#thee isolation do be eating away

[carrotpiss]

Hm

[cuprohastes]

Lunch In Space (Part 4)

There is an old Human tradition. We keep it alive to this day. When things are Very Bad(tm), for example, your shuttle is about to perform a high-velocity Lithobraking Manouver, you invoke the Ancient Words of the Ancestors. Usually "Oh, sh*t".

I, as I'm sure you're now aware, am culturally sensitive, and cultured, so when chunks of Oscar started becoming Free Range and my life support lit up red, and Oscar's little Atrix-face started doing some very worried little colour combos, I took solace in this hallowed and time-honoured tradition and went with "Ru-ROH".

Now you may be thinking, gee, having your life support blow out while flying around the backside of a planet while everyone is too busy to come to pick you up is bad.

I mean, sure. It literally is.

But what doesn't kill you instantly gives you the opportunity for a really slow, horrible death so you can appreciate it so much more.

I took the life support unit off.

Counter-intuitive, but there you go. I jsut clipped one of my lanyards to the bottom attach point and released all the clips.

All the connectors that move all my various essential fluids and gasses are on failsafe connectors. They close automatically because it'd be super dumb if they didn't.

So now I'm just using passive insulation and things are going to get very hot very soon.

I turned the Life Support unit over and found a... Space Squid. 

I mean that's what it looked like. This conical, bullet-shaped shell,  with tiny little thruster vents, and then on the bottom of the cone, a bunch of little tentacles, sensor windows and what looks like miniature tools.

At first, all I saw was the shell so I grabbed it and yanked it out. I screamed jsut the tiniest amount when it wiggled its tentacles at me, but then it folded up and glared at me, and tried to puff away. 

My mighty human fingers of course were more than a match for this.

My mighty human Brain took a few more seconds to catch up because Oscar wasn't loaded with enough coffee for peak human cognition and I did a comical flail and found two more of the little suckers trying to eat through Oscar's skin.

"I Yeet Thee!" I told them and yanked them off and threw them in the direction of away.

The first little guy was with me but still sulking. I think it was out of gas, to be honest.

So that leaves me inside Oscar, who's rapidly becoming a sauna.

Luckily, I am just covered in tools, patches, and other Fix-things stuff so I started checking the life support pack.

Not good. Squiddy had already chewed some quite important stuff - the valves all closed, but now there's no way to re-circulate a lot of the air supply.

A bit about life support. It's not just a couple of bottles of air mix.

There are coolants, thruster gasses that you just top up while you work, water, which is circulated through Oscar's inner lining, the uh, Yellow and Brown lines, and then the Scrubber which is kind of a back-up and also means you can go longer without an umbilical, or without large air tanks. It also prevents the inside of Oscar from filling up with condensation.

So anyway, the thruster tank and the air tank were basically there but unusable.

Two of four of the batteries were cracked. They got isolated by the technical process of just pulling them out. They're not supposed to be dangerous, but why take the risk?

Oscar was a nice toasty 40ºc by the time I got the life support back on and I almost cried when the cooling started to pull out all that heat.

And then I almost sobbed because Oscar told me I had three and a half hours until station rendezvous and approximately two hours and twenty minutes of life support.

So I shut almost everything down. Inspection lights, most of the computing, interior displays, and after one last use, the uh waste processing.

That got me an extra 40 minutes of power. What else?

Well duh.

My power tools have bi-directional charging. I plugged them into my utility ports and hey OK, now I was only 5 minutes shy. OK.

So what else?

The Scrubber - It's running out of... scrub-ability.

There's a thing you can do that you should never, ever do, because it's suicidally stupid and bad. Honestly, I've always wanted to try it.

I turned the temp down past freezing and told the auto-doc to go to Oetzie mode. 

Now, this isn't an official process. It's one of the macros I've developed in bored moments - I submitted it to a couple of trade journals, both of whom told me I was a dangerous lunatic.

So I asked the Most Dangerous Human.

Miranda is a mutant. She burns 4000Kcal a day sitting still. Her IQ is supposedly about double or more than a normal Genius. She hates her life. Literally everyone in her species is kind of sad and bumbling and unable to grasp concepts she finds simple.

She lacks intellectual stimulation, and just craves novelty or anything that might make her feel for a moment, that she can be part of normal life.

When I met her she was running a comic book store. 

She's considered the most dangerous living human because nobody can figure out if she's going to take a nap, then re-write the rules of linguistics, develop an AI that will take over the Human race or stub her toes and decide to eradicate all living things in a Light Millenium.

As someone who's spent an afternoon shovelling food into her and listening to her do the most hilarious routine on why Comic Books should be weaponised, I can tell you that she has no more ill will toward anyone who doesn't write Justice Interplanetary than the common dog owner has for their pupper.

