth has torn asunder all the comfort and stability your little ragtag family found.

“Thereabouts, yeah.”

“And is this what the agency has you doing?” He motions with his chin toward the house, “running a safe haven?”

You suck your lower lip between your teeth, worrying flesh between your teeth, and shrug noncommittally.

The agency no longer owns you. No one does. You wish you could celebrate this with him, but you don’t know what his reaction will be. Will he call you a coward and say you are abandoning your country? Or will he be grateful that you’re no longer in the line of fire? That you're no longer puppeteering diplomats and manipulating powers beyond your ken?  If you explained your reasoning, explained why, would he understand? Or would he hate you for keeping secrets?

He doesn’t press for more information, and you don’t try to fill the silence with idle chatter. You’re reminded of your long, quiet treks through the fresh snow in Russia. Your face tucked in your scarf, the air bright and sharp, the sky a delirious blue like chlorine above your heads. You’d walk for hours without saying anything.

You watch two birds’ flit across a sky of cotton ball shaped clouds. You hope the conflict and fighting will not reach you, but you know it’s a foolish dream. Your lips twist in a chagrined smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your safe haven consists of two buildings. The first is a two-story house with a front porch, bulletproof glass windows, and peeling, chipped green paint. There is laundry strung up on the line and it flaps like an elephant’s ear. The second building is smaller, the size of a studio apartment, the roof is squat and flat, and the brown paint appears baked-on from the distance. Price’s vehicle is parked outside alongside Kaja’s pet project motorcycle—still in pieces. The infirmary is sequestered and guarded from the main house. A necessary precaution for privacy and sustainability.

Despite the soundproofing and the roaring generator for electricity, you hear Price’s voice. You grimace, looking back at Simon briefly, before opening the door.

“And I’m telling you,” Samira exclaims, “I will not move him! He must not be moved!”

“I need him out of this zone in order to extract him.” Price says.

“He cannot go!” Samira’s dark brown eyes meet yours. “Talk sense into your old Captain,” She gestures impatiently with both hands. A bloody blue smock covers her clothes and a surgical mask dangled from one ear.

You ask, “what happened?”

Samira debriefs you. Soap was shot in his lower back. She managed to remove the bullet, but she suspects moderate to severe nerve damage, and he’ll need physical therapy included in his recovery plan if he wants to walk again. Price wants to remove him and return him to Scotland.

However, Samira explains he’ll need to wait a minimum of four weeks before traveling overseas, otherwise he’ll risk blood clotting and other complications. Although Price is willing to honor and uphold the secrecy of your haven and not request a direct evacuation–he wants to drive Soap to a safe zone and have him evacuated from there.

“He stays.” Samira says sternly, “or he dies.”

Price looks at Ghost and you.

“Lt, can I talk to you outside?”

You step aside to let them pass and approach Samira. You expression pinches in worry and you touch her shoulder. Your stomach binds itself into knots. In your mind, you see Soap smiling and crossing his arms after you defeated him in a card game, your heart alive with mirth for the first time in years.

You peel your words free like dried, white crafting glue, “is he going to be alright?”

“That’s mostly up to him right now.” Samira sighs, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. About two months ago, a refugee died on Samira’s operating table from an ill-fated bullet wound. You hope that Soap isn’t as unlucky. Your eyes dart to the window to Soap and Price, talking with their heads bent low, and the knot in your stomach tightens.

“Can we move him to the house?”

Samira nods. “In a few hours, yes.”

“Good. I don’t like it when everyone is spread out.”

You wait until Ghost and Price are finished before offering to take them into the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two blonde boys run out of the front door toward you. One has the gawkish and long-limbed awkwardness of a teenager, his pale face is dotted with pimples, his smile is wide and crinkles the skin around his clear, blue eyes. You open your arms and the smaller, younger one leaps into them. His blonde hair shines golden beneath the sun. You spin him in a circle, and he giggles, delighted. Ghost is momentarily stunned.

When was the last time he heard a child laugh? His expression stiffens. His breath shudders and fans through his mask. You set the boy down. His big, curious blue eyes look past you and toward Price and him.

“James, this is Ghost.” You gesture to him, “and this is Captain Price.”

“Like a boat captain?” asks James.

“Something like that.” Price responds warmly.

You introduce the teenager as Sven. Agathis’ boys clearly and obviously adore you. While walking to the door, James holds your hand and prattles endlessly about a ‘dragon game’ that he and his brother are playing. Your replies are warm, attentive, and genuinely curious about his make-believe game. He wonders if it’s an act. Another layer of subterfuge, to make the residents of this place feel welcome and safe, all part of your role—whatever that may be. But the moment the thought passes his mind, he dismisses it.

There is something to you that didn’t exist before. The light you carried within has changed, it has shifted, and he doesn’t know if anyone else can see it. He doubts Price notices it. The scathing, self-loathing part of him entertains the idea that you’ve fallen in love with someone. That would explain the lightness to your step and the glowing warmth of your smile. He roughly shoulders the dark thoughts to another dusty corner of his mind.

“And you, you’d be a red dragon.” James says knowingly, his voice filled with innocent wisdom.

You laugh. He wants to get drunk on that sound – your laugh. It bubbles inside his veins like dry, expensive champagne. It heats his skin like a good sunburn. He can endure any level of torture as long as he has your laughter playing on a loop within his mind.

“Why red?”

James clarifies, “because red dragons are strong! A-and they have magic fire powers.”

“Ah!” You chuckle, “that makes sense.”

James asks, “will you play with us after dinner?”

You don’t even pause to think about it. “Of course!”

The front door leads into a sitting room with overstuffed, stripey couches and black iron wood stove with a thick column that feeds into the wall. Next to it, a narrow kitchen is painted robin’s egg blue. A small, ancient white fridge is humming in the corner and the oven has several knitted washcloths dangling from its handle.

