#suns doing a prayer pose at the end there!!

[bluerasbunny]

vktrs content

song is poor grammar by ROAR! it can be found in the fics playlist!

[airandyeah]

Footballplayer!Sukuna X Toughgirl!Reader Who Do You Think I Am? Pt.1

My Masterlist Series Masterlist

The morning air is cool, but the sun’s already burning through it—heat shimmering against the sidewalk as you step through the gates of your new school.

Your boots thud quietly with each step, black leather sleek against the worn pavement. Jeans fitted just right, dark and cuffed, hug your legs with a sharpness that says you know exactly what you’re doing. A tucked black polo clings to your frame, understated but crisp. A studded belt slouches low around your hips, not for utility, but for style—and the message is clear: you don’t need to try hard to be noticed. You just are.

Your backpack shifts with your stride, weighed down by a riot of keychains and enamel pins that jingle softly—little ghosts, sparkly skulls, band logos, and the occasional cursed-looking charm. Your arms are full of books, no time wasted fumbling with a bag. You're here to get through the day, not impress anyone.

Then the noise starts.

Girls hollering from the front steps. Whistles. Screams. Someone yelling his name like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once.

You don’t even flinch.

Just the faint whine of a motor—deep, low, and smug—crawling closer through the noise. You shift your books in your arms, barely glancing up as a matte-black motorcycle rolls up alongside the curb like it owns the place.

Pink hair. Piercings. A cocky grin framed by tattoos you can spot even from here.

He takes off the helmet like he’s unwrapping a gift. The crowd eats it up.

You keep walking.

Because whoever the hell that is, he’s not your problem.

Not yet. ~~~ The first week is a blur of buildings that all look the same and hallways that smell like floor wax and stale ambition. The campus is stuffy—both in architecture and attitude. Ivy climbs the stone walls like it's trying to escape, but you’ve got nowhere to climb. So you walk.

You start to recognize the cliques pretty quickly.

The "cool" kids drape themselves across benches like they’re posing for a magazine—perfect hair, perfect smiles, dead eyes. The athletes move in packs, always laughing too loud, always at the center of some gravity you don’t care to feel. Nerds shuffle by in clusters, voices low and frantic, textbooks practically fused to their hands. Then the outliers—the ones who tried too hard to look like they weren’t trying at all. Losers, weirdos, wannabes. Every label pressed into place, neat and suffocating.

You stay on the edges. You don’t talk much. You don’t need to. No one interests you enough to try.

But then there’s her.

Tiffany.

Blonde. Bubbly. Relentlessly cheerful in a way that felt forced but also strangely… genuine. She attaches herself to you on day three like she’s decided your life needed more pink and perfume.

At first, you think she’s just lost. Then you realize she’s made herself at home.

She talks. A lot. About boys, lip gloss, horoscopes, drama you couldn’t care less about. She never asks if you want to listen, never pauses long enough for you to answer even if she did.

You try to shake her once. Maybe twice.

She doesn’t take the hint.

Eventually, you stop trying.

She’s annoying, sure—but she also never asked you to be anyone but exactly who you are. No prying questions, no judgment. Just endless chatter and a weird sort of loyalty.

So you get used to it. The babbling. The perfume. The blonde blur at your side.

And though you’d never admit it, you kind of start to expect her there.

Like a puppy with lip gloss and too much eyeliner.

By the end of the week, you’ve adjusted to Tiffany’s ceaseless chatter. You stop tuning her out so completely, giving half-hearted responses here and there, nodding along as she tells you about some guy in her philosophy class who apparently “stares at her like he’s in love.” You really couldn’t care less, but it’s easier to just respond than to keep pretending you're too cool for this.

“Yeah, maybe he likes you.” “Mmhm, maybe you should talk to him.”

You’re so deep in this mindless back-and-forth that you barely notice you’re at your locker until Tiffany’s voice rings louder than usual.

“So, like, what do you think of the football team? They’re all soooo hot. Especially—”

You’re just about to tell her to ease off the whole "football team" conversation, tucking your books inside your locker with a sigh, when—

BOOM.

A body crashes into yours, sending your books flying out of your arms. You stumble back, catching yourself with your shoulder slamming against the locker door, but you don’t lose your balance. You don’t even flinch. No, instead, you whip around with your finger already pointed, your hand snapping to the air like a warning shot.

“What the hell, asshole?” you snap, the words firing out with no hesitation. “Watch where you’re going!”

You don’t wait for him to speak first. You don’t care if he’s some campus legend or the football team’s king. He ran into you. And that makes him your problem.

The guy you’re facing is none other than the football player Sukuna—the one whose name has been buzzing around like a bad perfume all week. The pink-haired, motorbike-riding menace who seems to think the world revolves around him.

He stands there, towering over you, eyes narrowing like he's ready to chew you up and spit you out. But you’re not backing down.

You stick your finger straight into his chest, pushing him back a little. You can feel the heat radiating off him, but it’s nothing compared to the fire you’re throwing back at him.

"Are you seriously gonna stand there like I’m the problem? You hit me, dipshit." Your voice rises with every word, making sure the whole damn hallway hears you. “So, get your shit together and watch your step next time.”

For a moment, Sukuna’s glare holds. The world feels like it’s waiting for him to do something—anything. He doesn’t have that usual cocky smirk on his face. Instead, it’s... a little tight. A little too quiet.

And then—hell freezes over—he mumbles something under his breath. An apology. You almost don’t hear it, it’s so soft and unwilling, but it’s there. He doesn’t even meet your eyes as he steps back, almost like he’s trying to get away from you without making a bigger scene.

You watch him walk off, jaw clenched, tail tucked between his legs. The hallway buzzes with confused whispers, the girls around you still trying to piece together what just happened.

You just roll your eyes, grabbing your books from the floor with a sharp breath. You’ve got better things to do than deal with whatever this is.

Tiffany stands frozen beside you, looking like she just saw a god get knocked off his pedestal.

And you? You just shake your head and push past her, muttering under your breath as you make your way to class.

“Idiots.” ~~~

The next morning, you barely remember yesterday. It’s not that you don’t remember him—how could you forget the pink-haired jerk who had the audacity to bump into you like you were some invisible wall? It’s just that, for you, things are never worth dwelling on for long. Besides, it’s the start of a new day, and you’ve got other things to focus on.

Today, you feel different. Better. You throw on your usual outfit—black boots, but these have added buckles this time, making them even more badass. You loop another studded belt on your hip for good measure, letting it dangle a little more loose than usual. You don’t care if it’s loud or not. You’re the one wearing it. You grab your books and head out, feeling a little more like yourself.

The campus is already alive with chatter as you walk in. The smell of fresh coffee wafts through the air, the sound of sneakers and boots against pavement mixing with the distant hum of cars in the parking lot. It’s all just background noise to you. You’re not thinking about yesterday anymore.

That is, until you hear it.

The unmistakable roar of a motorcycle engine cutting through the air like it owns the whole damn place. You don’t even flinch, not like the other girls around you, their heads snapping toward the sound in sync like they’re all hypnotized. They start whispering and giggling. You can practically feel the energy shift, and you don’t have to look to know who it is.

Sukuna.

The same loud, obnoxious jerk who somehow thought he could push you around. But today, you don’t care.

You keep walking with your head held high, your boots clicking against the pavement with purpose. You’re not about to let anyone’s presence, especially his, mess with your groove. You adjust your backpack, adding a little swagger to your steps, watching the heads turn as Sukuna pulls up near the entrance. His usual cocky smirk is plastered on his face as he kicks off his helmet and swings his leg over his bike like he's some kind of celebrity.

You don’t even spare him a glance, though. You just keep walking, your mind already drifting to your next class. The last thing on your mind is that annoying guy.

But of course, fate’s a little too eager to let things slide.

Out of nowhere, you feel a hand on your shoulder. A heavy one.

You know exactly who it is without even turning around. Sukuna’s deep voice cuts through the air like a blade.

“You’re still walking like you own the place, huh?”

You roll your eyes, trying not to make eye contact.

“What, did you forget you made a scene yesterday?” you reply, casually brushing his hand off your shoulder, still not looking at him.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Sukuna speaks again, this time quieter. Almost as if he’s reconsidering how he usually approaches people.

“Not gonna yell at me today?”

You finally turn to face him, meeting his intense red gaze. For a moment, you almost forget why you’re annoyed with him in the first place. His usual cocky demeanor is still there, but there's something different about him today—something a little... unsure?

You give him a lazy, half-smile. "Nah, not today. Just keep your distance, yeah?"

He looks taken aback for a moment, but then that same smugness creeps back onto his face. “Tch. Whatever.” And with a final glance, he walks off, his boots thudding loudly as he heads into the building.

You watch him go, a strange feeling stirring in your stomach. Not anger, not excitement—just something weird. You shake your head, pushing it down. You’ve got bigger things to deal with than him.

Tiffany, who has been watching the whole exchange, practically jumps up to your side, all wide eyes and loud whispers.

“Oh my god, did you just—did you just shut him down like that?” she exclaims, practically bouncing with excitement.

You just give her a smirk, brushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. “What can I say? I don’t need to waste energy on guys like him.”

But as you turn back to walk into the building, a small part of you wonders... What’s the deal with him, anyway?

Tag list is always open! Tags: @nina6708 , @sherrieblossoms , @charlie-xo , @iloveredwineee Perm Tags: Perm tags: @thenightperson , @makingtimemine , @nina-from-317

[sweetlike-blood]

Sweetlikeblood's Chrisker Fic Masterlist

Chrisker Week AO3 collection [Link]

Is it okay I’m not okay?

2k words ; Explicit ; Graphic Depictions of Violence ; Self-harm, Mental health issues, Panic attacks, Knife play, Ambiguous/Open Ending

Chris shouldn't be surprised about the fact that Wesker has escaped death yet again. He is so tired of fighting (him). What happens when Wesker discovers Chris' most well-guarded secret? For Chrisker Week Day 1 - "Who did this to you?"

·

When the sun goes down we all get lonely / Watch me as I disappear 

2k words ; Mature ; Major Character Death ; Soulmates, Soul bonds, Canonical character death

There are things in the world that simply are - they are unquestionable, evident. Soulbonds are amongst such things, whether they are familial, platonic, romantic or other. Albert Wesker wished he hadn't been born with the gift of the Seers : being able to see every stringy bond that tangled every human on the planet together. For Chrisker Week Day 2 - Red String of Fate

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Our little secret

1.3k words ; Teen ; No Archive Warnings Apply ; STARS era, Secret Relationship

Chris has been less subtle with his crush on their Captain than he thought he had been. When his friends teases him and unsubtly try to push him towards his Captain, what happens? Not much that hasn't already happened before, it seems.... For Chrisker Week Day 3 - STARS team playing matchmaker

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Masquerade - Stringing you along

4.7 words ; Explicit ; No Archive Warnings Apply ; Canon compliant, Masquerade, Undercover mission, Marking, Hand jobs, Come eating, Semi-public sex

Chris cursed Jill for falling ill just as they were supposed to infiltrate this Masquerade Ball organised by an influent bioterrorist, posing as a married couple. Forced to go alone, Chris comes face to face, or rather mask to mask, with his old Captain. Hand in hand, the masked devil and angel navigate this unconventional evening, as old wounds reopen and emotion guides their actions. For Chrisker Week Day 4 - Possessive

·

But do you feel like a young god? 

1.1k words ; Mature ; No Archive Warnings Apply ; Post-RE5, Pre-RE6, Albert Wesker lives, Rescue, Ambiguous/Open ending

Chris makes an odd discovery while out on a mission with his protégé. For Chrisker Week Day 5 - "You're safe now"

·

pray sinner, pray sinner, say a prayer for me

1.9k words ; Explicit ; Graphic Depictions of Violence ; God!Wesker, Champion!Chris, Blood and gore, Human Sacrifice, Hurt no comfort, Transformation

Chris thought he had managed to escape the cult he grew up in. But one does not stop being the God of Annihilation's champion that easily. For Chrisker Week Day 6 - "You're a wound that never heals"

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Herein is enshrined the soul of…..

WIP ; Mature ; No Archive Warnings Apply ; Modern!AU, Violinist!Wesker, Meet-ugly, Slow burn, Mental health issues [more CWs in tags]

When Albert lets his temper get the best of him, miscommunication ensues. What happens when he cannot stop meeting the orchestra's new oboist's brother? Just how close will the two men grow together?

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White lilies

595 words ; Mature ; Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings ; Overdosing, Coma, Hospitalization, Drug addition, Ambiguous relationship

Albert visits Chris in the hospital.

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The Making of a Home

2.7k words ; Mature ; No Archive Warnings Apply ; P30 Chris, Mind Control, Domesticity

When Chris jumped at Wesker in hopes of saving Jill's life at the Spencer Estate, he had never thought he would end up in the grasp of his archenemy - much less reduced to an oddly domestic role in the older man's life.

·

A Clash of Fangs

WIP ; Explicit ; Graphic Depictions of Violence ; Werewolf!Chris, Vampire!Albert [more CWs in tags]

It all starts one snowy day in 1794. But when the wind turns and lovers get separated, what awaits them? What does fate have in store for these two different men? Find out 230 years later… Or The werewolf x vampire romance (transcending time) that Chris and Albert deserves.

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Well, they say all dogs go to Heaven / Well, what about a bitch?

8k words ; Explicit ; No Archive Warnings Apply ; BDSM scene, Pup play, Established relationship, Collars, Leashes, Muzzles, Butt plugs, Nipple clamps, Barebacking

Albert Wesker has the evening all planned out for him and his partner, Chris Redfield. Not even Chris coming back from work in a foul mood is going to derail Albert's plans.