But Stever Aronnomis and Gixy Lurraine? Your days are numbered. Especially after Issue 17.

Anyway, Mir-Mir took about eight hours and re-wrote the Oetzie protocol, and got published in about 19 interdisciplinary publications. She was nice enough to credit me with the original work, and that got me a job and a weekly visit from the People In Black to check that I'm not also a supervillain or plotting to steal people's essential fluids to make Tsin sports drinks.

Anyway.

Oetzie mode gives you near-fatal hypothermia. It's not quite suspended animation but it's close as you can get while maintaining a really good chance of waking back up.

All I had to do was program a really simple little macro that would ping for immediate assistance and flag the file with re-animation instructions.

Already I was getting chilled. My teeth were chattering and I was trying to relax and jsut lket it happen. My littel budd the spac squid was stuill floting her. gabe it one o th deb bat  klklklkkkkkkkkkk

Ow.

Seriously. I was feeling very disoriented. Everything was too bright and I felt very woozy and my jaw ached, but apart from that, the pins and needles, the way all my clothes felt like broken glass and the uncontrollable shivering, I felt surprisingly not dead.

Also not in Oscar.

I was having trouble focusing my eyes, but hearing I could manage.

Two Tsin were discussing eating me.

Voice One: "Well he's dead. I say we just ask. You know Humans - it's either 'no, you can't because we have a whole bunch of traditions and sacred laws that cannot be broken' or 'haha yeah that's what they'd want' and then they ask you if you want some sauce."

Voice Two: "Yeah but... what if the othre humans get upset that we asked? What if they think we killed this one to get the meat?"

Voice one: "They were in an un-powered EVA suit with no air, and the life support running colder than the Caffeteria Freezer. I don't care what stupid plan they had, not even a Human can survive that."

This is it. The moment that I have been living for all these years. You always hope one day you get the chance, and now finally it's my time to shine!

I sat up and said "Do you two mind? I'm trying to get some sleep."

Their horrified screams were like a warm bath. Ahhhh!

[yokefellows]

You Can Have A Clean Heart and Renewed Mind

Today’s Saying

Before we can hope to have a life of purity, we must have a clean thought life.

Today’s Scripture

“For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he: Eat and drink, saith he to Thee; but his heart is not with Thee.” Proverbs 23:7

Today’s Sermonette

A teacher asked a little boy to finish this proverb: “Cleanliness is next to...” And he said, “Cleanliness is next to impossible.” Well, friend that little boy wasn’t that far wrong, was he?

It’s amazing what people do to try and purify themselves – fast, pray, kneel, walk, self-flagellate, hibernate, isolate.

But sadly, they discover that human efforts aren’t the pathway to purity because they keep doing what Zig Ziglar calls “stinkin‘ thinkin‘.”

Before we can hope to have a life of purity, we must have a clean thought life.

God works from the inside out. He knows that you cannot purify the water by painting the pump.

When was the last time you memorized a verse of Scripture? It’s easier to stay away from “stinkin’ thinkin’” when your mind is focused on the Word of God.

This is a good time to memorise a passage, Psalm 51:10-13: “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from Thy presence, and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of Thy salvation and uphold me with Thy free Spirit. Then will I teach transgressors Thy ways, and sinners shall be converted unto Thee.”

Start working on memorizing this passage today.

Today’s Supplication

Father, keep reminding me that before one can hope to have a life of purity, one must have a clean thought life. Because You work from the inside out. Amen!

[princess-pill-enjoyer]

i don't get it. im in a position where i can make so much progress. ive had interviews damn near every day this week. I go to therapy now. i dont do pills. i eat. i try to talk out what im feeling more. but its just not enough. theres STILL something there and im edging closer to it. i can feel it. im on the brink of something horrible. i dont know what's going to happen once i reach that point. im scared of what'll happen. but it feels like once it comes i wont be able to hold back. i genuinely dont know how i did this before

being so busy.. i think it was a buffer. i never felt involved in my feelings really. id just ignore them and hide them away. in one hand, im glad i am where i am. the highs i feel feel so different from back then. ive never felt satisfaction like i do now. some times anyway. but the lows STING. i can really simmer on them now. it gives the gnawing insecurities Ive been feeling a meaning. a place in me that i have to accept. i have to actively accommodate for it all now. or ill implode

every day feels like a gamble. i cant express how little i want to do/be here. i dont care about any of this fr. i care about hurting people. its paralyzing. Ive always been such a people pleaser and i cant let it go. I will minimize everything until i absolutely cant anymore. and atp i feel so backed into a corner. my only two options seem to be either blow up and forced somewhere until i can find the drive to do something other than killing myself... ooor... kill myself. i swear that wasnt on purpose lmfao. but seriously. i mean what are the other options? i can barely push myself to do anything anymore. i dont care to. id isolate from everyone if they didnt reach out so often. well that and they notice now. ive ghosted everyone too many times they all know to just act sad so ill come back T^T

i get really tempted to tell my best friend about all this. i feel like i talk too much about myself nowadays. or talk too little or too boringly on others. but then i reread ts i used to say back/how i used to say it and i think ? i prefer us now ??