The light fixtures are barren, their sockets empty or completely removed from the walls their thin wires exposed like intestines. The file on Noreth comes to his mind. Earlier in the conflict, families blacked out their houses with dark, heavy curtains or bedsheets, or removed their lights to hide from the air raids. However, the aerial risk has since vanished now that Noreth’s only airport is smoldering ruins.

He imagines you efficiently pinning up curtains and unscrewing lightbulbs. He wonders if you said anything to the children, offered them explanations, or words of comfort. His tongue tingles like he’s pressed it to a live battery charged with a thousand questions.

Price is engaging you in conversation, and your voice is amicable, but your body language is guarded. He notices you – more than once – avoid a pointed question and maneuver around it like an Olympic figure-skater. Topics like Noreth’s political climate or the safety measures at the house are encouraged, but any personal questions about yourself or the other women living at the haven are swiftly evaded. Ghost stands near the door, watching through the window toward the road and he occasionally looks at you or the two boys building a puzzle on the living room floor.

“You’re confident then?” Price is saying, “Samira can handle Soap’s recovery?”

“I trust Samira with my life.” You say, steadfast and poised. Ghost’s molars gnash and he averts his gaze. Jealousy burns like acid reflux in his gut. “If I had any reservations whatsoever about her abilities then I would argue against her call.”

“You have everything you need for him?” Price prompts. Ghost almost wants to give him shit for being overbearing like an old, nervous mother hen. He checks out the window. All clear. Samira paces outside the infirmary, smoking. He finds that wonderfully ironic. A doctor who smokes. He scowls. Who is Samira to you? Do you trust her because of your circumstance? Or because you’re teammates? Or has something happened between you?

You respond, “yes.”

Price sighs heavily like the air inside his lungs is a physical object that he can lift and carry around.

“Samira says she’ll move him in a few hours. You’re welcome to stay until then.”

Price grins, “and stay for dinner?”

“It gives us a reason to take out the nice, fancy plates.” You smile easily. Ghost greedily traces the lines of your mouth from his peripheral vision. He can savor it when your smile isn’t direct at him. He wishes he could pull you aside, speak privately, but this isn’t a job where something as childish as wishes get granted.

He realizes he can’t stay in this room, listening to Price make small talk, hearing the soft murmuring and excited chatter of the children on the carpet. He needs to be useful otherwise his temper will shorten, and his mood will sour like curdled milk.

He says to Price, “I’m goin’ to check the perimeter.”

“Copy that, Lt.” Price nods.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You chop onions for the soup stock and your vision blurs with tears. Through the blinking, wet haze, you see Price regard you with warm familiarity and steady, quiet gentleness.

“It’s good to see you alive, Lux.” He says softly. “Seems like I made the right call.”

Your chest warms. It’s nice to see his face and talk to him again despite the shitty circumstance.

“Getting sentimental in your old age?” You joke to hide how deeply his comment affected you. You’re happy to have the onions as an excuse for the tears strolling down your cheeks.  

He laughs. His white teeth flash and his eyes are enfolded by mirthful wrinkles. “At ease, solider.”

You wipe your wet eyes and glance toward the door that Ghost exited through. Price’s eyebrow notches upward and he leans his arms on the countertop. Your scalp prickles. You suddenly feel like a teenager caught passing a note to their crush in class. His perceptive eyes narrow and the unsaid question lingers in the onion-smelling air between you.

“He’s the same.” You explain quietly, shrugging.

“He’s not,” says Price.

You occupy your hands by scooping the chopped onions into a large soup pot and avert your eyes from Price. You aren’t sure if this is a conversation you’re supposed to have or meant to have. Ghost is private. It feels wrong – no – it feels treacherous to talk about him when he’s not in the room.

“You and MacTavish.” Price continues without prompting, “you’ve changed him for the better, I think.”

“Oh,” you say, “that’s good.” You say it like you’re commenting on the weather. You shove as much nonchalance into your tone to make it boring. Ordinary. But your mind spins wildly on its axis. Ghost has changed on some level because of you. And it was noticeable enough to catch the attention of his superior officer, someone who has known him for years. You wonder if it’s the same for you. You wonder if Price can see Ghosts’ fingerprints all over your skin. Wordlessly, you tuck your moth charm necklace inside your shirt.

The necklace isn’t your only secret connection to Ghost. There is a more precious, more sacred secret. And he’s sleeping upstairs. You imagine telling Price about him, but immediately disregard the idea. There’s no guessing what Price’s reaction would be. Or Simon’s. No. It’s safer for everyone if he remains a secret. Your heart aches with foolish, idyllic longing to walk outside and talk to Simon and pour out every feeling you’ve bottled over the past six months.

You redirect the conversation away from Ghost and shelve your deep, complicated feelings aside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he returns hours later, you are peeling potatoes. He admires your skilled, careful hands and the sunset behind you frames you in butterscotch gold and hazy yellow.

A memory hits his skull like a stun grenade. In Russia, you skinned a rabbit in front of him and he called you a ‘proper boy scout’. You laughed, your head thrown back, your hands red and slimy. He thinks that might’ve been the moment his heart started to thaw.

Samira says something to you in her native tongue. You reply with a faux-serious expression but then your eyes crinkle and your smile runs the facade. Is this what you’ve been up to? Making soup and hiding in old barns?

Steam rises and billows from the pot around your face like a cloud. You tap the wooden spoon rhythmically against the rim. His heart squeezes like a fist. Price and Soap talk lowly in the sitting area, Soap in a wheelchair, Price leaning his hip against the arm of the sofa with his muscular arms crossed and his face drawn.

The domesticity of this moment should frighten him, it should fill him with self-loathing, yet all he feels is keening, sharp yearning. This could be any kitchen in the world. It hurts to look at you. It feels like heartburn. He balls his fingers into fists.  

Price’s words come unbidden to his mind: “You need to stay here,” he said.