[pbandjesse]

It's Christmas eve. Big day for Italians. My favorite part of Christmas. We aren't doing all the things this year. But I hope next year to start doing the traditions again. That would make me really happy.

I still had a pretty nice day but it was mostly just resting and being with people I love. Which is also good. And I got to see snow. Snow actually falling from the sky. It was magical honestly. I am really glad we stayed last night.

I also didn't sleep to bad. But I was up just about every 2 hours. My nose was very dry. At least the end was comfortable and James was very warm which kept me nice and warm too.

James got up early. I heard my parents doing their prayer phone tree before 6. I would go back to sleep though and woke up at 9. Mom and Dad were asleep again. And James had left to go for a walk in the snow. And they would bring back bagels for all of us. That was so nice.

I got cleaned up and dressed and felt pretty alright. I felt quiet. But it was a nice chill morning.

James got back with the bagels and toasted one for me. Mom would wake up soon after that and joined us hanging out in the living room.

Dad would come out soon too. We all enjoyed the bagels and the company. I did not like the show my dad was watching. Which was mainly car and train crashes and people getting hurt. It was like the old America's Funniest Home Video. Which I do not like. I don't like watching people getting hurt. But it was fine. He eventually turned it off. When I teased him about his trash YouTube recommendations.

It was nice hanging out for a few hours. But around noon it was time for us to go. We wanted to be back home before the sun went down. James took everything to the car. Our gifts and bags. Almost forgot my pillow but I remembered. Mom gave us some leftovers and some juices that I enjoyed. We had many hugs. And then we were off.

Mom made sure James helped me down the front steps because it was icy. They were both telling me to be careful and I was like. Don't tell me what to do!!

But we made it safely to the car. And waved goodbye. And then we were off.

We stopped at Wawa for gas. We also each got a drink and a snack. And it was a nice drive home. Not to much traffic. Lots of laughing at the podcast we were listening to. I was on my phone scrolling to much but it was fine. I was just having a nice time.

We would finally finally get back to Baltimore. The plan was to get more gas (which we successfully did). And then stop at CVS to get my prescription. But the website was not accurate and they were closed. So hopefully I can start this new medication on Thursday I guess. Bad week to start a new prescription I guess!

We got home and I was super happy to see Sweetp. We checked in on all the animals. Fed everyone. And worked on unpacking and getting things put away. It was nice to be home.

James would head out to the grocery store to pick up a few things. And I would work on a few things around the house. Before getting in bed because I was cold.

James would get back. And brought me a package. The ring I got came. With our baby's name. I am going to be building a little collection of special jewelry for her to be have later. I think I'm going to wear this ring on a chain for a bit. I am very sentimental and I love jewelry so I hope she feels sentimental about this too.

We would hang out in the living room. We had a late lunch. I really enjoyed my veggie nuggets. And just watching videos with James.

Eventually we decided to open a gift. James wanted to save most of them for the morning when Charlotte comes over. But we each opened one. James got the new sweater I got for them (and underwear) and James got me a replica of a coffin sign that says "at rest" that I wanted for our bedroom door. And it's absolutely perfect. It feels even nicer then I was hoping.

They also just did a really nice job wrapping it and making cute little tags. I would put the tag on Sweetp and he was being so cute posing for the camera. What a good boy.

We went and hung up the sign on our bedroom door. And now James is making a burger for dinner. I am not particularly hungry. I think I will go shower. And then maybe we'll watch the Call the Midwife Christmas special. I think that's our next episode. A delightful way to end our Christmas eve.

Tomorrow Charlotte is coming for breakfast. James is going to make a Dutch baby, but they are making it cinnamon apple per my request. And I am just looking forward to a nice Christmas day. And a fun Christmas dinner with the Fulwilers and the Chang's. I always love being a part of their celebrations.

I hope you all have a great Christmas eve. Even if you aren't celebrating I hope you are having a good Tuesday. I love you all. Goodnight!!

[aquariius-rising]

Studio Sessions - Chapter 2

pairing: Musician!Deidara x Popstar!Reader

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), alcohol use, drug use, explicit language

wc: 3.3k

Thank you all so much for your patience! I'm writing chapter 3 as we speak, so it'll be out much faster c:

You woke up with a slight headache from yesterday’s activities and groaned as you tried to sit up from the comfort of your bed. Although you felt worse for wear after finishing a bottle of wine, you couldn’t help but remember your conversation with Deidara. 

The difference in his personality was so stark that you wondered if you were talking to Deidara’s manager or publicist instead. The artist you’d attempted to work with was self-important, lazy, and crude, but you felt more comfortable with the man you’d texted last night.

After your morning routine, you called a car and headed out for the day. 

The crispness in the air lingered despite the sun’s ascent. It was a perfect day to enjoy a stroll, but Sasuke warned you against walking or using public transit during the day. So, you put on a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap while you wait for your driver. 

Your first stop was with your trainer. Sasuke recommended a small gym owned by Might Gai and his nephew Rock Lee. While they were demanding, they were incredibly kind people who encouraged a healthy balance between physical activity and rest. 

As you approached the gym, you could see Gai greeting you enthusiastically with his trademark smile and pose. You sank into your seat. You’d pay for the sweets and alcohol you consumed the night before. 

The interior was simple. Several weights, ropes, and exercise balls lined several shelves. On the walls were dozens of awards and photos of Gai and Lee with happy clients. Uchiha Records has a long history with Gai’s gym. They could send their artists to him, and he’d shape their exercise and nutrition habits. Everyone who came to Gai left a healthier version of themselves if they could handle his unconventional methods. 

Gai had a no-frills approach to exercise. He much preferred simple methods to the trendier workouts that his peers favored. There was no juice bar, fancy spa, or pilates reformers. There weren’t even cardio machines because one of Might Gai’s many mottos was, “The best cardio happens in the great outdoors.”

You looked at the board where Gai wrote down your exercises for the day and groaned. It was a high-intensity aerobic day. You’d be in for 90 minutes of jumping, sprinting, and other fast movements. At least if Rock Lee were your trainer for the day, you could flirt and get out of the worst exercises.

“[NAME]! You’re looking particularly youthful today! Are you ready to get your blood pumping?”. You offered a weak smile. 

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” Gai’s smile widened. You felt a cold sweat at the back of your neck. He was far too excited, and you were praying to the gods that you’d be able to get through this torture without getting sick or passing out. 

“We will begin with 50 full burpees! Get ready in 3, 2, 1!” He blew his whistle, indicating it was time to start. 

With a final prayer, you started to jump. 

XXX

You were drenched in sweat when Gai blew his whistle for the last time. You survived, but you’d have to meet Sara at your stylist’s studio in midtown. You apologized profusely to your driver for your condition, but he only smiled and reminded you to wear your glasses and hat when in transit. 

A famous comedic podcaster reached out to talk about what you’ve been doing since your first tour ended three months ago. With the success of your first album, your fans have gotten more restless for content. You weren’t ready to release new music, so this podcast should satisfy them for a few weeks. 

Your publicist sent a memo to the podcaster’s team to ensure they wouldn’t ask you about the progress on your next album. Although gossip blogs already learned about your collaboration with Deidara, you had no idea how to describe your sophomore project. 

You fumbled with your phone, trying to distract yourself from the dread pooling in your stomach. Whenever you thought about your music's future, you felt anxious. 

You felt so honored to have the opportunity to write and perform, but something about your discography felt off. When you reviewed your performances, you couldn’t help but notice that the woman on stage wasn’t you. 

Whenever you tried to explain the feeling to Sasuke, he showed you your streaming numbers and award nominations. It used to be a source of tension between you and your manager, so to preserve your positive relationship, you haven’t mentioned your feelings of dissatisfaction. You smiled and continued to write pop anthems. You would dazzle the public with your punchy lyrics and bubbly demeanor. 

Although you’d never admit this to anyone, you were so offended by Deidara because you knew he was right. Your first draft of your collaboration wasn’t close to your best writing. It was the same superficial music that allowed for such mass appeal. 

You vowed to create something better, something more authentic.

Your driver dropped you off in front of a chic high-rise apartment. The striking glass facade looked opulent compared to the older construction surrounding it. You greeted the doorman and receptionist brightly before taking the elevator to the 19th floor. The journey to the upper floors of the complex was smooth, unlike your charming apartment’s elevator, which was out of order more often than not. 

The door slid open to your destination. There were only two massive apartments on every other floor to accommodate the two-story layouts of each space. A shock of bright red hair greeted you. Karin Uzumaki, your stylist, was personally referred by Sara. Like Sara, Karin loved to blend vintage pieces with trendy outfits to create a signature look for all her clients. She was offbeat, but the woman was extraordinary.

“Girl, you look like you got into a fight and lost. No offense,” Karin stated, looking you up and down. You shrugged and removed your sunglasses and baseball cap to embrace her properly. 

“Gai treated me to a HIIT day,” you explained. The woman nodded, sympathetic. 

The eclectic furniture contrasted beautifully with the sleek, modern appliances and floor plan. You fell in love with Karin’s apartment every time she visited. 

Situated in the living room were display racks with the most beautiful pieces you’ve seen. 

You were amazed at how much intention was going into a social media interview, where most people wouldn’t be able to see your entire outfit, but you were more than happy to go shopping.

Sara was already there, lounging on a velvet loveseat, her red hair cascading down her shoulder. Although Sara and Karin were only distantly related, they often were mistaken as sisters.

“I always tell you to bring your skincare when you go to the gym, [name]!” Sara fussed as she approached you. “You could break out!” 

You playfully pushed Sara away and looked at the clothes (while ignoring her whining). A shiny black bodysuit and skirt caught your eye. The bodysuit was made of leather and had a low back, which would accentuate your figure. 

Your mind was already thinking about your hair and makeup options. Your team never selected dark outfits, but you hoped your label would allow you more creative freedom for an Instagram live interview, which would be more low-stakes than a red carpet. 

Karin followed your line of sight. 

“[Name], as much as I love this for you, I think Sasuke would have a meltdown if you wore it…” she said gently. Sara nodded, clearly in agreement. The room fell silent as you thought about what to say. 

You knew it would be controversial, but how bad would it be if you diverged from your image? Sasuke was an excellent manager, but he couldn’t expect you to look so sweet for the entirety of your career. 

“What if I chose the leather outfit and then maybe the utility jumpsuit as a backup,” you said, motioning to a peach jumpsuit. It was a cute, safe option you wouldn’t hate if Sasuke did get upset. Karin nodded once and placed the outfits in two garment bags. 

“Good. I’ll pick some accessories for both and have them sent to Sasuke,” Karin said, turning back to you and Sara with a bright smile.  

“I think I have everything I need! Is there anything else going on in your lives?” she asked. Sara’s face morphed into a mischievous smirk as she sat down. Your stomach flipped. 

‘shit’ you thought. 

“Did you hear that our sweet baby [name] is doing a collab with-”

“Sara!” you hissed. Karin looked between the two of you and leaned in conspiratorily.

Sara grinned wider. You swore the woman’s face would split. Karin adjusted her glasses as she sat on an oversized beanbag chair. 

“ -Deidara?” she finished. Karin stared between the two of you, her face incredulous. 

“Isn’t that the guy who got thrown out of his concert for threatening to kill the venue owner?” she asked.

“The very same,” Sara said. “They’ve been texting.  [name] swears he seems like a nice guy,” Karin’s face lit up with a wicked grin.

“Are you going to hook up with him? He’s hot, but he’s troubled, yes? ” Karin asked. Sara snickered. 

“We’re working on a song together. Sasuke said that Itachi pitched the idea since Deidara may lose his spot at the label because he isn’t selling records,” you explained. 

“We had a rough time in our first few meetings, but he texted me last night and was cool. We are not (you made a pointed look at Sara) going to sleep together,” 

You considered telling them how you broke a cardinal rule of Instagram and that he noticed, but you figured it would only make them believe you would eventually fall for the musician. 

Karin pulled out her phone and started scrolling. Her eyebrows raised. 

“He’s cute, [name]. No one would judge you for having some fun with him. Just use protection,” she said. You felt your face grow warm. 

“He’s not my type,” you insisted. The women giggled, making your blush even more apparent. You held your head high in a transparent attempt to spare further embarrassment. 

“I’m just trying to have a positive relationship with someone I’ll work with for the next three months!” Karin and Sara stared at you, incredulous. 

You blushed. 

“I have to go to vocal, I’ll see you guys later,” you mumbled, leaving in a hurry. 

XXX

Deidara startled awake. He checked his clock and grimaced. It was already three pm, way later than he’d planned to wake up.  He had a meeting with Itachi in an hour and then a later session with you immediately after. 

He had a terrible headache and felt like he’d gotten his ass kicked. He checked his arms and torso to see that he didn’t get into a fight last night and was relieved to see no new marks or bruises.

 He’d have to take it easy for the next few months. Itachi seemed serious in their last conversation. 

“You will stay here tonight and work, reach out to [y/n] tomorrow, and apologize for wasting her time. If you don’t, the label will drop you,”

That uptight bastard. He’d have to try to appease him to keep his job.

He thought about how you seemed to loosen up when he texted you last night, and he had to admit, it was nice to see that side of you.

After that conversation, Deidara did come up with some ideas. He was proud of his lyrics for the first verse. 

Since Itachi seemed so hell-bent on changing his image and convinced that you’d be the right person for the task, Deidara tried to learn as much as possible about you. 

He checked out your work on Spotify and was shocked at the degree of your meteoric success. Though you’d only recorded music professionally for two years, all your top singles reached at least ten million streams. 