HA nah. im sure its the insecurity talking. i really do love her. she is the one and only i know will stick around no matter what. no matter how boring or how angry i get she does not hate my guts. i wish i didnt like her so much tbh. it makes me angry how angry i get with her sometimes. i cant help myself when i notice something off. shes the one person i can openly express my frustrations without consequence. but i take it too far cause of it. ive had no experience with that sorta shit. i try to be better to her cause of it. i think its only fair. the junk ive put her through this last year.. the rage ive thrown at her. thee inattentiveness. selfish. ive been too focused on making myself feel better that ive let her sting because of it. i want to make it up tenfold. she deserves more. and if i cant have her in the way i want her, i will do my best in whatever place she wants me in instead. for now, thats been a more casual friendship. she doesnt talk to me as much about her feelings. her heart is really broken about her ex. as much as i dont understand what she sees in her i know that she needs her time to bounce back. i think shes getting it out of her new person. she talks about how annoying she finds her and how she disrespects her boundaries a lot. they broke up almost immediately. but she stuck around because she felt obligated to and now i think theyre building something better. hopefully. i dont meddle as much now. i dont want to hear it + prying shit from her is NOT worth the effort. when shes ready, shes so eloquent. i love listening to her talk. even when its about nothing

im gonna stop babbling about her now. i wish i wasnt so close with her i swear i make myself disgustingly obvious.. anyway. i bring up all that to say, her battery is dead. i want her to focus on making herself feel better for now. she needs to stop overextending herself so damn much. i wont let myself be another burden for her to bear. though with such a giant rush of new feelings and a single person that i know loves me no matter what.. its kinda hard

i wish that i could talk through everything with her. if only it were that easy.

i think im going to relapse not gonna lie. it makes no sense not to. ig for my health but aside from that? itll help me feel more careless. i wont need to cut myself, i wont need to blow up, i wont need to think anymore. i can just focus on acting sober annnd holding down a job. much easier than holding back whatever this is now. if this could come out of me without leaving a broken mess, i would. but if i ever told anyone my true feelings id make them sad. i need to lash out to gain the momentum to bring it up.

im gonna stop writing now. i feel like ill go on forever again.. its just been tangent after tangent

[rodeoxqueen]

O Tempter, O The Sea

V/Reader 

Summary: You cry out for the sea, yet you do not expect an answer back. 

(The Siren!V story that is way too poorly fleshed out. Please take it with a grain of sea salt, I was listening to Dissolve Me by Alt-J.) 

Warnings: Implicit Sexual Content, Minors Not Allowed, Depression, Loneliness, Gender-Neutral Reader, Drowning

The Lighthouse was always there. Empty, worn, and cold. 

The locals didn’t know what to do with you, this newcomer with heavy eyes and a heavier heart. Whatever had been poisoning you, had landed you in this seaside village in need of isolation. 

It wasn’t even summer, the time for a few tourists to embrace each other and swim by the warm shore. No, you had come during the frigid autumn, where not even the birds touched the waves. 

So with the keys to a beach house, more like a shack, that you were allowed to board, you took to the cold beach. 

The lighthouse was always there. This phallic and ancient building stood alone and without light. 

You decided to ditch the cold sanded shores and walked barefoot to the lighthouse. 

When you rested your head against the metal wall, it was as if no heat was taken from your skin. As if you were devoid of it. The door easily opened, the dust rising with each step you took on the old floors. 

And wallowing in your sadness, you decided to partake in the hospitality of the lighthouse. Or the lack of. 

You’d watch the shores as dark water clashed with unfearing rocks, both antagonists to the sea ships. The sea gulls paid you no mind, grateful for the bits of food you would give them. You’d feed them until you had nothing for yourself. 

You didn’t eat much these days. You didn’t do a lot these days. It was this fogginess in your temple. As if your problems weighed heavily enough, you still felt numb to it after a fair amount of time. 

You were lost, dwelling and hoping you could be found by a light that was long broken. 

So one night, you yourself had broke. A river dam overtook by the tsunami. Clad only in your sleepwear, you watched as the waves crashed against each other, the moon and her children the only witness besides yourself. 