“What d’you mean?” Ghost said, scowling behind his mask.

“Noreth is a war zone. I can’t pull Soap out, so you need to stay here and look after him.”

“You’re kidding.” Ghost deadpans.

“Not counting ourselves, there are only two individuals on this farm that have combat training.” He knew Price was talking about you, so it was either Samira or Agathi who had experience, though he didn’t know which.

Price said, “There are few he’d trust with his life, Simon. But I know you’re one of them.” He couldn’t argue with that. He’d stay. Even if he didn’t have much say in the matter.    

Sven shouts from the staircase, “Lukas is awake from his nap! Can I bring him down?”

“Yeah!” You reply, your words followed by an easygoing smile. His gaze flickers back to the staircase at the sound of Sven’s careful, yet loud footfalls.

Sven carries a toddler in his arms that must be his youngest brother. He guesses his age is somewhere around 2 or 3 based on size alone. You mentioned Agathi had boys. Plural. It’s hard to imagine a mother of three crossing hostile territory, but he supposes anything is possible within the right circumstance. When you defended Agathi, your voice was filled with flushed pride and indignation like you were scolding him for being uncouth. His lips press together under his mask. He missed that—your spark. No one has a bite quite like yours.

The boy’s cherubic face is more solemn than bashful Sven or inquisitive, talkative James. And his big, round brown eyes must’ve been inherited from his father (who is likely dead, Ghost assumes, since there’s no one else at the safe house).

Sven settles the child onto the carpet and passes him a red toy truck.

“Beep beep!” He proclaims. His voice deepens to rumble the car across the wooden floorboards.

You ask from the kitchen, “Lukas, what do you want for dinner?”

“Mashed potatoes!” Lukas replies and his smile dimples his chin.

Samira rolls her eyes. Her lips twitch, and her sideways pose, and half-smile remind Ghost of a coyote.

“Naturally,” says Samira.

“He likes what he likes.” You say breezily.

You divide the soup into neutral toned bowls and Samira helps you hand them out. Price accepts the meal with a grateful smile. Soap complains about how little Samira has given him and she primly responds that he’s likely to throw up as a side effect to medication, so he ought to eat in small portions.

The soup bowl is between your hands like a tender, reverent offering.

He declines with a small and curt shake of his head. He ate an MRE during his walk-about of the property. He doesn’t have the stomach for anything else. He never could eat much on missions. He ate enough to keep him coherent, keep him sharp, but that was it.

“My cooking’s not that bad, is it?” You say with a teasing, familiar lilt to your voice.

He shifts his weight. His rifle, a comfortable weight, nudges between his shoulder blades. “Sod off.” He grumbles. Your eyes brighten followed by your smile.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He glances to the rest of the room. Everyone else is talking or eating. No one is paying attention to this corner. Some of the tension in his shoulders relaxes infinitesimally. He feels his jaw unclench, the sensation miniscule yet poignant, as he regards you.  

“Quit fishin’ for compliments.”

“Can’t blame a gal for seeking a little praise.” You cover your lips over your spoon, slurping, and mischief illuminates your expression. He watches you. Something low and aching and hardly forgotten comes to life and unfurls in smoldering heat. If you were alone—God help him—if you were alone…

He inclines his head ever-so-slightly, his voice deep and rumbling and dangerous, “consider it noted.”

Samira calls to you in her language. It grates at him. Is Samira trying to hide something? Does Price know what she’s saying? How much can they really trust anyone here? You’re quick to reply and you sidle over to her and Sven, though you switch the conversation to English.

His jaw tightens. You might suddenly come under fire from an ambush. He peers out the window. All clear. The walkie-talkie at your hip is silent. Price looks relaxed. You look relaxed.

However, it doesn’t mollify his sense of paranoia. The flatlands of Noreth are too exposed for his liking.

The property is filled with tall, thin reeds similar to switch or cord grass. It’s massive enough to camouflage his height if he crouches and he suspects the boy—James—can get completely lost in it. But the spongy earth makes it difficult to travel on foot and the lonely safehouse isn’t fenced in.

Thankfully, he did find an all-terrain vehicle covered by a mottled brown and green tarp which meant you had some evacuation plan if things went south. He glances sideways out the window again. All clear.

Johnny pushes on the wheels of his wheelchair toward him and he nearly knocks into Ghost’s heavy combat boots. He balances his empty soup bowl on his thighs. The heat and warm food has flushed Johnny’s neck and cheeks to a soft, dusty pink. It’s good to see some color on him. He was too pale and ashen on the drive to the safehouse.

He’s changed out of his tactical gear. He’s wearing an ill-fitting gray jumper and sweatpants. He assumes the clothes are from Samira because they didn’t bring their full kits. This mission wasn’t supposed to be overnight. Now they’d be stuck for a minimum of four weeks.

“I guess we’ll be here for a bit, Lt.”

“Looks like it.”

Following the abrupt, wheezing sound of your laughter, Soap tilts his head over his shoulder to you, then returns his gaze to Ghost.

“I know Price asked you to stay, but you don’t have to.” Soap begins, “I’ll make a quick recovery. And they need you in the field, running operations, not sitting here playing guard dog.”

Ghost shakes his head slowly.

“Orders came from Price, Johnny.”

“I know.” Soap sighs. He peeks over at you, Samira, and Sven again. Then murmurs quietly to himself, “won’t be all bad, I suppose.”

Ghost pretends like he doesn’t hear and ignores the part of him that agrees.

[ Part Two ]

[chaifootsteps]

When a cartoon show for kids (Bluey) explains adult stuff more maturely like God and how we were made (Flatpack episode) and the infertility (Onesies episode) and other stuff than an actual adult show who’s supposed to educate us about shit like that instead of—

“Fuck you”

Then the red one says,

“When?”