You had a few ‘behind the music’ interviews and some nighttime television interviews on YouTube. It seemed that you loved a gimmick interview. Coffee and questions, get ready with me, and even a segment where you were asked questions and given a choice to answer them or eat spicy ramen.

 He watched as you giggled and charmed the interviewers while you talked about your music and rise to fame in the era of social media. You shared your creative process and thanked your roommates for being your inspiration. 

It was all so perfect that it felt rehearsed. 

He scoured the internet, looking for anything other than the sweet persona you showed the public. From what he could tell, you had a small group of close-knit friends and no significant other. 

He read an article about a director you’d embraced for a minute longer than necessary at a movie premiere but couldn’t find anything else on your relationship status. Overall, you were who he thought you were - a flawless, good girl. 

He scowled. There was something so annoying about celebrities like you, who projected an impossible image for anyone to achieve. It wasn’t relatable and made people feel worse for not being able to achieve that standard. 

Deidara could tell you were more complex than you let on in these interviews. He gleaned your dry sense of humor and love for music in his interactions with you immediately, so he was unsure why your team would want you to come off so shallow. 

He felt grateful for Itachi. Although he wasn’t the most commercially successful, Itachi allowed Deidara to be himself, a privilege not offered to you.

 He hopped in the shower and changed into clean clothes. Since your manager will be coming to this meeting, he decided to try to put more effort into his appearance. He put on a pair of Adidas Sambas and grabbed his laptop before leaving for Uchiha Records.

XXX

Itachi Uchiha was not a nervous man, but he was growing weary. Deidara’s career depended on the success of this collaboration, and the artist was not taking it seriously. Itachi had to work closely with your manager and his younger brother, Sasuke. The younger Uchiha son was exceptional, but his inferiority complex made him difficult to work with. 

Sasuke came into the small conference room, dressed in flashy streetwear. Itachi smiled to himself. 

Sasuke wore his typical scowl as he texted furiously. 

“Is everything okay?” Itachi asked. Sasuke sighed.

“I’m expecting a delivery for [name]’s interview with that Youtuber TenTen tomorrow, and the clothes aren’t here yet,” he said. Itachi chuckled to himself. 

He abandoned that level of control years ago. His goal was to create a lasting career for each of his artists, and that was only possible by giving them as much agency as possible. Otherwise, they burn out and become has-beens. 

Sasuke demanded perfection in everything he did to impress their father, which often caused him to place immense pressure on his artists.

Itachi wondered how Sasuke would react to an artist like Deidara, who hated perfection. 

“Your artist is late,” Sasuke stated, glancing at his watch. Itachi smirked. It was 10 minutes before the meeting time, but Sasuke was a stickler about punctuality. 

“He’ll be here. Not everyone believes in showing up early, little brother,” Itachi smirked at how Sasuke still bristled when he called him little brother.

Despite graduating from the most prestigious business school in the country, Sasuke still seemed like a kid to him.

Before he could respond, Deidara breezed into the room, looking more put-together and well-rested than Itachi had seen him in months. The blonde greeted Sasuke politely, to which Sasuke replied curtly, obviously surprised at Deidara’s appearance. 

Deidara pulled out his laptop and cast his screen on a large projector at the front of the room. There were several windows open: a document with a few verses and a music production website.

“Since our first meeting went a little… off subject, I wanted to update you both on what I’ve been doing, un” 

He pressed play, and a rhythmic beat sounded. The raw, punchy drum patterns reminiscent of classic rock meshed with sparkling pulses that sounded like a beautiful fit with [name’s] sound. 

It echoed with driving energy with distorted guitar riffs yet danced with the playful syncopation of digital elements.

“I’ve written a  few verses, which wasn’t hard to do, un. And I called a few friends to help me start on the musical arrangement. I normally don’t work with digital beats, but I wanted to try since [name]’s music is more upbeat, yeah,”

Itachi leaned forward, shocked at how prepared Deidara was for this meeting. He glanced over at Sasuke, who was… texting. He cleared his throat, and both men’s attention immediately returned to Itachi. 

“It seems like you took my words seriously, Deidara. Of course, this depends on how [name] feels about it. She was kind enough to work with you, so we must ensure that she is comfortable with what you’ve outlined,” he said. Sasuke nodded absentmindedly, his eyes still glued to his phone.

“I think [name] will need to be in control of the chorus. These lyrics are good, but we need something that will chart. I’ve been listening to the current Hot 100 list and-” Itachi shot Sasuke a withering glance. 

“Let’s allow [name] and Deidara to create something fresh. Not everything needs to debut at number one, Sasuke,” Itachi remarked cooly. Sasuke fixed his posture, his bravado gone. 

“Well, of course, it would be fresh. I just-” Before he could finish his statement, a young woman stumbled into the conference room carrying two garment bags and pushing a dolly with shoes and jewelry. 

She dumped the bags on the table in front of Sasuke, who looked shocked at the intrusion. 

“I have the outfits [name] selected for her interview. You made me miss a vintage market to get this here early, Uchiha. You owe me,” she warned. Sasuke mumbled a thank you before opening the first bag.  

Deidara stopped the recording and raised an eyebrow. What sort of manager approves what his artist wears? 

“Karin, this has to be a mistake. [name] can’t wear this!” he said, holding a sexy black number up. Karin considered Sasuke with a nonplussed expression. 

“[name] requested this personally. I tried to tell her that you’d never approve, but she wanted to wear it. Her eyes lit up when she saw the outfit,” she said. Sasuke’s frown deepened. 

“No,” he said, crossing his arms. Karin gestured to the other bag. 

“There’s a backup outfit in that bag. It’s safer, for sure,” she continued. She turned to leave. 

“If you can find room in that tiny little heart of yours to let her wear the black, I think you should,” she said. She regarded Deidara. She seemed to be searching for something which made Deidara extremely uncomfortable. She giggled and left the room as abruptly as she came. 

Itachi stood from his seat. 

“I think this is a good start, Deidara. I’m sure [name] will be delighted. I look forward to hearing about your progress after you meet with her,” he said. Deidara let out a sigh of relief and turned off his screen share. 

Sasuke, still looking displeased at [name]’s apparent rebellion, seemed lost in his thoughts. 

“I’m headed to her apartment now, so I’ll let her know you’re doing a good job,” he mumbled, stalking out of the room with the garment bags and dolly.

Deidara looked at Itachi, who was staring after his brother with an amused stare. At that moment, Deidara decided that he disliked Sasuke Uchiha. 

“Please try to bring that same energy when you meet with [name] on Friday,” Itachi’s statement was more of a warning. Deidara nodded and held up his hands in defense.

“I will! I’m going to pick up some takeout for us so we can work through dinner, un” Itachi decided not to press that information.

“Keep me informed,” he replied plainly before leaving Deidara in the conference room alone. Deidara hurried to collect his things and leave, still shocked at how well things went.

[the-sun-and-the-craftsman]

The Sun and the Craftsman - Chapter 12

Content warnings for this chapter are at the bottom and tagged!

For more info, read the pinned post here.

For the past few nights, Darius has been praying to Ashur. It felt weird at first, to be praying to the entity that had kept him hiding in his box for so long, and he’s sure that Ashur would never actually answer any of his prayers, but in a way, it’s...comforting. 

Comforting to connect, on some level, with the being who influences this world. Comforting to speak his mind without fear. Comforting to know that the god he’s speaking to isn’t one dreamt up by the people who let his parents die and punished him for finally getting justice and, heck, held the threat of bonds over his head for his entire life before all that. Ashur did some horrible things to him, but not recently—not since before Darius came back. 

He wakes up one morning feeling peaceful. He’s curled up in a pile of blankets and clothes taken from other people’s abandoned houses, but they smell like him. His house stands around him, held together by sweet-smelling vines. Sunlight shines through what little cracks there are, casting a golden light on the stone foundation. Around Darius, he’s got his various piles of junk organized, all his fishing gear in one place, everything for cooking in another, everything he’s been using to build his smithy by the door... 

Speaking of, he should probably cut back all that willowbane. He’s been having to cut it back from the trellis less and less each day. And he’s been thinking ahead: when it comes time to start making molds of all the tools he needs, once he figures out how to get some plaster, he’ll start building an actual wall on the inside of the trellis, maybe stacking some stones or thick branches as a base and coating the whole thing in plaster to force the willowbane to grow out from the trellis’ exterior. 

He kicks the blankets off, then props himself up and shakily gets to his feet. The biggest problem with this world is having to stop himself from working to exhaustion. There’s so much to do, and he’s looking forward to all of it, and it’s so difficult to tell when to stop for the day. Just a few days ago he had worked on hauling stones into his forge area until his legs gave out, and when they did, he just laid on the ground for a while, gazing up at the partly cloudy sky and watching the blue as it seemed to ripple above him. 

He picks up the shovel by the door, then gazes out at the smithy area, just far enough away from his house to not pose any danger if it were to catch flame. Not that the willowbane would let it. 

“You’re awake.” 

Darius jumps, then whirls around and glances up to where the voice came from. Ashur sits up on the roof of the house, legs crossed, hands in his lap as his thick, white wings prop himself up behind him. 

“Yeah,” Darius says with a smile. “You were waiting for me?” 

“For an unbearably long time.” 

Ashur slides down from the roof. Darius steps back as the deity lands beside him, wings out to balance himself. 

“Sorry,” Darius says. “Humans have to sleep.” 

“I know,” Ashur says. “I was human.” 

Darius feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. There’s something about the way that Ashur’s looking up at him, arms folded, eyes narrowed, that puts him on edge. 

“What’s going on?” he asks. 

“I need you to stop what you’re doing,” Ashur says with a grin—a smile that tells Darius that his gritted teeth wish they had something between them. 

“Whuh—what I am doing...?” 

Darius finds himself taking a few steps back, but Ashur closes the gap. 

“What you’ve been doing every night...” Ashur’s voice takes on a sing-song tone. “Every night before you go to sleep...interrupting my night...” 

For a moment, Darius’ mind is too clouded with panic to think of anything he had been doing over the past few days, before he remembers his praying. 

“What?” he asks. “My prayers?” 

“You’re so smart,” Ashur sighs. 

Darius backs up enough to let the rising sun hit him from beyond the other side of his house. He flinches and screws his eyes shut, the sheer brightness making colors of fire dance beneath his eyelids. He feels a hand grip him on the wrist on his free hand, small, but cold and tipped with sharp nails. 

“So stop with that. Got it?” 

Darius feels a stinging at the corners of his eyes. He pries them open, looking Ashur in the face, and hating how much he’s managing to intimidate him again, and for what? 

“Why do you have a problem with it?” he asks. “You’re a god. Gods get prayed to.” 

Ashur’s cheeks flush red. 

“I suggest that you drop the topic,” he says. “Don’t forget what I was to you for all these years.” 

Darius is taken off guard. Exactly how many years had he been here? It doesn’t feel like more than one, and physically, he hasn’t changed much. Marco did mention that he had been here for at least a couple years, but...that should be the last of his worries right now. 

“Are you really threatening me?” he asks. “All over some stupid prayers?” 

“And are you really fighting back over ‘some stupid prayers’?” Ashur heaves a shuddering breath, his grip on Darius’ wrist growing tighter. 

“I...I’m...” Darius balls his captive hand into a fist, taking a deep breath, trying to focus on what exactly he wants out of this conversation. “I’m just trying to understand why you have such a problem with them.” 

Ashur’s wings bristle and spread out behind him like two great capes—the wind plays with his flight feathers in such a way to let Darius know just how much strength lies in the limbs anchoring them. 

“That doesn’t matter,” Ashur says. “Just stop it with them.” 

Darius finds himself furrowing his brow, shaking his head a bit. “I didn’t even ask you for anything,” he says. “It was just...prayers of thanks. Just stuff that happened to me in the day, just...” 

He meets Ashur’s hard glare, noticing that the god’s hand is trembling. 

“Are you afraid?” he asks. 

Ashur’s free hand swings at Darius, taking the shape of a claw. Darius flinches back, barely managing to dodge, watching the glints of white hooks flash by his face. He yanks his captive hand down, wrenching it free from Ashur’s fist, and doubles back, propping up his shovel with two hands and aiming it at the savage deity. His mind whirls with options—he could go for Ashur with the shovel right now, he could dart past him into the thick brush, he could grab his gun and—wait, he never got his gun back! 

As Ashur glowers at Darius, the human feels just how small he really is—Ashur may be shorter and lither than him, but soon he won’t be. He watches as flesh curls around flesh, bulking up the god’s limbs. Golden veins lace Ashur’s newfound strength and his back hunches over as he places his head in front of his chest, teeth bared—and significantly sharper than before. His canines are over an inch long, long enough to pierce right through Darius’ palm with a good shot. 

“Stop,” Darius says weakly. 

“I am not afraid,” Ashur snarls with a voice that could barely be considered vocal. 

Darius can’t move. His hands ache with the effort of gripping the shovel. The ground feels like it's sinking. 

Ashur leans forward, and Darius doesn’t hesitate. He thrusts the tip of the spade into the beast before him. But Ashur’s flesh isn’t split or torn. There’s no blood, golden or not. The blade isn’t sinking into muscle and vein, it’s blunted by malleable skin. Ashur’s flesh wraps around the shovel as he approaches Darius. 