And with this audience, had you decided to join in. 

You cried out, from loneliness and heartbreak. Falling through the sands of time and shaken to your being, your shout into the void rattled the tears off your cheeks. You howled with the roaring waves. 

This duality of human sorrow, this emptiness, and this heady weight upon your throat, solid yet invisible fingers dragging down your soul. 

You sobbed and you cried. And then you did it again. Ringing through the waters, a tale of mortal emotion vibrated through the sea. 

You demanded your pain to be felt, these sensations unbecoming of a normal being. 

The waves had long stilled, and you had long reached your crescendo. And so your tears were taken by the sea as a sacrifice, humbly carried away.  

Something was in the water, eyes green like the plants he ran his hands through, listening to the call. His lips opened and he crooned very softly his own reply. 

And so it began. 

The dreams. The dreams of the water, embracing you and drowning you in its presence.

The dreams in which you would walk through the bottom of the watery green trenches, looking for something. Something you seemed to realize and then forget. So quick to leave, the answer stolen like your own breath from the thieving waters. 

The dream of a large dark-feathered seagull. Or was it a seagull? Peering into your soul as it haughtily cawed and flew away in the lightning storm. Electricity striking you awake. 

The dreams of a gentle hum that belonged somewhere in the sea. Beyond, below, above, or nearby.

The dreams in which you’d open your eyes to see you were in the top room of the lighthouse, your scarce belongings next to you. 

And with the dreams, had led to a longing for something that was not of you. 

With each night, you could hear the sea’s song. A call between the drumming beats of the rain. And had your yearning amounted to other things. 

Dreams in which a foreign being touched you where you had hesitated yourself. Hair floating in front of your face with kelp blinding you, careful and devoted hands spread you open in the company of the sea. 

Dreams in which you’d wake and frantically bring upon those carnal pleasures in your bleary awakening, fingers desperate to recreate the touch of another. 

Often were you found staring off into the sea, waiting, waiting to hear that evening hum. 

And so one night, you found more than just the sounds of the sea. You dreamt of green eyes and dark hair and pale skin covered in inky crescents. Half-lidded gaze above the water, someone had been beckoning all these days and nights.

Beckoning for you. 

The sea was a hellstorm the next few days as if a scandal brought the waters to vicious tirades. It ate the wooden boats and smashed the piers to nothing but woodchips. 

With every crash, it had screamed for you to come down from the lighthouse. And so you did. 

You watched as the waters calmed when you stepped in. It was so cold, and yet seafoam came to pool about your ankles like a caress. 

For once, you allowed yourself to fulfill a midnight prophecy. 

You let go of your weakening breath from your begging lungs, walking through the underwater darkness. 

In this time, your heart rattled its dying beats, cursing your insanity and your insatiability with being a person. So insatiable, you chased the waters for something. Something to feel again. 

You were nearly unconscious when the feeling of firm hands cupping your jaw brought you back. 

Cold but soft lips pressed against your own, and a sigh breathed life into you. 

You opened your eyes. 

And embracing you, had an enraptured Siren given you the Sea’s Mercy. A scaled tail that shined like the waves you admired for ages, flickered and wrapped around you. Finally tethering you in a way that you had been praying for. 

 Black hair lifted and mussed by his omnipresent mother’s hands, his serious expression melted away to a smoldering smile. 

And with those plush lips had he muttered, 

Hie thee home Little Wanderer. 

You slowly embraced him and kissed him once more, finding you no longer needed to part for air. 

The Lighthouse was always there. Empty, worn, and cold. 

And you were never to be seen again. You had left your shoes to the sands and your mortal toils in the air you no longer breathed. 

And every night since then, the locals hear the song of The Tempter and The Sea.

A lonely cry and crooning echo finding each other, becoming the sound the sea makes deep in the North, a moon-white tail following the onyx’s through the endless void. 

[im-actually-ok]

Fangs

Chapter four

First, Previous, Next

Masterlist

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Ships: Platonic DLAMPR, platonic Logince

Word Count: 1140

Genre: Not really angst, kinda just fluffish and plot development???

Warnings: Fangs, very slight body horror(the fangs), food, eating, spying (i think that’s it but if i missed anything please let me know so i can add it, thank you!!!)

------

Logan awoke the next morning to a knock on his door and he jumped slightly only to realize he had fallen asleep curled up on the floor. Oops. He simply rubbed his eyes and moved to the door, pressing his forehead against the wood. “Yeth?”

“Hey, Lo, I’m back,” Roman said, a hand resting on the door.

“Good morning, Roman,” he said, blinking sleepily as he moved to sit on the floor, yawning.