Guys watch bluey instead it’s more cool, be a cool person like me 😎

Specifically, if you want a more mature handling of life, death, responsibility, and the afterlife, watch Flat Pack. It's secular, it's spiritual, and it's seriously mind blowing.

[booksteaandtoomuchtv]

Weekend Getaway (1/3)

AO3 | 2 | 3

RATING: M

SUMMARY: When Emma's roommate drags her to get a live Christmas Tree, she ends up trapped at a Christmas Village for the weekend. Fortunately, the village had a bar and a bartender that Emma wants to get to know better.

Tagging: @anmylica, @deckerstarblanche, @elfiola, @goforlaunchcee, @jrob64, @kmomof4, @pirateswhore, @stahlop, @teamhook, @tiganasummertree, @undercaffinatednightmare, @xarandomdreamx, @zaharadessert - DM me if you would like to be added/removed from the list.

"You're coming with me," Ruby announced as she banged into the flat. The front door crashed against the wall before closing behind her. Wearing a red knit sweater with a Christmas tree on it that actually lit up and arms heavily laden with shopping bags, she was the bright spot - literally - of Christmas Cheer that Emma was certain she did not order. 

It wasn’t that Emma hated Christmas or anything quite so dramatic. But if given the opportunity to skip directly to New Year’s Eve after Halloween, she would happily accept. There was no escaping how dreadfully lonely her life had become since she’d driven away from Storybrooke after - Nope, not going there. 

"We are getting a live tree this year! Get your jacket, let's go." Ruby continued, not waiting for Emma to acknowledge her. 

"Those are fire hazards. Plus, where would we put it?" Emma gestured at their tiny, crowded living space. 

Ruby grunted as she deposited the bags on the nearest chair. She grabbed Emma's boots and threw them at her, "Put 'em on."

Scowling and grumbling, she clicked off the TV and shoved her feet into her boots. 

It was impossible to deny Ruby anything. They came to the city together a few years ago to get over their broken hearts and discover a life outside of their small town. They'd helped nurse each other through the heartbreaks, acted as both wing-woman and excuse for one another - depending on what the night demanded, and endured the challenges of being artists in a big city together. Ruby had landed a part on an off-broadway play and Emma was in her second season at the New York City Ballet. It took several failed auditions, many pints of ice cream, and the constant support from one another to get them this far. 

"Let's burn down the building then."

"That's the spirit!" 

§§§§    §§§§    §§§§    §§§§

They drove for hours, leaving the city behind for the snow-covered, rolling hills of the upstate. While singing and dancing to old favourite songs, they passed several signs advertising various Christmas tree farms. Ruby would shake her head and drive by them. After the tenth one, Emma finally asked where they were going.   “I found the perfect farm online.” 

At Emma’s sceptical look, Ruby continued, “I promise, there is something special about the one we are going to," Ruby explained. "I can just feel it, you know?" 

Emma released a resigned sigh. Ruby was impulsive and spiritual, believing her intuition was a powerful force that should not be ignored. Emma needed something a bit more concrete to guide her decisions. 

Ruby slowed at a lane that was much like any other they had passed all day, except this one sported a faded red pickup truck with rounded fenders that was wrapped in fat, colourful light bulbs. A hand-painted sign welcomed guests to the Jones' Christmas Tree Farm for sleigh rides, hot cidre, hot chocolate, and to cut and carry home their very own tree from its stand on the stained wooden slats in the bed of the truck. 

As they bounced along the uneven lane, Ruby cleared her throat. “Don’t kill me…”

“No promises.” Emma tore her attention from the endless rows of firs and spruces lined outside her window to glare at her old friend. The ice in that glare would have stopped the hearts of mere mortals. But, this was no mere mortal. This was Ruby Lucas and nothing could hinder Ruby’s excitement once it gained momentum. 

Ruby smiled brightly at Emma and pulled a duffle bag from behind Emma’s seat. “I booked a cabin for us for the weekend. We were just saying that we needed a little break and they had so many fun things and, wait until you see the farm, it is beautiful!”

Emma had planned to set up a station on her couch and binge-watch garbage telly. Not spend a weekend on a farm, much less a farm that would doubtlessly be filled with families and couples buying trees the entire time. This was definitely worse than the countless movies featuring smiling men and women in red or green sweaters in front of a highly decorated tree that were beginning to populate every channel she surfed, right? Yes, she decided, it was. Ruby had driven her directly into the ridiculous small town that featured in the background of one of those ridiculous movies and was making them stay for the entire weekend. This was not what she had in mind when they were talking about their holiday. Sun, sand, and sangrias had featured in her dreams. Not snow, cidre, and Santa. 

“They’d better have hard cidre or spiked egg nog,” Emma muttered.

“Like I would spend a sober weekend in a cabin on a farm!” Ruby shot Emma a wounded look. 

Emma snorted and shook her head. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

“Oh, hush. This will be a weekend to remember.” 

The lane opened up to reveal a stunning farmhouse with snowy Christmas trees in rows lining the hills sprawling in every direction. A red barn stood out brightly in stark contrast to the white landscape. It would have been breathtaking, Emma thought, if not for the Christmas Village that stood before the barn under twinkling fairy lights.

"Our cabin better be out of town."

"Well...it is close to the Holly Jolly Tavern, I think." 

"RUBY!"

"I know how much you hate Christmas and we are changing that this year. Your heart will grow three sizes and Tiny Tim will live after all."

"Wait...am I the Grinch or Scrooge?" 

"Yes." Ruby laughed, throwing the car in park. "I'll check us in, why don't you go find your Christmas spirit?" She mimed taking a shot before getting out of the car and walking toward the farmhouse, leaving Emma in the passenger seat of the old car, quickly growing cold, wondering why she allowed Ruby to pull her into these ridiculous situations in the first place.