Darius watches as the twisted face draws closer and closer, a snout lengthening to better show off the myriad teeth lining Ashur’s reddened gums. His transformation looks painful, as if a disease has been festering within him, now bursting out as it tries to reach Darius. Screwing his eyes shut, Darius feels himself fading back to his box, dodging any potential of feeling the incoming pain. The colors on his eyelids meld together into a deep darkness, the breeze brushing his ears slowly fades, and even the ground beneath him seems to draw away from him farther and farther until he can’t feel the weight of it anymore. Soon, he can only sense the heat of Ashur’s breath on his face. 

“But you are afraid, aren’t you?” Ashur snarls. 

Darius peeks open an eye to gaze down Ashur’s throat. 

“No.” 

The beast draws back, stomping the arms that have become its front feet. 

“Liar!” Ashur snaps. “I can sense it in you, Darius!” 

“Can you sense my prayers, too?” Darius asks, forcing the words out of his mouth. “Do they hurt?” It doesn’t matter—whatever Ashur does to him, he can’t feel it. All he can really feel is how much it hurts to see the side of Ashur that he thought they has moved on from by now. 

“They don’t hurt,” Ashur says. “But look at me. Is this something to pray to?” 

Darius closes his eyes again. After a few moments, he feels Ashur close the distance again, his heat surrounding Darius like a fever. 

“Look at me!” 

Ashur’s claw grips Darius’ face. Sparks of pain shoot through Darius’ head and neck, down his body, down his arms. His vision starts to cross, and then he starts to see double, and then those two iterations of the world cross again, then they split into more copies—all flesh, all around him. Quickly feeling a strange dryness spotted over his body, Darius glances down and sees his own eyes gazing back at him, dotted all over his arms and chest. Ashur’s growing eyes all over him! And when he tries to close them too, he finds that the flesh god has denied him the mercy of eyelids, the muscles around each of his eyes twitching pitifully. 

Darius’ head spins. He tries to focus his vision on Ashur, but the sheer intake of sight is overwhelming his mind, and a fierce headache starts to spread from the center of Darius’ forehead, all the way down the back of his neck. Dizzy, Darius stumbles back, and a warm, malleable hand is there to catch him. 

“Just try to pray to me now,” Ashur growls in Darius’ ear. 

So Darius does. He zones out, letting his vision blur, letting the pain in his head fade as much as it can. 

And he prays. 

You’re very warm right now. And even though you’re taking a form like this, you’re still the god of this world, and I love this world, so I love you, too. I feel bad about this. I want to know why you’re so upset right now. I want to know why you want to hurt people at the slightest provocation. I want to help you feel better. 

Darius hits the ground. He struggles for breath, his chest twitching, the air knocked out of his lungs. He gazes up at Ashur with his normal, binocular vision, watches as the god shrinks back, slowly getting closer to his usual form. Some white feathers stick out of the mess of wrinkled skin. 

“Shut up,” Ashur says breathily, his voice between the monstrous snarl he had been using and his usual voice, the one that had made Darius think he couldn’t have been older than thirteen when they had first met. He steps over Darius, blocking out the sun for a brief moment before its warmth falls on Darius again. 

“If you want to make me feel better, then stop praying,” Ashur murmurs. 

“I’ll do that,” Darius says. “But I hope one day you’ll tell me why.” 

Ashur heaves a sigh. Then, he drags himself away, slowly shaking his wings free from the rest of his tumorous body and stretching them as he prepares to take flight back home. 

Darius sits up, one hand still clutching the handle of his shovel. His head pounds and his eyes burn. He might be better off just taking the day off, tapping the food he’s got stored up and trying to make sense of this. 

But this world waits for no one. One look at the progress he was making on his smithy gives him the strength to get up again. He’s got more than that to do—he wants answers from Ashur, he wants his gun back, he wants to know how long he’d been in his box, he wants to make his life better—and he’s not passing up on this chance again. 

He will find a way to fit into this world.

CW: descriptions of body horror mentions of death and slavery

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Next chapter ->

[the-hem]

"The Upper Element:Jesus Feeds the Five Thousand." From Mark 6:

Recall Jesus comes and goes from across the Mediterraean, the Place Where One Sees One's Greatness. Each time this happens signifies the end of what is called a Vasana in Hinduism a fancy word for a natural tendency, and the re-embodiment of traits called Apostles which are supernatural tendencies.

When Jesus tells the Disciples to become Apostles by "taking a rest" he does not mean chillax, kick your shoes off, wiggle your piggies, stay awhile, He means "settle the mind."

In other meditating religions, the cushion, or the seat or the pose is called a boat in Judaism and Christianity. As anyone who meditates will attest, it is a rocky, stormy trip with lightning behind the eyes and ups and downs, as are all journeys across the Mediterranean.

Meditation, however is not at all conclusive, it just explains the activity in the mind. The conclusive piece is the moment of Rest, called Shabbat. Meditation and prayer are not fun, they are not the fulfilment of the law, only a boat. Jesus tells the Disciples as they are activated they must bear the weight of a crowd, the entire list of noble attributes named in Judaism and then somehow attain to a revelation about the Self.

He, the Spirit of God had compassion on them because they like we do not know how to accomplish such a thing- how to be a person that is composed of multiple apostolic personalities. The definition of the term is indeed daunting, but the short of it is, an Apostle is 'one who is sent down and out in a different garment than the one in which they came, wrapped up or under cover of some upper element."

Again together with the preposition συν (sun), meaning together or with: the verb συστελλω (sustello), literally meaning to jointly put or set, but often used in the sense of to compact, draw together, huddle up (or wrap up), contract, reduce (ACTS 5:6 and 1 CORINTHIANS 7:29 only).

Together with the preposition υπο (hupo) meaning under: the verb υποστελλω (hupostello), meaning to conceal or withdraw, with nuance or this happening under some cover or upper element. This verb is used 4 times, SEE FULL CONCORDANCE, and from it derives:

The noun υποστολη (hupostole), which describes a thing concealed or withdrawn (HEBREWS 10:39 only).

The Gospel says it takes half a year's wages to feed the information to a disciple in order to complete the wrap. This is how long it would take for "the posture, the carriage to stand up".

Note to the forum- the Seminary needs to connect this passage to the previous to explain why, in sequence this is the moment Jesus decides to promote His posse and give them the right to teach converts. Parsing the Gospels out without this connective tissue is not appropriate. In this case, the Disciples made a Report, and this is a significant finding that should be explored in continuity with the rest of the scripture.

In addition, the text says Jesus made a landing. In the Septuagint, it states Solomon also had a landing a place where heaven met the sea as if one could be very high and also at sea level upon entering the landing. We know Solomon resorted to the Vedas in order to find this remarkable place. We need to know more about the logic the Christ used for His, as it is consistent with the creation of an Apostle:

From Mark 6:

30 The apostles gathered around Jesus and reported to him all they had done and taught. 31 Then, because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, he said to them, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.”

32 So they went away by themselves in a boat to a solitary place. 33 But many who saw them leaving recognized them and ran on foot from all the towns and got there ahead of them. 

34 When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd. So he began teaching them many things.

35 By this time it was late in the day, so his disciples came to him. “This is a remote place,” they said, “and it’s already very late. 36 Send the people away so that they can go to the surrounding countryside and villages and buy themselves something to eat.”

37 But he answered, “You give them something to eat.”

They said to him, “That would take more than half a year’s wages[e]! Are we to go and spend that much on bread and give it to them to eat?”

38 “How many loaves do you have?” he asked. “Go and see.”

The Values in Gematria are:

v. 30-31: The apostles gathered around Jesus and reported to him all they had done and taught. A gathering, ga'a, means they were in the synagogue, in the Shule.

"The word "ga'agua" is a talmudic word that comes from the biblical word "ga'a", which refers to the low sound that cattle make. In I Samuel, the cows that pull the holy ark are described as "ga'u" (moaning) as they go."

A bunch of cows "reporting" mean followers of Judaism were preparing to wrestle the man inside and father a new era for mankind just as Jacob followed Leah, a big fat moaning fussy pregnant cow.

The Number is 9494, TA TD, "a cell ted". "inside the Cell, is the understanding of ted, Theo, the Living God."

Theo is a "technical term one has to go searching for in order to understand its meaning. In this case, the objective is find one word by which one knows everything."

To make a Report, Ishmael, "I hear, I respond, I obey" upon attaining to Theo is a big deal. Theo is not Ha Shem which is wordless, but via Theo one reaches Ha Shem.

v. 32-33:  So they went away by themselves in a boat to a solitary place. The Solitary Place, # 952, "what you desire, what you are fond of, what you covet."

To go by boat to the place "we will love" definitely refers to the Far Shore where God was born between Chaos and the Light: this planet earth. So far, we have not found anything like it in the cosmos. It is a solitary place and upon its health and happiness we all depend.

The Number is 12721, יבן‎בא, "Baba's Son will come."

"To be in the reach of a new economy in which everyone gets to decide." = the fruits of the actions of the Report. This is consistent with the Report the Talmud says Jews in slavery must make in order to qualify for release.

v. 34: So he began teaching them many things. The Number is 9779, טז‎זט‎, tzzt, "He gave them the Thesis."

So now we see the pattern necessary to determine the science behind this particular frame in the Gospel. We are moving from the Ga to a Theo to the Thesis.

v. 35-36: By this time it was late in the day. Mankind always waits until it is very, very big trouble before it starts to turn to God to do the impossible on its behalf= save us from ourselves. We need this now more than ever. What did the Christ say to do about this horrific cathartic moment?

The Number is 10741, י‎ז‎דא‎, yazda, "you will know."

From Yashaya, "go and save other people, save the world and then you will understand mankind and also understand the Son of Man."

"The Hebrew word Yashaya means "my savior". The Hebrews would often name their children based on their relationship, function, or position."

v. 37: But he answered, “You give them something to eat.” We have a problem on this planet, we think it is all right for people to starve and die of exposure. The Christ has never sustained this belief. It is the root cause of our troubls. So Jesus says turn your attention outward, change your industry and things will be all right.

The Number is 11294, יאב‎טד, "I've got it.''

v. 38: 38 “How many loaves do you have?” he asked. “Go and see.” The Number is 4038, דאֶפֶסגח‎, daphesgah. "this is the pinnacle, the zenith, the summit, the culmination apex height."

Loaves are persons who are baked dough made from harvested grain. Bread has always been the salvation of mankind in theory and practice and we have forgotten why and how we need to commit our fields and times to its distrubution. Recall these back into ourselves and we are safe.

So do we have enough of everything we need? Should we do it? Figure it all out? Or should we neglect the knowledge is this frame, stop pretending we are all already dead?

Proper analysis of the Gospels so far proves this is not inevitable. This frame is an excellent example. If we create the Landing, a place where heavenly counsel meets our modern human capabilities, nothing shall stop of us from thriving on this one of a kind planet.

So the Upper Element is not an element at all, just a profound change of determinations. These are found in the Gospels, especially in the Sermon on the Mount the birthplace of all the Apostles.

[tears-that-heal]

To My Dear Brothers & Sisters in Jesus Christ....

Yoga & Meditation

This topic came to my attention recently once again. Christians prompting meditation and yoga within the church. Personally coming from a paradox background of being raised in the church and then straying into dark waters into different practices, I can honestly say this should not be encouraged in the Body of Christ. I even know of “yoga ministries” or “christian yoga” sprouting up in christian circles. This cannot and shouldn’t be a thing among us.

The practice of yoga is originated from India and rooted in both Hinduism, and Buddhism. To boil it all down to the basic beliefs of yoga and meditation is the awakening and discipline of the mind and body. The word “namaste” is spoke aloud at the end of every yoga session. It’s means “welcome”, referring to the reawakening and re-consciousness of one self. I know this because I’ve tried yoga in the past and learned what “namaste” meant. All other knowledge of these religious practices comes from further personal research and prayer. So at its core, meditation and yoga is to aid one to achieve control over themselves based solely on their own will. This “spiritual” philosophy totally goes against the Christian faith.

We as Christians, have chosen to give up the illusion of control to God because we were never in control of our own lives or anyone else’s in the first place. Only God our Creator is in control. Believing we can live this life on earth without Jesus, without God, leads to a meaningless and empty end. “Everything is meaningless,” says the Teacher, “completely meaningless!” What do people get for all their hard work under the sun?” ‭‭(Ecclesiastes‬ ‭1‬:‭2‬-‭3‬ ‭NLT‬‬)

A reminder, this post is only addressed to my fellow believers in Jesus Christ. Those who’ve accepted Him as their Savior and Redeemer because we’ve accepted the truth of our sinful natures. It is through Christ that we are healed and whole. With all that said, we must be alert and sober to what practices we allow or invite into the Body of Christ. Modern variations of ancient religious practices do not cancel out their true intent. Like for example, renaming the yoga practice; “christian yoga”, and its many poses to better fit this current time or modern ideals. There’s been already so much compromise to our faith throughout the centuries as it is. We must take ownership and responsibility so no other believer may stumble in their walk with Jesus. Modern New Age thinking meditation and yoga has already penetrated our church walls, chose to be a vigilante watchmen on the wall. (Isaiah 62:6-9) In Jesus Name!

[ladala99]

The Legend of Heroes: A Tear of Vermillion Rambles - Ending Edition

Yesterday I ended my last session literally one attack from beating the final boss. I did not know it at the time since enemies do not have health bars. But that in itself was about 50 minutes until cutscenes/credits were over, so since I was brushing up against bedtime, it was for the best.

Yes, I have beaten The Legend of Heroes: A Tear of Vermillion. For the first time, actually - last time I played the game, I lost against the final boss and just stopped playing.

Anyway, as usual, spoilers below, so read at your own discretion. Also below is some brainstorming on my next gaming schedule.