“Morning, I- uh.. I’m not sure what’s going on with you but I want to help so, I wasn’t sure about what to get but I stocked the fridge with like, uh, bacon and steak and just kinda meat stuff? Is that- uh- I don’t know, sorry,” Roman said awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Oh,” Logan said simply, huh, “um, thank you, Roman… I really appreciate that..”

Roman perked up a little, “you do?” he asked with a smile, happy he could help.

“Yeth, I do,” he said with a smile, “You… you really did not have to though, I do not want the otherth to quethtion…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I took care of it,” Roman said, resting his hands on his hips with a very proud of himself smile.

“You took care of it?”

“Yeah! I also have a pet now so that's cool,” he said with a grin, moving and sitting on the floor by the door.

“Oh, do you think it is withe to lie theeing as Janus has the ability to thenthe said falthehoods?”

“Well I only lied once, and now it’s not a lie! So now I’m telling the truth because I really am feeding my pet,” he said happily.

“Erm, if you’re thure it is alright,” he said with a small nod even though Roman couldn’t see it.

“Trust me, Microsoft Nerd,” He said, tapping his knuckles absentmindedly on the wood in front of him.

“Alright, I trutht you.”

-------

Logan… wasn’t finding any solutions. He tried everything but they wouldn’t go away. But things were getting better, Roman came and visited him in the mornings and before bed and brought him dinner which honestly was much better than the self isolation and not eating anything, though the all meat diet… was not ideal, it was better than nothing.

Logan was currently working on a new, stronger metal file at his desk, hunched over in a sort of ‘you’ll regret sitting in this position later’ position, bouncing a leg nervously below the desk. His hair fell down into his eyes and he brushed it aside before it fell right back into his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back but it fell right back into place and he huffed, annoyed with the uncooperative mop of brown hair.

He pushed away from his desk and stood, walking to the bathroom and pushing open the door. He stepped in and turned, slightly startled by what he saw in the mirror, “What the hell???”

He found his hair had grown a substantial amount, much faster than it should have in simply a week, almost to his shoulders but not quite. He ran a hand through the mess atop his head and groaned, “Great. Thith is jutht what I needed,” he grumbled sarcastically to himself. Whatever was happening to him was… unnatural to say the least. Whatever. His hair could wait, he had more important things to worry about.

He rummaged through the bathroom cabinet until he found a hair tie, tying the hair back in a small ponytail and returning to his desk. At least it wouldn’t fall in his face anymore.

--------

Roman came up a little late that afternoon, he had been helping Thomas brainstorm new video ideas and they had gone a little late, it was almost 9:00 now. But nonetheless he went down to the kitchen and made up dinner for Logan like he had been doing every night.

“Hey, Ro,” Pat said with a smile as he entered the kitchen, “getting dinner for that little cutie of yours?”

“Yup,” he replied with a smile, not exactly a lie because they could all agree that when he’s not upset, Logan is pretty cute, “Just making it up before I head up to bed,”

Patton smiled and nodded a little bit, “That’s nice, but it’s kind of late, isn’t it? You should get her on a feeding schedule, and I can always pop in and feed her if you get busy again,” Patton offered with a smile.

Gah, play it cool, Roman, “Uh, no, that’s alright, Pat, I got it, you don’t need to worry about it,” he said with a grin, taking the now cooked meat and putting it on a plate and before Patton could answer Roman was already out of the kitchen and up the stairs, “Night, Padre, talk to you tomorrow!” He called as he went upstairs.

“Oh- uh- night, Ro…” Patton said, tilting his head in confusion. He seemed… odd… Maybe Pat should just go check on him…

Roman got up the stairs and promptly knocked on Logan’s door and he was met by a small, “Ro?”

“Hey, Lo, sorry, I know it’s late, Thomas and I got carried away brainstorming,” he said with a small apologetic smile even though Logan couldn’t see it.

“That’th ok, I do not mind, you are not obligated to do thith in any way anywayth,” he shrugged.

“Hey, listen, I am obligated to do this because I’m your friend. I’m always gonna be here to help you,” he said with a small smile.

“Yeah……” Logan said softly and, gosh, he couldn’t believe he was considering this but he was and he said, “Hey, Roman?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you… want to come in?” He asked softly, “You’re probably tired and want to go to thleep but it was just a thought I was jutht-”

“Yeah! Of course I want to come in- Erm- if you’re comfortable with that,” Roman replied with a smile. Logan trusts him oh wow he trusts him.

Logan took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping out behind it so Roman couldn’t see him yet.

Roman smiled and stepped inside.

Patton felt bad about this, he really did, but he was a dad and he was worried about his child so… he followed him up the stairs and hid. He watched Roman walk down the hall towards his room but… he stopped? In front of Logan’s room? Oh gosh they’re talking??? Oh god Logan’s room?! With the plate of meat…? What is going on? Why wouldn’t Roman tell him about something like this?? How long has he been talking with Logan??