§§§§    §§§§    §§§§    §§§§

The Holly Jolly Tavern was, thankfully, more Tavern than Holly Jolly. Sure, a decorated tree stood tall in the corner near the fire crackling in a large hearth and large multi-coloured bulbs were strung along the walls. And, of course, the drink specials had cutesy holiday names and instrumental Christmas songs played softly in the background. But, the bartenders weren’t dressed as elves or in tacky holiday sweaters and the tables and chairs were your standard sturdy wooden pairings found in drink establishments everywhere.

Emma sat at the long bar and scanned the wall of spirits trying to determine what best fit this situation. 

“What can I get you, love?” The low voice was charmingly accented, and it sent chills down her back. She turned toward the bartender and met brilliant blue eyes that stilled her heart. He wore a crooked smile that made her think very dirty thoughts about his lips and the amber scruff framing the sharp line of his jaw. 

“Whatever your favourite drink is,” Emma answered with a flirty smile. She thanked whatever gods were watching that her voice sounded steady, her mouth was suddenly so dry that she'd expected it to crack. 

He nodded at her request and started pulling together ingredients for her drink. She watched him at his task, mesmerised by his movements and the way he focused so completely on his task. She wondered what it would be like to have that focus directed solely on her and her pleasure. She felt her cheeks heat at the thought and turned away in an attempt to hide it, but his eyes danced with mischievous humour as he handed over her drink, telling her that she was caught. Luckily, he was kind enough not to comment. 

She studied the bright red drink, cranberries and mint floated in the glass, and a thin lime garnished the rim of the tall glass. It looked refreshing and exciting. She wondered if this was truly his favourite drink or a cocktail he had mixed for her using that special power great bartenders had - that uncanny ability to know exactly what a patron needed based on a single glance. 

“A Cranberry Mojito,” he told her, leaning on the bar before her. Her eyes lingered on his well-defined arms and the unfair way they were stretching his deep blue knit sweater. “What brings you here, um?” 

“Emma,” she answered for him, “And, oh, I don’t know. I guess that I have always dreamed of living in one of those ridiculous towns from those cheesy Christmas romances.”

“Pleasure, Emma. Killian,” he said in that musical voice. “I take it this trip wasn’t your idea, then?”

“Nope. My roommate surprised me as we were pulling in - Ohhh! This is good.”

He smiled in triumph at her approval. “The trick is making the simple syrup from scratch with fresh cranberries.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Emma said before taking another sip of the deliciously sweet and tart drink. “Is this truly your favourite drink?”

“Tonight, it is.” 

“Your tastes change so often?” She teased, her eyebrow lifting to emphasise her innuendo. 

“I’m not so fickle as that, love. I am partial to rum, but not so dull as to only take it one way.” Killian replied, meeting her gaze. The heat in the depths of his sapphire eyes made her stomach tighten in response. This man was too good to be anything but trouble. 

Mmm, but it would be some good trouble. 

“That looks fantastic! Can I get one, too?” Ruby’s voice shattered the tension building between them. 

“Coming right up, love,” Killian answered immediately. His eyes lingered on Emma’s a moment longer before he turned to mix Ruby’s drink.

“It’s a Cranberry Mojito,” Emma explained, turning to look at Ruby. “Here, try some while you wait.”

Ruby’s eyes were wide and she was biting her lips together tightly to suppress what Emma knew to be a wolfish smile. Emma shook her head subtly, pleading with Ruby to not say a word. Ruby nodded excitedly at her in approval of whatever she had read into the exchange she interrupted earlier. Emma frantically shook her head - whatever you are thinking, stop thinking it! 

When Killian returned, setting Ruby’s drink on the bar before her, Ruby pounced. “So, what is your name?”

“Killian,” he answered with amusement laced in the melody of his voice.

“And what does your girlfriend think of you making eyes with your patrons, Killian?” 

Emma sputtered and coughed as she tried not to choke on the sip she’d taken before Ruby’s obvious question. Ruby turned to Emma, earnest concern etched on her face, while her eyes danced with humour, “Are you okay, Emma? Need some water?” 

Narrowing her eyes at Ruby, Emma shook her head. Her breath was still taken by the liquid burning in her lungs. A few strangled coughs later, Emma ground out that she was just fine. Killian slid a glass of water to her anyway, the sweet gesture sinking Emma further into… well, whatever was happening between them.

“Good,” said Ruby briskly and she turned to Killian expectantly. 

“I’m not a man to make eyes with someone while involved with another,” his accent clipping the words. 

He hadn’t liked that accusation one bit. The realisation warmed Emma as much as the rum spreading in her blood. He wouldn’t cheat on her and leave her too embarrassed, too ashamed, to face the town she had lived in her entire life. He may be trouble, but he was honourable trouble and that she could handle.

“What kind of a man are you then, Killian?” Ruby asked. She sipped from her cocktail and pinned him with a look that dared him to rise to the bait. 

“Don’t do that, Rubes,” Emma snapped. Her temper was rising - she felt the need to protect Killian from Ruby’s intrusive questions. Killian sent her a grateful look before excusing himself to serve a man flagging him down on the other end of the bar.

“Ooh, you like this one,” Ruby whispered far too loudly as she waggled her eyebrows ridiculously. Emma could not help but laugh and the strange frustration that had so quickly risen in her dispersed.

“No. I just thought that was unfair of you,” Emma said simply.

“Mmhmmm.” 

Emma rolled her eyes at the disbelief in Ruby’s tone. “Fine. Think whatever you want.” 

“I do and I will.” 

“So, what is there to do in a Christmas Village?” Emma asked in a very smooth and effortless transition from the previous topic. 

Ruby perked up and started rattling off various activities that she had booked or seen on her walk over to the pub. Emma listened half-heartedly - her attention straying to the barkeep continuously. She caught him looking her way once and he sent her a devastating smile before returning to his work. 

He served them several more rounds as the night grew older, but he was unable to linger longer than getting their order or setting down their drinks as the Holly Jolly Tavern stayed busy once the sun went down. 