I’ll start out by talking about the title of this game. I thought it was named A Tear of Vermillion because of how sad Avin was about losing his red-headed sister and also for the pool of blood that Mile collapsed into. This game is sad and bloody, so tears+red->a tear of vermillion.

But no, the ending explains that tears of vermillion are the bonds of friendship and belief that allow one to exit the land of the dead. Or something to that effect. Nobody was crying at the end (well, Avin did when Mile re-died, but he wasn’t crying when the tears fell). Just everyone’s literal thoughts and prayers descended from the sky as red raindrops and saved the day. ???

Also, Mile was a zombie when he had silver hair. I was unaware of that. But I had previously been confused at the vision in the ice temple where his ghost showed up, since I knew he was alive, and this makes that make more sense.

Speaking of Mile, the ending sequences with Shannon were weird. It’s played for laughs that the poor girl has a huge crush on him, which he doesn’t reciprocate. And it’s just left at that. No breaking it to her, no establishing a different relationship, she just glomps him repeatedly and he acts awkwardly about it.

AvinXRutice I don’t have much to say about other than that I was appreciating how platonic but close their friendship was. Nope, not just friendship after all. My ace brain just likes to see what it likes to see. It makes sense with all they’ve been through, and how they anchor one another.

The credits art was really nice, though I wondered why Archen was there. Avin, Mile, Eimelle, and Rutice were obvious choices. Sage Gawain was reasonable, given he was at the beginning and end of the game, but Archen plays a smaller role than many of the other temporary companions. I guess the artist just liked her. She had a pretty…interesting pose.

And I’m doing all these nitpicks, but really, I enjoy this game so much. The ending left me excited to move onto the next one. Moreso the third game than the second (English order) but that’s probably because in the original order, the third game was next. If the Trails games are anything like this, I can very well see why people binge them.

Still, I’m sticking to my plan of not diving straight into Prophecy of the Moonlight Witch (as that will be my next in this series).

Current plan is:

Detective Pikachu 2 finish Ultra Sun some non-JRPG (Tears of the Kingdom?) finish Octopath Traveler some non-JRPG (Crash N Sane Trilogy?) Pokémon (maybe finish Pokedex stuff in Shield DLC?) some non-JRPG The Legend of Heroes: Prophecy of the Moonlight Witch

And the Scarlet/Violet DLC playthrough being inserted whenever the second half happens to land because new Pokémon games take priority.

So yeah, there is quite a bit to go. A lot of this is cleanup, though, so some shouldn’t take too too long.

But given my renewed interest in the Legend of Heroes, I may change my pattern.

Maybe finish Octopath after Detective Pikachu 2 and make the new JRPG pattern Pokémon->Legend of Heroes->Other.

I have swapped my gameplay schedule from rigid one month one game, two weeks another game, repeat, swapping out games as necessary to: every two weeks, check up on how I feel about my current game. Still engaged in it? Keep playing for two more weeks. Getting a little burnt out? Play something else for two weeks and get back to it. And then anything can interrupt (LoH: AToV did in the first place, and then Detective Pikachu 1 replay and Pokémon SV Mew/Mewtwo event interrupted that temporarily).

Of course, there’s also the fact that Detective Pikachu 2 isn’t quite out yet. This gives me a good chance to play a more relaxing game for the next few days.

Though I’m probably just going to go back to hatching full-time to prepare to bring Pokémon from 3DS up to HOME when the second DLC drops. Datamines indicate my Ribbon Pokémon will be in there, making it the first HOME-compatible game where that is so, and I thus am doing my one-time one-month subscription to bring as much up as I can.

[fayethffxiv]

There you are…

Simple enough to say, as the Elezen guided herself down to a narrow ledge… But that was where the ease ended.  Fayeth had only had a glimpse of his fall - his dive, really – as the hoary-bearded Roegadyn had collapsed the bridge, cutting off the attacking Dravanians from the fleeing Ishgardian caravan. As she shook the feeling back into her fingertips, she couldn’t help but sigh.  It was the sort of explosive, unthinking, immediate heroism that would have been a staple of her bedtime stories of the Heavens’ Ward for the boys.  It would also, she reminded herself with a wry smile as she unslung her bow and scanned the field below her, be the sort of thing her father would have called “Big Damn Hero” problems.  Someone would have to clean it up.

To find him after that sort of fall, the footmen said, would be a miracle.  Even then, she’d only be finding a body to bring back for burial. Even a Hellsguard would stand no chance of surviving the fall.  Get the caravan back on the road, and once they reached Falcon’s Nest, the Durendaire and Dzemael lads would send out a party to recover him. Of course she hadn’t listened.  She had barely heard them, but to scoff.  As soon as he fell, she was moving.  There was no time to collect her staff, for all the good it would do her – the Fury had been making her fight for even the gentlest of traces of white magic.  Instead, with her bow on her back, and without even rope to climb back up (what would Da say about this foolishness?) she dropped from ledge to ledge to ledge, with only her fingers and heels to guide her down the side of the ravine.

And then, there he was.

A silent prayer of thanks to Halone was tossed mentally into the air, and left to drift on the frosty wind. He wasn’t moving, but there was the old Roe.  He even looked as though he had landed gently – insofar as he could have – and in one piece. One problem down, several to go, and growing, as the wind picked up, the sun set, and the circling Silver Wolves only drew the attention of even more Bergthurs.

Well. Nothing for it.

With a whispered prayer and a louder grumble that eventually rolled into a yell, she leapt, nocked, fired, and hoped for a softer landing than the old man had had.

______________________________________________________________

(Yes, I resurrected a years old prompt, just because I occasionally keep poking @mylesbyond about it.  There will be a part 2 [or 1.5? I guess? It will catch up to the original post, after all] to this, too! I’ve already started on it, even. But here’s a hackish start at it, as proof of life.)

(Also, trying to pose this with the older outfit made me realise just how much nicer Fayeth’s current glam is, especially in terms of... Angles. Ah well.)

Per your Self-Indulgent Meme reblog, I'd be interested to see what you do with ❰❰ MEDIC ❱❱! Feel free to leave any perspective details vague if it's simpler, I just think it would be a good look into Myles, at a potentially somewhat vulnerable moment. And yes, I was tempted to go with ❰❰ LIFT ❱❱ for the sake of the mental image, but... I think that might strain credulity.

"Don't you dare stop or look back until you've reach the end of the bridge!"

The gargantuan male bellowed before he slid to a halt on the frozen Black Iron Bridge. He knew only way that any of them had a chance at survival was to hold the horde back. Without the emotional ties to the beast or more correctly, despair consumed civilians he was hired to escort, he was probably one of the few people with the heart to do what needed to be done. It would take minutes for the resilient men and women to reach the other side. After traveling nonstop the past few days, his reserves probably only had minutes left but his facial expression remained stoic.

The leather back stretched open in the roegadyn's nondominant hand. His right hand extended at the mobs that continued to charge. Myles began to read from the open page as aether gathered and formed in his hand. His companion over the last few years peeked out from his peacoat before taking flight. Blast after blast soared from his palm seemingly random and off target. A few managed to hit members of the horde but most were nowhere near. He continues kept his distance from the beast while he held them back.

His fairy friend glanced back on his behalf and signaled that everyone had cleared the bridge. He nodded contently as she began to vanish. The aether that connected her to this plane of existence was being reallocated. Underneath his coat the glow of his hidden aetherial activated tattoos came to life. The markings traveled up his right arm but only managed to travel up to his elbow on his left. Myles' eyes closed, his breathing calmed. He allowed the beast to charge at him without resistance. As they swarmed his frame dropped to his knees and pressed his right hand to the cold stone. A small aura incased his frame before the massive explosion went off around him. The platform he had been standing on along with the horde had crumbled underneath them, weakened by his prior assault.

'Thank you my friend...'

He thought to himself as he fell to his frozen tome. Time ceased long enough to notice the gaping hole in the bridge he created. Large enough to prevent anything or anyone from following the group he was in charge of, the mobs that were in just as bad of a predicament as himself and his tattered book that was in just as bad of a condition as himself. The he-roe's eyes began to drift shut as the world around him became silent. His body relaxed and he was at peace.

Unlike the monsters that were attacking him, Myles managed to land in the soft snow instead of the solid ice just meters away. Small stones and steel rested on his frame as he laid there nearly lifeless. He wouldn't recall what happened next or how long he had a concussion but from his grave he was rescued. He could hear smuffled sounds but couldn't make out the worlds. He drifted in and out of consciousness as he was brought to safety. His arm draped over a rambunctious elezen female. He could feel her shaking trying to hold up his body weight. Her hooked around his waist while the other kept his arm perched in place. She willed him to the camp site without the assistance of the few that remained.

"Ugh-ahhh" Myles groaned as he regained his senses. Unfortunately it meant he could feel how much pain he was in. More fortunately he revived in time to see someone cleaning the blood and debris from an open wound near his rib cage. It looked like she hadn't noticed quite yet that he had awakened. Amber hues studied the woman before him in silence. She was fixated on her task at hand. Much different than the woman he met a few days ago. The pressure against his flesh was that of a flower's petal resting on the surface of a pond, delicate. Barely disturbing the water as it landed. The warmth of the fire thawed his bones but the kindness of Fayeth rejuvenated his spirit. It had been a lifetime ago since he had allowed himself to interact with others for more than a rising sun. Serving his self-preserving sentence as an outcast meant the less the world saw of him the longer he would be allowed to live. Though that usually meant bounty hunters, this circumstance was no different.

"A-are the others safe? The despair... Did they survive? H-h-ow am I..." Beyond had a thousand questions he needed to ask but not the strength to speak them. He winced feeling the pain shoot through his lungs as he tried to speak. He had pushed himself past exhaustion and nearly used all of his aether with the stunt he pulled. Before he was able to show his appreciation to Fayeth for nursing his wounds his mind drifted back off to sleep. Visible aether came from his body in an attempt to form his fairy companion subconsciously but as quickly as the energy solidified it dispersed once more.

@fayethffxiv Thank you for the gift of focused creativity! :D

[eijirousbestie]

“I know so.”

requested part two of Can I draw you?

nighttime drawing

sleepy bakugou

sincere appreciation

* * *

The sun had set hours ago but here you are, still seated behind your easel sketching away like you had all the time in the world. And he was sitting there with you, as patient as ever. No grumblings, no whining. He just simply let you do what you needed to do. You’d gotten a good chunk of your portrait of Bakugou in the works. You would need a little more time to clean it up, but it’s coming along smoothly. Hell, it damn near looks like an exact replica of his face.

Stretching your back, your spine cracks and tension built from your sitting position releases. You sigh in content and peek your head from behind your easel. It had been awhile since you last heard Bakugou speak and the sight before you was as amusing as ever. You almost laugh when you see him sound asleep in his spot on the couch. His palm still rests on the underside of his chin and his head is leaned against the backside of the couch. He refused to take breaks when you offered, claiming it would “screw up the angle” if he moved from his spot. So here he was. Completely knocked out in the living room. It warmed your heart really. It’s just something about being able to fall asleep in front of another person that felt so comforting. You don’t have it in you to wake him up.

Looking at your piece one more time, you admire how well you’ve captured his features. Drawing him just felt so… easy. Sitting in silence doing what you love with him as your model just felt easy. No artistic restraints, no diversions, not even art block. Your hands moved fluidly to create this portrait of him like they were created to do just that. Quietly getting off your stool, you start to pack up your equipment, but the easel remains in its spot so the angle stays the same for your session tomorrow. Truth be told, you were so far along in your drawing, you really didn’t need him as a reference anymore. But it wouldn’t hurt to keep his face on standby right? Just in case you mess up certain details or something. Just as you are about to zip up your supply bag, a soft snore breaks the silence. You look over at Bakugou’s sleeping form. He’s absolutely slumped right now. You tiptoe towards the couch as stealthily as possible and pull out your phone. You make sure your flash and ringer are off before you take a few pictures of him snoozing. Some were cute and some were taken in 0.5x which ended up elongating his forehead and making it seem bigger than what it was. It’s so hard to hold back your laughs so you flee the scene and put your things away to gather yourself. Needless to say, you had a good two minute laugh in your room.

You walk back out to the living area and expect him to have woken up. To your astonishment, he’s still very much asleep. Bakugou is a relatively light sleeper so after all your shuffling and moving around, it’s a bit surprising to see him still in dream land. Looking at his neck, you cringe a little. He held that pose since you first came back from your classes. The sun has set now. There’s no way he’s comfortable like that. You’ve got to wake him up. If not, he’s just gonna be cranky tomorrow morning about his neck pains. You make a silent prayer to every god above that this won’t get you killed. You whisper at a discernible level but don’t get too close to respect his space.

“Bakugou… hey wake up.” No response.

“Ayo, wake up man.” This time you get a short snore. You think for a moment. It’d really suck to disturb him but his ear looks like it’s about touch his shoulder. So you gotta bring out the heavy artillery.

“Aye KB, hey you gotta wake up man.” Any other day, that nickname alone would’ve been enough. You lot were talking about potential nicknames for each other when everyone gathered after classes one day last semester. You spit out KB for Bakugou and the look on his face was hilarious. Disgust isn’t a big enough word to describe how he felt about the name. So now, you use it in dire circumstances. Roast battles, getting him to stop ignoring you and to simply annoy him. Respectfully. So him having no reaction to the nickname he finds cringey is also unusual. Seems as though you’re out of tricks so you plop yourself onto the other side of the couch he’s sitting on in defeat. If he gripes about a sore neck later he can’t say you didn’t try to help. You take your phone out and swipe through social media mindlessly. At least now you’ve got some sweet revenge pictures of him sleeping. He’s got way more embarrassing pictures of you in his phone too so you’re just leveling the playing field.