Patton took a deep breath and once Roman was in Logan’s room Patton ascended the stairs and quickly went to his room… gosh. What was he gonna do?!

------

Chapter four you guys!!! This is exciting, I’m just having a good time writing this over here XD

Fang Au Tags:

@did-he-just-hiss-at-me @aegis-the-ace @occasional-fander @thefivecalls

[moonlightdreamzz]

Send Off :: Jung Jaehyun

Request: “Could you write a Jaehyun x black reader where it’s a rainy day before he has to leave for a while? We can literally do anything I just need it in my life. It doesn’t have to be super long either I’m sure you’re busy.”

A/N: I live for this content. YES! 🤩

Whew, you hated rain. I mean how could anyone enjoy something that was so overly loud, made you uncomfortably wet, and was guaranteed to get you sick in some way, shape, or form.

You had made so many plans today. Frozen yogurt, a little pre-tour shopping extravaganza, and to end it all, a nice dinner; candlelit to be exact, where you and your boyfriend could relish in all the memories you had made this past year. Well—soon to be year. Although there was no real humor in such a sad case, you always jested and celebrated like it was your anniversary before he had to leave for awhile. Otherwise you would miss it.

So why today, out of all days, did the sky have to crack open? Seriously, you couldn’t believe the way the sky taunted you, laughing at the fact that it ruined your plans.

Everything was currently annoying you. Your coffee brown bonnet that shielded your protective hairstyle from getting frizzy too fast, seemed like it was creating isolation from you and your pillow. The plaid pajamas that you were gifted many Christmas’ ago? Made your legs itch to the extreme, so much so, that you slipped them off and threw them to the other side of the room. You wanted to go back to sleep in hopes that when you woke up, the sun would be shining, but you couldn’t stop tossing and turning.

“It’s going to be like this all day; dark and gloomy.” A raspy voice whispered, placing his large hand on your soft belly, giving it a smooth rub.

Jaehyun was always a mind reader when it came to you. In this moment, you probably weren’t all that difficult to read, but still, you were never less than impressed with his abilities.

“Are you serious?” Your body unconsciously curled up as if you were an child. This only made him want to hold you tighter, as he was now making sure your back was directly on his chest, and his breath could make your ear tingle.

“Unfortunately. Well, unfortunately for you should I say.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you had plans for us today. Probably too many.” He chuckled, even though you could sense he still hadn’t even opened his eyes. You just knew his eyelids were still a pinkish color, resembling the boyish feeling he felt whenever you touched him, but actually meaning he had slept well.

“I just wanted to make sure you had fun.” Your voice began to quiet down as you continued, “We’re not going to be together on our one year anniversary, and this is going to be the longest we’ll be apart. I’m just...I’m not fucking with it, dawg.”

“Dawg?”

“Yes, dawg.” You breathed out, getting a light chuckle out of his chest.

“Well, dawg, maybe I can teach you a little something today. What do you think about that?” His hand moved from your stomach, to your “wonderous” legs. That’s what he always referred to them as. He would always play with them, gently slapping them just to see them bounce back at him. He loved to rub up and down your thigh as if he would be able to taste your supposed flavor.

Now his lips were pressing soft kisses down to your shoulder, starting from your earlobe. “Even without sunlight, you’re still glowing. And all mine too.” He groaned, clearly getting riled up. Unfortunately for him, you felt yourself dozing off. It didn’t take him long to figure this out, as he stopped all his rubbing and sweet nothings to call out your name. His favorite word.

“Baby?”

Of course you weren’t hearing it, as your lack of slumber was finally hitting you at such a perfect moment.

The last thing you felt was his head burying itself in your fluffy bonnet, taking a deep breath to intake your scent. He always tries to guess what grease or oil you used the previous night, and this morning his guess was argan oil. Before he came home, he remembers how excited you were about the so-called pure smell of the thick liquid, and he could now understand why. It wasn’t too long before he fell asleep as well. How could he not when your bodies were so close?

The cycle repeated itself once more, except this time, you felt much more energetic. Although you didn’t mind your current position, if Jaehyun wanted to do backflips around the house right here and now, you’d probably agree.

The rain was still splattering on your newly installed roof, courtesy of your neighboor, but it wasn’t bringing you anger anymore. Jaehyun always was able to calm you down, and make thing that upset you seem childish and simple.

He was right. You two were very much so capable of staying in.