When they left, staggering into the night, Emma felt a twinge of disappointment that he hadn’t seemed to notice her exit. 

Would it have been too much to ask for him to come out running to see her home safe like some Victorian gentleman? She snorted at that very drunk, very ridiculous thought and followed Ruby to the cabin she would call home for the next few days.

[tagedeszorns]

Can you show us your drawing process?

Many of my pictures are the result of emotionally charged inspiration. This can be a picture, a film scene or, very often, music. In this case: "Hurt" by Johnny Cash.

Once I'm in the mood to draw something and inspiration has provided me with a vague idea, I create my first scribble.

I use a different colour overlay for each scribble layer. This helps me to sort myself out. It has become a habit that the first raw scribble is coloured purple. Then green, then red for the actual outline. Red and green also have "historical" reasons, as before the time of print films, the preparatory artists in old comics used these colours. But that really doesn't matter today and only feels good to me because it creates a kind of spiritual connection to my ancestors. Does that sound crazy?

Once the composition is finalised, I look at all kinds of pictures that can serve as a reference for complicated parts. For example, photos with extreme perspective foreshortening and the like. Reference images are extremely important, hardly any artist who works a lot with anatomy does without them. The human body is fascinating, but it has some quite astonishing characteristics that you can't make up!

It's a good idea to have a folder where you can store interesting pictures of anatomy for possible future references. I have a lot of collections called "Arms_Foreshortened" or, my most hated, "Feet_Angled".

Once I have defused all the anatomical booby traps, I start working on the design. Sometimes I already plan where I'm going to set accents with flat, black elements. In this case, I wanted to keep the focus on the demon and therefore designed the body at the bottom to be very blocky and restrained.

Now it's time for the final outline. You can see that the green scribble is already very close to the final drawing. But that doesn't always have to be the case. Sometimes there are several completely different green scribble stages.

I have a few ink brushes that I use again and again, but I'm not 100% satisfied with any of them. I'm still looking for the perfect brush. Both for pencil and ink. I have quite a few home-made brushes - especially for special pieces like chains.

As I rarely or never really colour, I use black to give depth and weight. And to draw attention. Black can have both a restrained effect by concealing unnecessary details (for example, on the body in the picture below) and also draw the eye to itself, as with the black parts of the demon.

I love black. Black is fantastic.

Then add a little background (I hate backgrounds) and you're done!

[mikkeneko]

Writing patterns

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

Tagged by @fortune-maiden.

It probably said a lot about the kind of person Shen Qingqiu was that when he awoke to the sight of a white gauzy canopy overhead, perfumed sachets hanging from all four corners, that his first thought was not What a lovely morning! even though it was, since mornings on Cang Qiong Mountain were always exquisite. - In Durance Veil 

The great empire of the Wen stretched from sunup to sundown. From the rigid mountains to the edge of the sea, across lakes and rivers and all through the jianghu, the flaming red sun rose over every house in the land. - The Ghost Robbers of Yunmeng 

One of the imps in Mobile-jun's palace says it, when he doesn't realize Luo Binghe can hear -- doesn't realize just how good his hearing is, enhanced by years of spiritual cultivation training. "Well, I'm just saying, it's a waste of space!" the imp says. - nostrum 

Shen Yuan came back to awareness to the sound of a distant buzzing, threading through a heavy gray fog that seemed to have swallowed him. - Immortal Lamb Crusader Way

It was nice to get out of Golden Scale Tower on a night hunt, and it was nice to spend time with his jiujiu. In fact, those were two of Jin Ling's favorite things! - Bringing Up JC 

Jiang Cheng sat in his father's office, waiting for his siblings to appear in response to his emergency meeting summons. No, damn it all, he had to stop thinking like this. It was his office -- the Sect Leader's office. - (say hello to my) thirty million little friends (Latest chapter, since the first chapter of this item was posted like four years ago.)

Somewhere lost in the clouded annals of myth, in the vague spaces beyond the edges of the map where only dragons lie, in places unknown and untread by mortal feet, (do not pass Go, do not collect $200), in just such a dim and murky place, resides a tavern. - Never Gonna Tell A Lie 3: Sexily Sinister Sorcerer Spree 

Light flared in the darkness, and someone off to his left hissed a warning. Hastily, Sergeant Major Havoc cupped his hand around the match, angling the cigarette between his teeth to light the end of it, and then shook the match out. - Countdown Till Dawn 

A phone rang. The sound was flat and tinny, a default ringtone on a phone that had never been customized, barely ever been touched. - You Only Die Twice 

It was a pleasant day in upstairs rooms of the second-nicest teahouse in the city, because it turned out that the second-nicest teahouse in the city was where a lot of the really bad ideas came from. - Yunmeng Shuangjie Reconciliation Speedrun, Any %, No Yanlis, 8.5k 

Looking over it... As usual there seems to be a divide between comedic fics (which start off with overblown portentiousness, then devolve into something silly) and serious fics, which simply open with a scene description.

One common theme seems to be that a serious story starts on a sudden flare of something -- of light (a match) or sound (a phone rings, or a buzzer sounds) and then orients from that point and goes forward. And Shen Qingqiu's stories seem to consistently start with him waking up, while other POVs don't.

Other than that, I don't see a lot of commonality.

Tagging @cerusee, @nyoomerr, @jingyismom, maybe @tavina-writes if you wanna!

[otherkin-confessional]

[Apologies if this sent twice; tumblr gave me an error the first time.]

Psychospiritual: Of or pertaining to the relationship between spirituality and themind.

TL;DR: I am not psychological kin nor spiritual kin, but both because of my neurodivergency. Do you relate? If so, how?

I would like to introduce a concept I have not seen around: psychospiritual ‘kin. For me, this means that the psychological aspect causes the spiritual aspect to exist. I would personally like to hear about other otherkin experiences that may be classified under the word ‘psychospiritual’, as in having both to do with the psyche and spiritual beliefs.