“What time is it?” You jolt slightly in surprise, not expecting him to speak suddenly. His sleep laden voice is hoarse and low in tone. You look at the top of your screen for the time.

“Uhh 8:47. Must’ve been out for a couple hours after we started huh?” A groan rumbles through his chest as he stretches his arms and legs out.

“Guess so. Neck’s killin me.” He tilts his head side to side to alleviate the ache. You side eye him before going back to scroll on your phone.

“Well I tried to wake you a while ago but you were out like a light. Since when do you sleep so heavily?” You laughed lightly at the end of your comment. It truly was a sudden change in his sleeping pattern. With eyes still heavy with sleep, he turns his head to gaze at you, the couch cushion still resting under his head.

He shrugs before speaking, eyes still on you. “Dunno. Sittin in silence relaxes me though. Might be why.” Your head just barely tilts to the side in wonder. That’s news to you.

“Wow really? I never knew that. Maybe we’ll have to do it more often if it gets you to close your mouth.”

“You got a death wish or somethin?” You smile brightly and chuckle. Even when he’s groggy he’s still as fiery as ever.

“Only on Mondays.”

“Hah, that art class still kicking your ass huh? You should drop.” Of course he knew you hated Mondays. After constantly hearing you bad mouth your art professor it’s hard to forget.

“Hell no man. It’s got my degree written all over it. I’d look stupid dropping it.”

“Knew ya had the balls to keep pushing. Kick its ass right back.” You nod, suddenly remembering why you were there with him in the first place. An excited smile graces your face.

“Speaking of which… wanna see your portrait?” All of the remaining drowsiness left his eyes.

“Who?”

“Bro the portrait of you.”

“No I mean who asked?” The smile on your face drops and your left eye twitches. The corner of Bakugou’s mouth quirks up like he’s trying to hold back a hearty laugh. This asshat.

“You think you’re so funny. I’m showing you anyways.” You get up and go to your easel, unclipping the drawing and holding it up backwards in front of you. Bakugou rolls his eyes but pays attention nonetheless.

“I know I’m funny. Now hurry up and show it. It’s gettin late.”

“I think I’ll take my sweet time actually.”

“For the love of god…” He drags one hand down his face in a dramatic motion, signifying his thinning patience.

“Aight aight fine. Look!” You turn the paper around quickly for the grand reveal. His eyes instantly soften. There’s no denying what you’d just seen. Even he couldn’t mask his emotions. The look he gave your drawing. It was unmatchable. Like seeing a childhood friend after so many years. His heart hammered in his chest, lips slightly parted as if he wanted to speak but didn’t know what exactly to say. You’d captured him beautifully. So beautifully, it was hard to register that it was him. Truly him. Is this how you saw him? Or are you just that great of an artist? Seeing how a person outside of himself viewed him. It was touching. Having stood there with the drawing in your hands in silence left you feeling nervous. Does he not like it? Should I tweak some things? It’s the nose isn’t it? Oh my god it’s the nose. However, nothing was wrong with it. In fact, everything about it was perfect. So perfect it left him speechless.

“Shit is it bad? If you don’t think it looks like you I can just change it. This isn’t the final design anyways so I-”

“No. No there’s nothing wrong with it at all. This is just… incredible.” The softest smile you’ve ever seen him put on stretches his lips. The ends curled up just high enough to display his utmost fondness for your piece. It’s not too exaggerated, but when you look close enough you can tell how much joy that grin holds. You go silent with gratitude and place the drawing back on the easel, turning it to face you both as you sit back down on the couch. As you both continue to gaze at the drawing, Bakugou’s expression never leaves his face.

“I know I give you shit for it a lot but you’re damn good at what you do. You were meant for this shit.”

Your eyes never leave your creation. “Think so?”

His cherry red eyes harden slightly with intention, his gravelly tone serious, yet soft.

“I know so.”

[painting-aphrodite]

•

New Moon in Pisces

20th February 2023 7:05 GMT

Pisces is associated to ;

Sacrifice, charity, welfare, prayers, mysticism, spirituality, far away lands, isolation, behind the scenes activity, those who live a secluded life, emotions, creativity, illusions, confinements, self- undoings, hidden activity, spying, mafia undertakings, hospitals, mental health and endings.. etc.

Parts of the body - The feet, liver, lymphatic system.

Places - the seas, oceans, swimming / fishing sites, religious places, where chemicals, oils and medicines are kept.

The Sun and Moon will be conjoining at the first degree of Pisces. The specific details highlighted above shall become significant to both the general masses and the state - internally and externally.

A reemergences of traditional values, religious groups and a particular concentration can be placed upon all those workings which are usually hidden from sight. Spiritual aspirations, dreams and other ethereal realities become evident. Creating mental maps or indulging in the imagination can be common and beneficial throughout the month.

Seriousness and structure will be enforced, from behind the scenes and due to far away land activity. Do not believe all that you hear, as many things will be exaggerated, filled with lies. Many mannequins of deception shall be found posing - instigated by the left wing, criminal type currents.

Overshadowing the lunation is Saturn which is in a close conjunction to the celestial event - entering Pisces on the 8th of March ( see my Post for the New Year) new beginnings may require an extra push and disciplined approach - eventually leading to longer / more fruitful ripenings. Avoid acting on rushed or less thought out decisions.

Globally and politically some unconventional news is imminent, technological difficulties, hackings, re- scheduling’s, surprising or unexpected information communicated.

Completely fresh, inspirational and enlightening interactions on topics with other people. A heightening of senses and broadening of the intuitional faculties.

Venus moves out of its exaltation into its fall - in Aries. Women, finances, artists, relationships and all those affairs under the lordship of Venus are expanded.

There is fiery nature to Venus while passing through this sign - physical amusements, rise in opportunities linked to women , creatives or those domains tied to the planet.

Conjoining Jupiter, shedding light on opportunities, alluring experiences, financial gains and attraction towards faith, far away travel, philosophical and law related themes. ( see the new year post discussing Jupiter)

Countries ruled by Pisces.

Russia, Netherlands, Colombia, Portugal etc.

Inbox me for Astrological readings.

• Painting Aphrodite

[searidings]

....🥺 can you please tell us more about that season 5 alternate ending where andrea ends up using the dagger pretty please, just like who does she end up hurting and the others reaction? if only you want to of course !

hooookay this ask got me to open that wip for the first time in a year and actually it's not that far from being complete! but idk how to finish it and i feel like i've done the s5 conflict resolution thing in multiple fics now like how many is too many? i fear i may have hit that limit. BUT since you asked, here is the beginning of it. please note:

1) this thing is angsty and also it's unfinished, so read at your own peril

2) because i wasn't ever expecting to finish/publish it, i've recycled bits of description from it into other fics. so if you see stuff i've repeated elsewhere no you don't <3

-

The last thing Lena sees is a flash like dark shadow pass over Andrea’s eyes, before a kryptonite dagger slides between her ribs.

The sound she emits is less of a scream and more of a surprised squeak as she sinks to the ground.

If you want to get to Supergirl, you’re gonna have to go through me.

It’s not that she hadn’t believed Andrea would do it. Lena was under no illusion of safety when she placed herself between Supergirl and the glowing green rock in Andrea’s hand. She’d come to terms with the possibility of dying for Kara long ago.

What she hadn’t been able to prepare for was the pain. The abstract of sacrifice was all well and good, but. Reality, this searing epicentre, a point of white hot agony turned molten, seeping through her body. No amount of her mother’s decorum training had prepared her for this.

Something is filling her mouth, thick and dark and oozing. She can’t scream. Kara sits, eyes silver, a world away. Kara. Lena has to move. She can’t. Andrea steps over her, and is that the pounding of receding footsteps or the dogged beat of Lena’s heart? Either way, it’s slowing. Every inhale cracks her body down the centre, each exhale buries shards of glass inside the gaping wound.

Her eyes are beginning to mist at the edges but she strains, listens. The sound that cuts through the haze is not the scream she dreads, Kara’s agony as her veins sear emerald. It’s not a scream, but a shout, and then a blur passes over her like light and shadow.

Concrete cracks, or perhaps it’s Lena’s ribs. Sounds are muffled now, the world dulled down like the inside of a snow globe. Underwater, time passes sluggishly to where she lies, drifting, encased in glass. But someone is fighting the current, resisting the pull. Hands grasp her shoulders, burning where they touch. Through the rolling fog comes Kara’s face, blurring out in red and blue and gold and sickly green. Lena wants to push her away, keep her separate from the venomous substance protruding from her chest, keep her untainted. But Kara’s hands are dancing there-away along her cheeks, her jaw, Lena’s own name sounding from her lips over and over, a siren song, calling her home. It’s raining now, wet spots peppering her brow, or maybe the sun is crying.

“Lena, Lena,” Kara is saying. It sounds like her heartbeat and she cannot bear for it to stop.

“Kara,” she manages, a whisper, a prayer.

Her face flashes within Lena’s line of sight for one perfect moment, and is she green-tinged or is it Lena’s failing vision? A shiver passes through the air between them, I’m sorry fluttering like a bloodstained white flag but whether it falls from her own lips or another’s, Lena cannot say. Then a sudden pressure at her ribs, a heavy push and release that feels like salvation and damnation all at once.

Lena hears a scream, two screams, billions. She is left gaping, open and exposed. Invaded by the air and exalted by the sticky-sweet blush of her own blood, her body purging itself. Through the slick of gathering crimson her head rolls to the side, darkness pressing in around her, eyes blazing with the final image of a limp hand on the ground beside her, veins shot through with glowing green.

-

For a long time, there is only darkness. The deepest blackness she has ever known, all-encompassing. Devouring light, thought, feeling. Lena floats, tethered to her own existence only by the pressing weight of the dark, closing in until the end of the world.

Slowly, sensations begin to blur in and out. Cold, a deadening flow, hooking into her very marrow and stripping her from the inside out. She drifts, and then there’s heat, scorching, radiating out from her ribs in scalding waves, and she wishes for numbness.

For a moment, Lena thinks she sees the star-burst of veins behind her eyelids, but then they are gone and all is black again. Sound fragments filter through her peripheral awareness. A great noise, banging and shouting and exploding. She slips back under.

Vibrations reach her, but they must be sounds because Lena no longer has a body with which to feel them. She floats, untethered, sinking beneath the surface of a dark ocean so vast it surely cannot know she’s there. In the deep, voices flicker.

“Haven’t you heard that you’re supposed to leave the knife in? She’s minutes from bleeding out.”

The blackness turns to blood around her, not vibrant red but sticky dark, the kind so loaded with the very force of someone’s life that it moves slowly, crawls under the weight of it, sucking light from all it touches.

“Her veins were green, Alex.”

An eternity passes.

She dreams of her mother, dark hair fanning behind her as she cuts through the still waters of the lake. The scene is calm, but the growing dread means Lena knows what’s coming and suddenly it’s not her mother but Kara before her, and the lake isn’t clear but radioactive, glowing green, and still Lena stands at the shore and watches her slip away, helpless.

Words float through the haze and Lena wishes she could reach out, grasp them, weigh them in her hands to know the truth behind them. Radiation and poisoned and flared and gone, the sounds making physical shapes in the darkness. She thinks of a child, two dark-haired children, of hours spent pouring over a dictionary. A cruel laugh when she got a definition wrong, grudging silence when she got it right. How she wishes now to be wrong, to mishear, a stay of judgment on the world these words conjure into being. But the focus is gone, and she slips away again.

“—whatever you have to do! Or so help me, I’ll—”

Though Lena is nothing now, just an exhale in the wind, she smiles. Warmth blooms, the blackness not crushing but caressing for a moment, and she drifts into memories of happier times.

A million years pass, a billion. Lena is upside down, and right way up, and no way up at all. If she still had a face, she might feel the pressure of a warm forehead against her own. If she still had hair, the imprint of lips pressed gently against it might still ache. If she hadn’t burned every meaningful bridge in her life in the year before her death, she might believe the trick of a whisper wrapping on the breeze, words of comfort, of promise.

But she had, so she doesn’t, and time collapses in on itself as Lena watches, motionless and alone.

-

Though she has always been nowhere, she can feel herself drifting further and further from the last thing that might just resemble a somewhere. The eons slow. If she were a doctor, Lena thinks, then this would be the time to make herself comfortable. To say her goodbyes.

She cannot look at blackness any longer, cannot bear the glowing green after-image that seems to stick to every corner and edge. She thinks of blue, of rain-washed skies and Kara’s eyes, conjures it into being with every fibre she has left. Wraps herself up in it, plunges headfirst, drowns.

“Like it matters!” Kara says, no, shouts, from somewhere far above and below her. Lena would flinch, if only she still had a body. The voice rings out through the void. “Like any of it matters now.”

Lena is privately inclined to agree. She tries to breathe, but the full weight of the universe, of every universe, presses in. As everything, even the blackness, dulls, there emerges a crushing, cracking suffocation, and Lena wonders why she can’t even die in peace. A high-pitched scream, maybe hers, maybe Kara’s, maybe her mother’s, maybe the world’s, stretching out before her like a pathway. Though there’s no doubt where it ends, Lena almost wants to follow it, if only to escape this sensation of being crumbled, submerged, denied life as its very essence is wrung from her being.

And then a hundred trillion bolts of lightning shoot through her at once, and Lena is gone.

-

When she wakes, she wakes secure in the knowledge that she must be alive. Sure that the pain that had burst through her, blighted every nerve with an agony so intense she feels its phantom grip even now, could only lead back to life. Sure that no departure could hurt that much.