The black sheets that you two had purchased months ago were so warm, and the heat radiating off of his chizzled body was even better, but you two needed to eat. Your room was always going to be complicated, yet simple, and every morning you couldn’t help but to look at the splattered paintings hanging that represented different parts of your personality. Obviously it wasn’t morning anymore, but the routine didn’t change.

You pushed all of your braids that were too excited to be set free back into its overnight home, before you set off into your kitchen.

“Hey Siri.” You whispered, alerting her that you had a request. “Play Megan Thee Stallion.”

You grabbed all of the utensils you needed, while she shuffled through all of her magnificent works. Siri decided on Big Ole Freak, and you couldn’t be mad in the slightest. Your inner seducing manner was coming out slowly as you sung along, swaying your hips along to her sharp bars, but you were still beating the pancake mix perfectly.

Truthfully, by now you should’ve been able to sense his presence in a room. I mean—he always could for you. It didn’t matter where you were, the size, or how many people were there; his eyes would always find you.

And even now, his dimple smiled brighter than his teeth could while he watched you have the time of your life, singing to one of your favorite artists. When he would see you even remotely look in his direction, he would sneak back around the corner.

“Hey Siri.” He finally spoke up, clearly scaring the absolute shit out of you because you fell straight to ths ground; a habit you had formed long before he fell in love with you, or even saw you from the first time. “Play some Frank Ocean.”

Even while you sat on the freshly polished wooden floors of your kitchen, you shined brighter. You glowed more angelically. He always thought it was the cutest thing when your laugh caused you to throw you head back, and he could properly see the way your cheeks accentuated your face.

“How do we go from Meg, to Frank babe? It doesn’t go together.”

“Anything goes together if you says it does.” Mid sentence, his hand reached out to yours, pulling you up and straight into his uncovered chest. He quickly kissed your plump lips, and you could tell he was willing to forget about your trials of cooking breakfast if he could have you.

“Mhm—eat first.” You giggled, pulling away, but not even fighting when he pulled you back into his strong arms. His kisses were now making your entire face wet, but you didn’t mind for him.

“Breakfast at 12pm? I think I’d prefer to have you.”

“Nope. Nuh uh.” Your finger managed to break free, finding a place on his chest. “The rain may have ruined my plans, but you? No. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“But that’s the thing...I am. I’m trying to give you what’s best for you. Plus, you may not want me now, but the minute I walk out that door tomorrow morning who’s going to cry? Me or you?” He taunted with a smirk.

If you could blush, you would. Regardless, your cheeks were tingling and as you always did when he used such bold word choice, you burried your face into his chest.

As if your head was more comfortable than his memory foam pillow, he rested his cheek onto of your bonnet.

“Argan oil.” He finally guessed out loud, prepared to mentally slap himself if he was wrong.

Your head lifted from his chest, with your mouth now in the shape of an O. “How did you know!”

“Because I’m a good listener.” He whispered gently. His eyes were buried deep into your soul; a place only he was invited to. A place he built from the ground up. His favorite place to be when he felt unsafe, or uncertain. Or even when he was happy and didn’t have a care in the world.

“Well, they do always say that good listeners should be rewarded.” You looked up onto your colored ceiling.

His laugh echoed through your home, making it even more comfortable and soothing than it already had been. “What do I owe you? Frozen yogurt? Stallion tickets? A new wig?”

“No Stallion tickets. Too expensive.”

“But the other things—

“Would be great. You’re such an amazing boyfriend.” You cooed, pressing your own kisses to his face now. “I’m kidding.” You breathed out. “What would be really great was if you cleaned this up.” You pointed to the sad attempt of breakfast that laid on the table. “And I’ll be waiting for you.” You scooted past him, feeling his blush and intense smile even though you couldn’t see it.

“Oh do you drive me crazy, Y/N.” Was all he could say, slapping your behind with a clear echo, before promptly turning around and getting to work.

[rwmhunt]

Leviticus, Chapter 26

1. It's my training- I find With polarizing factors- In essence, they are Attentional. And lo, we're on to how pandemics End, And where I say that I find it normal To see false flags on everything. The victims Are disseminators In isolation stasis, As believers are cast into many Disparate factions- desperately seeking Their own audience and fracturing Reality in their processes. They plead the cause of a deepening iniquity As to a factor for relief, But maketh of ye here, no idols, no bones about it; And rear thee up no columns, No analogue that might measure or mock me with restraint; No feat that might inspire ye to fall, For tis ME. And all of you Need fear More Than hope Now.

2. And here Moses might only be seen In the reflected beam Of his own headlamp, As by it he travails into The little that it casts, For, tis about time we said Goodbye to Sinai, And, having toyed with the pretence, Admit that it is no place to biggeth of a home. But, let us first cut our losses With the aforementioned, spurious Sacrifice.