To start off, my beliefs are fundamentally rooted in perceptionism and solipsism. The way our brains take in sensory information and process it, and what conclusions are drawn from it are entirely unique to the individual. Two people can look at a red apple, and both agree it is a red apple, but they will never know the unique way the other person perceives the apple. One person may spot bumps and curves and patterns that the other does not, one may name the red apple a different shade of red than the other, and so on...

As much as we can communicate, we will never be able to enter another person’s mind and experience the world the way they do. As such, everyone has their own modality of reality, a unique way of relating to the world that is specific to that individual. It may be shared in some characteristics with another, but it still has unique collections of aspects that none other share.

Still, we come to agree upon a shared reality. Despite our different ways of relating to the world, we will both agree that the grass below us is green and the sky above us is blue. This is shared reality: when there is an aspect that is the same in more than one person’s reality.

The degree to which we experience shared reality is entirely up to the individual to choose. For example, no matter how much empirical evidence stacks up, some people will still choose to believe that the earth is flat and that vaccines cause autism. That’s on them - believe what you want to believe about those types of people, but their reality is different because they have chosen to partake in a different shared reality than the one you choose to partake in. (Just because reading comprehension on this site is piss-poor, I’m not saying they’re right or that I believe those things. I’m simply saying their reality is different than mine.) 

My reality differs quite a bit from those around me, due to the structure of my brain on a biological and chemical level. You’d think a person raised agnostic who isn’t on a super hard rebellion streak would still be agnostic, but I have a tendency towards spiritual beliefs. As such, I do cartomancy and make sigils, even if those around me think it’s a little silly.

I have also experienced false memories. Due to my reality being a little bit more spicy than usual, and my dreams being more mundane than usual, the line between them becomes blurred. For the longest time, I believed I used to have four pet fish, before I dreamed about them again in a way that was just too dreamlike to be able to confuse it for reality. And then, I realized it had been dreams all along; those four pet fish never existed.

I have been through the depths of psychosis due to the biological and chemical difference of my brain. My brain went off the path of shared reality and started believing in persecutory delusions - they became my true reality. I have been pondering this for hours and still a way to convince a non-psychotic that delusion truly becomes your reality evades me. Delusion takes over your perception, thus taking over your reality. Any other explanation becomes unimaginable, it is just as real as the sky is blue.

My phantom limbs may be likened to hallucinations, my visions of past lives memories likened to false memories coming from dreams and such. As well as the fundamental beliefs that back the possibility of past lives coming from my tendency towards spiritualism that in all likelihood originates from psychosis.

It would be incredibly silly of me to say that my otherkin experience is not at all influenced by the natural tendency of my brain towards unreality, towards a reality which differs just a little bit from the rest. 

That is to say, I firmly believe if I had inhabited another brain, I would not be ‘kin. It is too much of a stretch to say that my experiences are not rooted in the biological and chemical differences present in my brain. 

So, for me, the spiritual aspect of my kinship is caused by a psychological aspect. I am not a spiritual ‘kin, nor a psychological ‘kin, but a psychospiritual ‘kin. 

At the start of this, I aspired to outline how everyone’s reality is different. So, even if you relate to the idea I’ve presented here, does it differ in your unique reality? Tell me how, if you so desire. I’m always on the look-out to understand other realities.

🌌

[jasper-book-stash]

March 2024 Reading Wrap Up

I got bronchitis and my period at the same time in March, and then spilled tea on my computer, so March was a very stressful time for me. Regardless, I managed to read 10 books! And honestly, overall, this is one of the better months - the lowest I've ranked a book is 6/10, which is damn good considering the absolute bullshit I usually read.

Religious Text

None applicable.

1/10 - Why Did They Publish This?

None applicable.

2/10 - Trash

None applicable.

3/10 - Meh

None applicable.

4 to 6/10 - Mid-Tier

Tomb Sweeping | Alexandra Chang

I read this book while sick. And boy howdy, did that make it a weird experience. I get what it was going for, but it really wasn't my vibe. It just felt like everything was...unfinished. Which was the point, I suppose, but it was still annoying.

7 to 8/10 - Good With Caveats

What the Bible Really Says about Homosexuality | Daniel A Helminiak

This is a very short book compared to my usual reads, topping at 152 pages. And I appreciate a book that gets straight to the point and analyzes the historical context around various works, particularly religious works. Good job. My only complaint is some editing issues.

Born to Love, Cursed to Feel | Samantha King

This was a poetry collection and was the only other book I read while sick, and boy howdy did I have a time of it. I spent most of the reading just...putting post-it notes in and nodding along to the lines. It was a surprisingly good book, considering I found it in the back alley version of a book store.

Southern Cunning: Folkloric Witchcraft in the American South | Aaron Oberon

Look. This is not a 101 book. It's not a 102 book. It's not even a 201 book. It simply is. And as much as I enjoyed it and enjoyed reading it, the fact that I spent most of my reading time fixing the editing means that I cannot, in good faith, put this any higher than an 8 out of 10. Dear Aaron Oberon, if you ever read this, PLEASE give me access to the original file so I can fix your punctuation and spelling mistakes. Sincerely, a fellow Southerner.

9/10 - Very Very Good

Snow White with the Red Hair, volumes 21-23 | Sorata Akiduki

I am still so fucking feral over this series. I love them so fucking much. I want them all to be happy but I also like seeing their shenanigans. Unfortunately, though we're at 26 published volumes, we've reached the end of the ones in Missouri Evergreen that I may access. I'll either have to wait and hope that someone gets them, or I'll have to bite the bullet and buy them myself.

Not Pounded By Anything: Six Platonic Tales Of Non-Sexual Encounters | Chuck Tingle

This is my first expedition into the erotic Tingleverse after reading some pieces of the horror Tingleverse in Straight and Camp Damascus. And I really, really like this book. It's 77 pages and is such an easy read. Godspeed, you glorious bastard.