When she wakes, it is through cracked, dry eyes to the sight of pipes and ceiling vents, the bland, industrial grey that can only denote underfunded government property.

When she wakes, Kara is standing at the foot of her bed, hands behind her back and looking every inch the righteous hero, and Lena’s unsteady heart sinks. She’s been on the receiving end of this authoritative pose more than enough for one lifetime. At least her hands aren’t on her hips.

But Kara’s eyes brighten as they meet Lena’s fluttering gaze. “Lena.” Quiet, reverential. “How are you feeling?”

Lena takes stock. Alive, to begin with. Every limb still intact. Aside from an unnerving constriction in her chest and the fact that her blood feels a little like it’s burning her cells as it courses through her veins, it could certainly be worse.

When she speaks her voice is hoarse, cracking. “What happened?”

The same darkness creeps into the edges of her vision as she listens to Kara list the extent of the damage. She presses her lips together, willing away the blackness, registering only snippets.

Stab wound. Kryptonite poisoning. Collapsed lung. Cardiac arrest. Resuscitation.

Leviathan, gone. Andrea, captured. Lex, escaped.

The words wash over her like a freezing tide, and Lena wonders if maybe the darkness had been easier after all.

It takes far longer than it should for her to realise that the room has fallen silent. Kara is watching her, concern etched into her features like tears carving through stone.

Lena swallows as best she can. “And you?”

A corner of Kara’s mouth quirks up. “I’m fine. Thanks to you.”

But she doesn’t look fine. She looks exhausted, her face drawn, blue eyes lacking their characteristic shine. Even her hero’s stance can’t mask the fatigue weighing heavy on her shoulders.

But Lena doesn’t have the strength to argue the point. She rolls her head to the side, joints popping and releasing, noticing for the first time the tangle of IV lines threading into her skin. She lifts her other hand to touch them, feels the warning tug of more needles even as Kara steps forward, arms raised as if to stop her.

Her hands reach toward Lena, or at least, the spaces where her hands should be. Huge white dressings swaddle Kara from the wrists down, so bulky they do not resemble hands at all. Lena’s breath catches in her lungs as she takes in the unwieldy bandages, third degree burns and possible nerve damage echoing through her mind and she understands now why Kara had hidden them behind her back.

The inhale she aims for seems to stick in her ribs and she can feel again the crushing, the cracking, the dizzying lack of oxygen as her head spins. Kara is by her side in an instant, radiating warmth and just breathe, Lena, it’s okay, a comforting weight settling against her hip. Lena thanks the thick blanket for blurring the press of rough bandages where there should be warm skin, softening it into something just nondescript enough to be calming.

When her pounding pulse has slowed, the heart monitor downgrading to a less frenetic beat, she sucks in a breath despite her lungs’ protestation, waits for her vision to clear. Kara is still there, and dread opens up in Lena’s chest.

“You— you touched it. The kryptonite. You pulled it out.”

Kara doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just nods, her gaze locked on Lena’s own. Lena lies catatonic, paralysed with the knowledge, unable to move even as Alex enters the room. Dimly aware of low words exchanged between the two sisters and then Alex at her bedside, gentler than Lena’s been worthy of seeing her in years. Just rest, Lena, the press of a button on the IV monitor, and she sinks back into oblivion.

[ncitygirls]

pink - mark x gn reader

fluff, smut, cw: submissive!mark, 2k

The concept of colour is an intriguing one. Much like seeing, seeing itself is intriguing. Intriguing as well is the notion that seeing is believing when the blind trust so fiercely. They must trust the yellow of the sun resembles the middle of daisies, and runny yolk. They must trust the red of a ruby resembles that of flowing blood. They must trust that at any given time, the blue painting the skies can resemble that of bluebells, blueberries, and all blue things.

The concept of colour is not an admissible one. It is convoluted and complex. The pink of a rose, of a poked eye, of a healing wound, of a stained linen. They all contain a bounty of hues; some dimmer, paler, or truer than others. They all carry their own meaning, things we assign and ascribe to an item; be it clothing, furniture, text. The point to all this is, you do not think you will ever be able to truly explain how perfect the pink that colours Mark’s lips is. You try every morning you are fortunate to wake beside him - when you are first to wake that is. You peel open your eyes one by one, blinking away sleep and tears from the strobes scorching your corneas, falling victim to the allure of sunlight that lures you from your dreams, only to wake to another.

Pink. It is too simple a word to describe the creases in his lips that sit a couple shades darker, not enough to call magenta nor red. Every morning, you ache to run your fingers along the ridges, to rouse him from sleep, punish him like the rising sun did you. You never do. You lay there, watching as silent breaths cause the rise and fall of your lover’s chest, perturbed by the riddle that curses you every other morning.

How does one describe the indescribable?

It is your job no? To spread word of such wonder. A man who proves the existence of a higher power. A man whose face cannot be a product of the algorithms of colliding comets, nor of destiny. Hands of an omniscient being carved this face, moulded him into the wonder that you wake to every morning. That pink is not just pink. It is a perfect combination of the richest red and a waxen white. God needn’t have spent long, given his almightiness, but he did spend more time than on others. For that reason you think it selfish to waste this time, to roll out of bed and busy yourself with the trivial, menial tasks of readying for work. No, you must solve this riddle. You must find a way to proclaim what you have thought since the very first moment you laid eyes on Mark Lee.

“How are you real?”

One glance and he knew you hadn’t meant to ask it aloud. It is a regular action you do in regards to him; thanking God for the blessing that was Mark Lee’s creation. It occurs at all hours of the day, both verbal and non verbal, physical and non-physical alike. Whether it be the sudden airiness in your laughter, or twirling strands of his hair betwixt your fingers. Every time your eyes settle on his face, your senses heighten while your sense diminishes.

“Morning, angel,” he mumbles, tugging you from your angelic pose on his chest and pulling your lips to his. He offers you just a press, but should it be your last, it would still be enough. Mornings spent in his company always make for an easier start, one full of wistful goodbyes but wishful hellos. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” your lips fall to his toned pec, offering scattered pecks. “Did you?”

Mark hums groggily, head falling to his pillow, failing to follow your sudden flurry of kisses. He finds the energy to speak just as your lips closed around his hardened nipple, as you begin to suck ever so slightly. His hands find your hips, clinging onto your frame as you kiss a path down his chest, marking his skin on your descent. “It’s almost eight,” he regrets to inform you, wishing nothing more than to enjoy this extended dream. “Won’t you be late?”

You show no signs of stopping, journeying south at a most leisurely speed. He relinquishes his hold on you, instead finding purchase in the bed linens, his fingers clasping around the duck down feathers. When your lips suddenly leave him, Mark fears the worst, that his reminder had a delayed effect. That is reluctant warning, seemingly good deed is now working against him. He soon finds his concerns were in vain as your lips close around the clothed head of his cock, sucking long and hard on the darkened material. His hips rise toward your mouth, chasing the stimulation you offer up to the deity beneath you, the one you call Mark. The one you call yours.

Your fingers grip his waistband, slowly lowering the material to the tops of his calves. His hot length meets the cool air with a hiss, his jaw tightening as you offer a languid tug from his base to his tip. A strangled moan fills the air, coating either end of your name. As you slowly pump him within your closed fist, you admire how the morning light always caught the beautiful tone of his arms, the shadows casting over his chest. He is more firm beneath your palm, more concrete, more real. When he casts his gaze toward you finally, finding some room for restraint within your steady pace, he allows himself to admire the gentle knit of your brows, the smirk upturning your lips as his breathing changes when you tighten your fist. He gasps when your eyes fly back up to his, your fist stilled at the base of his abdomen, a silent question in your eyes, a small lick at your lips.

He nods, watching you lower your weight, resting on his tensed thighs. He is breathless, eyes stuck on the plumpness of your lips, your pink tongue sweeping over your bottom one, teeth catching the skin as you run your closed fist over his cock once more, gripping tighter as he mewls.

Words escape him as he offers up devout concentration to his breathing, praying he does not crumble under the warmth of your touch and sweetness in your eyes. His eyes squeeze shut when you thumb his slit, a hard shudder passing through his bones, his hips bucking in time with your closed fist. Mark whines beneath you, the patience he forces is admirable, his whitened knuckles gleam as they blend in with the cloud of sheets. And still you wait, feeling his skin burn as his precum gathers in your palm, squelching in the air.

“Minhyung,” you breathe suddenly, fearful you might shatter the moment. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,’ he chokes out in response. ‘I want you, please.’

You chortle at his sweet plea, capturing the skin of his thigh in a slow kiss as you pump him harder, puckering your lips along the skin at his base as his thrusts start to increase. “Slow down for me,” you whisper. Mark loves what you are doing, reducing him to the shell of himself as you lure his first orgasm of the day from him. He grips your hand then, ready to chase a release he knows you will not give him.

“Please,” he begs softly, skin a flaming pink, lined by the morning light and in a light dew.

Pressing a final, fleeting kiss to his tip he wishes to chase, you release him, drawing his brows together as you slow down before climbing off of his lap. He frowns as you kneel beside the bed before patting his shin, “come ‘ere.”

He bites his tongue, stuffing it in his cheek, “I know you’re teasing me.”

“No,” you laugh, “you’re just impatient,” you coo, watching as he follows your instruction anyway, shuffling to the edge of the bed. You tug his pants down to his ankles before you are hovering over his cock, admiring the gleam as the light reflects off his slick head. He sighs as you do, your breath cooling his angry tip, a twitch running through his cock as you just hover. He almost whines again when you pucker around his slit, the tip of your tongue passing over it ever so slightly.

His sweet moans fill the air, his breaths laboured as you tease him, lapping at his shaft as he toys with your hair, moving it aside so he can see you. He watches you take him, burying his lithe cock between the hot confines of your mouth before sucking around him, humming as he mewls beneath you. He assigns no time to keeping himself together, instead admiring how quickly you render him powerless. How you swirl your tongue around him, pump him as you suckle on his head, swallowing around him. He is completely at your mercy, his cum threatening to pour down your throat as you push on his abdomen, sending his back into the mattress. He huffs as he falls, sighing as his stolen release is remedied by your cool, slick coated finger prodding at his puckered hole.

His moans are unintelligible, garbled mumbles filling the air as you glide your finger into his ass, curling ever so slightly as you pump the digit. “I think I-,” he starts, unsure how, or just unable to finish.

“It’s okay, Mark,” you breathe on his cock, curling your finger harder with every suck you offer his leaking tip. “It’s okay, you can come.”

“Fuck- I’m-” his voice escapes him before he can help it, the mere thought of it forcing you to suck harder. His release tears through him like molten iron, encrusting his every nerve, setting him alight. His cum coats your throat as he bucks into your mouth, your name barely comprehensible as it pours from his lips. It is pleading, prayer like, something you repel. It was Mark who was God like. Mark who was heavenly.

He humps up into your mouth while grinding down on your finger, milking himself, using you, silently forbidding himself to succumb to the oversensitivity of his orgasm. He clings onto the nape of your neck, lodging his tip in the back of your throat while chasing the finger pressed beautifully to his prostate as his mind and body struggle to process the endless limits of his pleasure, though the two can agree it rests in your hands.

When he is somewhat present, Mark quickly recognises your figure lying by his side, your unsoiled hand massaging the expanse of his chest. He gazes up at you with fatigue in his eyes, and a sickly adoration. And something else he thinks he is ready to name.

“Y/N?” Mark calls, still a little breathless, failing to notice the way your eyes catch the time. “I think I-”

“Shit, it’s past nine! Mark, I have to go.”

You disappear down the hall, your presence made known only by a flurry of rushed sounds before you return in the peachy pink shirt you left behind last time. He can’t figure out how it looks better on you every time he sees it. Much like the pink of your lips when circling his cock or the more innocent pink lining your tired eyes. Even the pink hearts that fly around your head as he watches you rush around the room, glancing at him every so often, laughing to find him still watching you. Each time you do, he sees that nothing beats the colour of the red raw love he feels for you. Mark hopes to tell you this some other beautiful morning. For now, he smiles against your lips as you bids him farewell before letting him return to his slumber.

He dreams only of you.

[darkesttimelinestuff]

Summer of Love

My submission (as a sub) for the X-Files Alternate Universe Fanfic Exchange (2021) is now on Ao3!

For @greekowl87

Chapter 1

San Francisco, CA

July 21, 1967

3:08pm

It was a summer of change and upheaval and Agent Mulder stood on the corner of Haight and Ashbury. The hilly San Francisco district had become the center of the counterculture movement, with musicians and artists lining the streets just outside their apartments. The 1950s Beat generation had sought out the quaint and cheap housing of the underpopulated district, and by the 1960s, the anti-establishment movement had grown and morphed with the rise of the Vietnam War.

Mulder stood in awe of the color that surrounded him. Reds and yellows, greens and blues swirled like a life-sized tie-dye shirt. It was a stark contrast to the shades of grey and black that roamed the streets of Washington D.C. Life was teeming, and everyone seemed friendly, or at the very least accepting, of everyone else.

As Mulder admired a young woman skating by on roller skates, her long brown hair blowing behind her, his thoughts were interrupted.

“What are we doing here, Agent Mulder?” Agent Doggett’s gruff voice came from beside him.

Doggett’s patience was wearing thin and they’d only just arrived in the Golden City. He knew damn well they were searching for a murderer.

Mulder had gone to their subterranean office Monday morning, wound up with too much caffeine and not enough food in his stomach. He’d been up half the night studying their potential new case: a man who liked to abduct women and hack them up. Not all the victims’ body parts were found, but Mulder had noticed a clear pattern surrounding the killings, a possible motive that transcended purely killing for pleasure. There was premeditation, and Mulder was certain that all the killings were connected to a single killer.