10/10 - Unironically Recommend To Everyone

Well, everyone who's into the genre these fall under, at least.

Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft, tenth edition | Janet Burroway

I found this in the free section of a bookstore in the middle of nowhere, and let me tell you, it is now marked up one side and down the other with highlighter, because I needed it. There are so many good parts of this book that it's genuinely one I would recommend to people who are trying to figure out why their writing feels flat.

Sacred Gender: Create Trans and Nonbinary Spiritual Connections | Ariana Serpentine

First, I want to congratulate the author on what is possibly the coolest name ever.

Second, if you're an occultist, polytheist, witch, magic practitioner, or in any other way affiliated with things beyond or within mortal ken...get this book. It's making me rethink a lot of my own experiences with my craft and my religion, but in a good way.

[monster-untamed]

Just a little personal post and a bit of an update on my selfhood

Ya’ll know that I am a red eared slider and green sea turtle but I just awakened as a western tortoise as well.

I knew I was drawn to more dry flat areas for a long time but I didn’t consider it having anything to do with being alterhuman until I did some research on tortoises and realized some of my unexplained instincts that I threw into the turtle category, were actually more similar to tortoise behavior.

I grew up in the lone nature parts of Texas. The land I feel safe in is the ideal habitat for tons of little critters. I just thought I felt at home in the prairies because I grew up there, not because of any nonhuman reason.

I am a spiritual turtle otherkin, but this feels different…

I’m certain this identity is leaning more on the psychological side. I really feel like I imprinted on the land when I was a hatchling. Even before I knew what otherkin was, I felt like I was some kind of reptile, and the environment pushed that. The world around me didn’t “turn me alterhuman” but it definitely affected something that was already there.

[acernor]

Mmmmmmmmm delicious idea - LQG voluntarily going to bingqiu for ahem medical treatment???? Will savor the thought 🙏👀🔥🔥SQQ's brain exploding while gently raising fan to face and saying, of course we are willing to help, shidi *silent screaming*

just for u, anon- laid to rest sequel opening bits:

Luo Binghe senses the approach of turbulent spiritual energy long before the knock on the door comes. His scowl deepens; obviously he won't shy away from answering the door while his shizun is off peak, but he doesn't like the nerve of whoever this is- flying straight to Shen Qingqiu's home like they have the right to demand an audience.

He wrenches the door open, expression smoothed into flat professionalism, just in time to catch the white-clad arm that falls, open-palmed and weak, through the doorway. The source of unknown, riotous spiritual energy is leaning heavily on the door frame, eyes closed and chest rising and falling in gasps.

"Liu Qingge?" Luo Binghe says, startled into breaking his mask of politeness. Liu Qingge opens his eyes, lips parted and face dark with a furious flush; his arm hangs, limp, in Luo Binghe's grasp. "What's wrong with you?"

Luo Binghe slides his fingers under the loose circle of white on Liu Qingge's wrist, wrapping around his pulse as he awakens the blood parasites inside him. He'd let them go dormant over the past year, ever since that first explosive coupling; Liu Qingge hadn't evidenced any interest in retreating the experiment, despite Shen Qingqiu's obvious… curiosity. Now, he finds Liu Qingge's body burning hot, flooded with chemicals that are…

Ah.

"You said to come to you," Liu Qingge grits out, not answering the question. Luo Binghe's body goes a little bit hot, warm pleasure rising to his cheeks.

"So you came here?" he says, frowning despite his internal satisfaction. He adjusts his grip to support Liu Qingge's weight. "When were you poisoned?"

"I don't know. I flew," Liu Qingge says vaguely, head lolling to the side to rest against the door frame again. There's a long pause, as he seems to consider the question. "Last night."

"Shishu," Luo Binghe says, stepping closer and placing a cautious hand on Liu Qingge's waist. It's warm, even through his robes; Liu Qingge's lips part on a sharp inhale. "It's midday. You traveled like this?"

"You said-" Liu Qingge says, rolling his head against the doorframe. Possessive warmth rises in Luo Binghe's body. The sharp corner of the wood can't be comfortable.

"Come inside," he says, wrapping his arm around Liu Qingge's waist in preparation to support his weight. When he guides Liu Qingge away from the lintel he stumbles, as expected; Luo Binghe pulls him into his chest, skin prickling all over at the smell of his hair. It's warm and elegant, reminiscent of when they…

Liu Qingge moans as Luo Binghe's hand rubs at his side.

"You came here for us to take care of you?" Luo Binghe says, gently closing the door behind them. "Shizun's not here, though. What do you want to do?"

"You-" Liu Qingge gets out, opening his eyes to look up at Luo Binghe.

The expression on his face is so unfamiliar it freezes Luo Binghe in place. Even when they… assisted Liu Qingge, before, there was always an edge of sharpness to his expression; a wariness, an attempt to hold back. This Liu Qingge is hazy-eyed, so flushed he looks unwell. The red extends all the way down his neck under his robes, and his hands are clinging to Luo Binghe's clothing as if in supplication. His breathing is unever; his spiritual energy is wildly out of control.

"You need it, don't you?" Luo Binghe says quietly, pulling Liu Qingge a little more firmly against himself. Liu Qingge shudders, body pressing itself closer as his long eyelashes flutter, face so near to Luo Binghe's. "What do you think? It's just me here. Can you stand to take it without shizun to distract you?"

Liu Qingge's back arches as Luo Binghe's fingers drag up it, pressing his hips forward into Luo Binghe's body; he drops his head to Luo Binghe's shoulder, leaning his temple against Luo Binghe's neck as he pants. Embers of heat flare in Luo Binghe at the press of his hot skin, his uneven breaths.

"Just-" Liu Qingge begins, and Luo Binghe doesn't make him say more; with no further words spoken, he pushes Liu Qingge down onto the daybed.