“Staking out the place,” Mulder replied, his eyes searching up and down the sidewalk for a potential starting place. All the bodies had been found in the Haight-Ashbury District, likely by someone familiar with the area.

“The entire neighborhood?”

“Fine,” Mulder relented, “we’ll get a feel for the area. Let’s see what connections we can make. You never know where one person might lead us.”

The sun beat down on the suit-clad agents and Doggett took a long sip of his coffee, turning his head to a mob of people crossing the street together. “We stick out like a sore thumb.”

Doggett had reluctantly agreed to fly out west with Mulder to investigate the mass murders - four women so far - and hopefully apprehend the sick bastard leaving dead hippies carefully posed near dumpsters and in back alleys. Mulder was grateful for the help and the backup.

“It’s all happening here,” Mulder had insisted, arms spread, gesturing to the cityscape before them. “Every single one of those bodies was left within a quarter mile radius on this cross street. He lives here. He picks these women at rallies or in bars, courts them, earns their trust, and then takes them back to his house to seduce and then kill them. Of that, I am certain.”

“And we’re sure they weren’t raped?” Doggett asked.

Shaking his head, Mulder replied, “There is no indication of rape from the evidence. The women had sex willingly. It’s only after the seduction and intercourse that the women were murdered.”

“Alright, Mulder,” Doggett said, “but the one thing I don’t understand is why these women are all dolled up. Too much makeup for the so-called hippies.”

“I’m not sure why yet. Something in the way this sicko operates, playing out fantasies maybe.”

“I sure hope you’re right about this, Mulder.”

“Me too,” Mulder replied, a stone sitting heavy in his gut at the thought of all the cut-up bodies.

Mulder had presented the senior agent with plane tickets and that is how they had ended up in San Francisco chasing down a murderer at the height of the Summer of Love.

Both men hoped Mulder’s hunch would lead them to their suspect and not on some wild hippie chase.

“There.” Mulder said, pointing in the direction where a large group of people, mostly hippies, were making their way to a gathering. Cheers erupted as a guitar strummed. “Looks like we found ourselves at a peace rally.”

Doggett acknowledged this with a curt nod and the two men made their way across the street, weaving their way around people, to the very center of the crowd. A shirtless man with stringy hair played guitar, singing about peace, love, and acceptance.

The song ended and the man tucked a long strand of hair behind his ear.

“Let’s all have a moment of silence for our fallen heroes,” he said, bowing his head.

“This is so damn touching,” Doggett sarcastically muttered to Mulder, who could not suppress a grimace. These young kids had lost fathers and brothers, and even sisters, to the war. But Doggett was not wrong. Optimistic crowds could sing about peace, but little would improve without extreme policy change. The United States was too invested in the war, had too much at stake.

The crowd collectively bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Some placed their hands over their hearts; a quiet fell upon the street.

“Do you see any possible suspicious people?” Mulder whispered.

He and Doggett took the opportunity to scan up and down the street. People had gathered not just along the sidewalk, but spilled into the street, blocking the road. No one seemed to mind, though, and the peace rally continued to grow in size.

Through the sea of bent heads, a woman caught Mulder’s eye. She was rather small - he would not have noticed her had it not been for the bent heads  - with a halo of red hair among the brown and blonde. But that wasn’t what stood out to him. Those blue eyes, clear as a summer’s day, were not closed in a silent prayer but looking right at him. She ducked her head when she noticed him.

“Thank you,” the singer broke through the silence.“That was truly groovy. I felt all of your love coursing through me. I’m sure that our fallen brothers felt it too.”

“Let’s get the hell outta here,” Doggett said. “We’re not gonna find him now. We’re looking for a hippie in a haystack.”

The crowd swayed in unison as music resumed playing, and the two agents, frustrated that their suspect didn’t jump up and present himself, pushed their way through the masses. As they neared the end of the mess of people, an older, long-haired, scraggly man grabbed Mulder’s arm.

“The end is nigh! You have to believe!” he yelled in the agent’s face.

“I want to believe,” Mulder returned, not unkindly, while attempting to pull his arm away. The man was clearly down on his luck.

But the vagrant pulled Mulder in closer. He smelled of booze and body odor.

“NO!” he howled. “Trust no one!” Then turning to the crowd, he yelled, “Look at this one! He’s one of them! He’s the Man!”

The two agents felt the eyes of all the crowd turn and stare at them as they were singled out. Some booed and hissed at them.

But from the throng came a voice over the microphone announcing, “Friends! Brothers and sisters! ALL are welcome.” People whooped and hollered back, others clapped at the call for acceptance.

Mulder tried harder to extricate himself. The bearded man had surprising strength and put up quite a fight, resulting in a tug of war with Mulder’s arm. Eventually, Doggett came to the rescue, gripping the assailant’s fingers and prying them off of his partner’s arm. Backward inertia from the opposing pulls forced Mulder to suddenly fall onto some of the rally attendees.

High-pitched screams came from beneath him. Mulder struggled awkwardly as he realized at least a couple of women had broken his fall. He winced as his head collided with something and very suddenly realized that Doggett’s firm grip pulled him to his feet. He immediately turned to offer his sincerest apologies. They had not intended to call attention to themselves so publicly.

As Mulder brushed himself off, he recognized the face of one of the women - the redhead with the piercing eyes. They were even more magnificent up close and he momentarily lost the ability to form words at his surprise, instead offering his hand, which she accepted.

Meanwhile, Doggett had offered the two other women - a tall brunette with a sharp face, and a lovely redhead with long wavy hair and kind eyes - his help, ensuring everyone’s safety and well being.

“Our apologies, everyone,” offered Doggett. “My friend here has a knack for getting himself into trouble. I hope nobody is hurt.”

“Yes, sorry,” Mulder chimed in, remembering his manners, his eyes glued to the smaller of the redheads.

She held out her hand to him and gave him a genuinely warm smile. “I’m Dana Scully.”

@today-in-fic

[pyroclaststan]

“Am I ever gonna get your name?” Ricardo asks, sunset lit like amber against his bronzed brown skin, reminiscent of a painting you’ve seen somewhere by someone who will never catch the colours vividly enough by comparison to what’s before you.

A hard swallow follows that thought—the movement most likely caught with your mask raised as it is. The perspiring rim of your beer sends beads of water that cut paths against the grime that has settled onto your lips and chin.

You are, as always, thinking too much.

Hearing and feeling and seeing too much. Like the burgundy blush across the cheeks of a man who’s only heat and fevers have come from a hard day’s heroics, port infections, and the lipsticks of tabloid flings.

You’re still doing it.

“I know: I ask too much, too often,” he continues in a softer tone, “but I’d really, really like to know. You’ve gotta be someone other than ‘Sidestep.’ Who’s under the mask?”

It’s almost an aside with the way his voice goes far too soft, as if the question were more of a prayer to some distant deity listening far too closely to the business of mortal men. He stumbles on, uncharacteristically hesitant enough for you to know he’s sincere: he’s trying his best to patient when he’s only ever been about being on the move. Charge changing pace?

He’s speaking like you do. Less stutter though.

You tilt the bottle upwards and let the bitter hops wash down panic that threatens to lodge itself in your throat and choke you. It seems that beneath the bile and nerves, it’s actually words holding themselves hostage in your mouth. A taste far more bitter than anything Ortega has ever brought you to drink.

But isn’t he right? You have to be someone at the end of it all. You have to be someone right now: no more mimicking and miming and piecemealing from the minds you pick like carrion to get through the day. You have to be you, whoever that’s going to be.

You swish once, then twice, letting the mouthful swirl around your brain as you fish for answers with your tongue. A swallow of decision.

It’s an unintentionally hard sigh that slips through your lips. You will regret this: not because of him, but because you will not live up to the humanity a name will give you. Or so you think.

You do think too much.

“Kingsley.” The word—the name—comes too easily and unbidden to your mouth and sits too heavily in the air.

That’s probably a foolish name, a suspicious name... definitely a name meaning little-to-nothing for someone self-made. Now that you’re actually thinking, it probably sounds as fake as your presence in his life, and your dread is palpable as he mouths it, tasting the authenticity of it. Perhaps setting it against the memories he has of you that he has yet to admit to having, or against some cover name he’d heard you called back when you were another rough soul on the streets.

“Kingsley,” he repeats with an air of breathlessness, of reverence, of relevance you’ve never thought yourself owed nor deserving of.

It’s a single word, your word—your name—yet it knocks the breath from you. Feels right, despite it all. And more so, it feels safe on his tongue, locked away behind his lips or the brilliant grin he shines your way, somehow eclipsing the blinding glow of the Los Diablos sun.

You stop thinking so much, probably still too much, but the thoughts aren’t threatening in the way they were earlier. The hum from Ortega’s mind, mods, and mouth is grounding in a way you hadn’t expected of the electric hero. Everything is duller yet more crisp in the same moment, buzzing almost. Not as tense as before.

Now is your focus on the cool glass in your hands, moistening your glove’s fabric and resting in your palm like relief.

Now is the almost musical tune to the way he whispers your name over and over under his breath as if trying to find the perfect tone to it, accompanied by the rhythm your dangling leg taps away at against the side of the roof.

You’ve never sat this still since your life started.

But now is filled with the static that builds in the air, his feelings reflecting in his mods that make his hands almost crackle with electricity—he didn’t protect his exposed palm ports from his wet bottle.

You’re not sure if the charge in the air is that alone, but you’ve no intention to even mention that.

A soft chuckle reverberates in his throat and despite any kind of telepathic connection due to the storm cloud of his mind, you could swear you almost feel it in your own, too. A curious thing from a mind you’ll never know; thoughts and jokes and ideas that pass by you whether you know it or not. Privacy, secrecy. Exciting, terrifying.

He glances your way as you take another sip, then turns a little more, striking a sort of pose as he bends his knee and leans his arm against it, resting his head against his hand. Nothing good will come from his buzz. The grin on his face has replaced his previous expression from wonder to down-right mischief.

“So,” he drawls along, sing-songy, “Will I ever get a last name too?”

“Good night, Ricardo Ortega,” you say with finality, but not without a tone of amusement. Also rubbing it in a little, you can’t resist being an ass in the face of his charms sometimes.

Charms? No no no, his attempts to be charming.

On that note, you finish the rest of your drink quicker than necessary, setting the bottle between the two of you just a little too hard. You stand, keeping a careful balance on at the roof’s ledge, unfurling your limbs to your full height with a stretch and shaking out the numbness and tingles from the way you ball yourself up.

“See you, uh… see you in the next fight.”

Ricardo looks up at you, almost gilded—certainly golden; you’ll never visit another museum again. After his presence, you know they’ll never do beauty any justice. None of those paintings or artefacts would alight the same flame in you as they used to: they don’t carry the same impact as an evening on a Los Diablo rooftop. You suppose that means something, but you’ve yet to figure it out. Or maybe you’re just ignoring it, equally likely.

Something’s changed you think.

Ortega is still there, still watching you with some expression you’ve avoided too much to know.

“Looking forward to it… Kingsley,” he tries out, smiling, satisfied. You could swear his face grew a little brighter.

And with that, you’re off, running and vaulting across the gaps of the buildings, moving freely up and down the heights of roofs and fire escapes and whatever else you can find purchase on. Free running in an attempt to outpace whatever it is that nips on your heels and churns in your stomach.

Kingsley. You let out a breathless chuckle, not entirely devoid of mirth but a little exasperated with how you gave in to him. Again. You’re stuck with that one now.

Ricardo sits there, staying behind, watching you go, wondering what kind of place you rest in when he’s not attached to your hip or settled against your back. He wonders what kind of people take care of you or watch your back in his absence. He hopes you don’t have to do it all alone.

He also knows you’d prefer it if you did, but it just sounds lonely. You feel lonely. Like you could use someone who won’t just let you push them away.

He won’t let go that easily, not when he sees how soft and how warm you can be underneath it all.

He thinks he’d like to meet the real you, underneath it all.

“Kingsley.”

The taste of your name sits so sweet against his lips that it clashes against the beer on his tongue: he couldn’t remember having purchased something so bitter. Something with so much bite.

Right. It had reminded him of you. He’d pick a different one next time.

With your absence the night feels like it’s getting colder, faster—like the drinks are going flat and the air tasting stale. Probably just the tiredness catching up to him: he sees a lot more action-packed days when his partner is cracking skulls alongside him. Partner. He’s got to admit, it’s nice to have someone outside the team watching his back—even a vigilante—when you’re Marshal. It’s not a paycheck, or a duty, it’s choice you made.

Just like you giving him your name. You could’ve said no: you’re never shy about doing so. It wasn’t a nickname, a shortened version, a riddle. Just you.

His cheeks and stomach are both a little warmer at that, and he stands up to shake it all off and get moving. The last hour had been more eventful than any fight they’d picked today. Sure, it wasn’t a whole lot of conversation, with Sidestep—Kingsley—it never was, but it had felt like more was said than ever before.

It feels like something has shifted.

Probably just the balance between the two of you, now that he’s finally receiving knowledge about you in return. Not that he’s minded giving more than you have: the best things take the most work, offer the most challenge. Except you’re not work.

He’s thinking too much—he does that, he’s told.

So he lets his mind wander. Tracing back to past moments, little confessions, brief gestures, and all the small things that mean more with Kingsley than anyone else on Earth.

“Too much,” he chuckles internally, but unwilling to stop.

Something’s shifting.