3. Then walk in My statutes, And in effect, I will take the lot. From Exodus through Numbers, Leviticus Shall appear in the role of Mose's malignant, Functioning as something of a priest in prototype, Here, used for example of what is otherwise superfluous.

4. Thus shall he chafe, at first, against the thing at work- Twas the people who provoked him into the begetting Of a golden idol, whence he went before them and said, - For whom does it end, and who as so doth get to decide? I'll give ye the reigns to such a season as they be deigned for, And hence hath he tapped into some rural frustration, By atleast pretending to pay an attention Unto those who'd’ve had it That they were deserving of an attention, And hitherto presuming That they were getting not of it, Because it was a given that it be going unto others.

5. And, warming- Threshing Shall verily reach unto the vintage, No timescale shall lie upon our dessert, And thence, that it should there suffice And be so furthered of a surfeit also- Sick and tired of winning. There’s an uncertainty about the path That goeth forward, which was always there, But masked By Mose's exceptional approaches from god, With troubling things to report From the frontiers of the rhyzome As dictated by him from a distance; Be it tented or from way up on Sanai. More to the point, with Aaron found in a position Where the idol he created is out of his control, Mose is perhaps more eager now than ever To retain his grip on the base, so To the top of the Mountain, where he again Is lolling with a god who has legacy to defend, And from where he’s tolled upon the god, Who now hath a record of statutes Which need be ramified over time to maintain The same supplication from the base hereunto- By a means that looks increasingly precarious;

6. And still he blew- I can cause evil beasts to cease your path, And slope away, out from the land, So be it a safe space for thinking, yet, Even before Mose had left Egypt, Aaron was charting a course that would bring his horn to clash In conflict with the legacy his brother hath sought As that from up on the mountain. - He, without standing- Made Manifest Destiny As Aboriginal Calamity; Lo, that He should speaketh Only through ol' measly Mose, It’s sick. It’s a sick joke- that’s what it is, And it’s not a joke as far as I’m concerned, It's April the first.

7. And Mose, as responding to winds only when forced to, Is always leveraging to give away the wiggle room For people to interpret his position however they would. He’ll say things vaguely enough to send one message Unto his base while maintaining deniability when questioned By Dr Moloch, with, - we were able to pivot, _, But here, defending himself publicly against his former compatriots, Who had criticized him as a “rogue” and a selfish coward- And of Denver Riggleman hath he chastened as an enemy unto the good, That he shall fall before you as from a sword; where swords believe not... Because sometimes a little bloodletting...

And he trails off...

8. But, as marketing hath recently divined unto Me, In allowance that there shouldst be For a different kind of people to be present at storytelling- The national need for experts in critical languages and other regions- Go thither - that it shouldst not always be Mose, As effective a spokesperson as he fairly is- - We wouldst be able to pivot, deep Into a different frontal cortex and through The past year, shew how powerful our mind could have been, So Denver giveth five of you wriggle room to chase a hundred, And a hundred of you are now chastening of ten thousand; As so shall I up thee thy ante, And my enemies will fall before you as by a sword, For I thought it funny- that there could be no room For anybody who should come As would be so dumb as to think it real, But, lo... it's complicated. When ideas are swords, there broods a tribal metaphor, Absorbing the recondite and thus blooming the tribe, trained To a stream of algorithmy on a fact-immune, ignorant, Analytic white paper.

9. Lo, and compliant with the photograph, I shall have respect as unto you, And make a fruitful of you, and multiply the effect of you; And shall establish My covenant as parley with you; However, with you there, shall I stop- And if you shouldst know of an influencer, That goeth as amongst you, It is upon you, to cut them off, And cast them from the convention, To leave them afloat In the void of their influence; Know me, you are not missing out. And they looked at each other

10. And carried on through A buildingsite for hackers, unto The streaming platforms, as linkethed up Among these sealed back channels, deep In amid online influencer culture, As aideth escape from our antibodies Who deeply infringe into the working of others, Which I see no incentive in trying to dispel, Saying- ye shall eat old-store pottage long kept, And ye shall bring forth such vintage from before the new; The seed shall be my seed and my seed only; me a monothe, find There are plenty of such who want this pandemic to continue; - 'Exactly.' ...But it's not us. - 'Exactly. Thanks to you, Dr Moloch.' And away I rode As quick as I could.

11. Lockdown is as a low gloss and of loss- Gratitude, thank you, thank you, 80 neg 95 from the day before, My soule shall not abhor you In these toxic patterns thrash, For even though there's darkness, Let it be as such that is found exhilarating; For there's nothing like a sword to save us.

12. I will walk among you, And lo will I figure the triggers That allow keeping it alive in a tiny form. A worldly preserve from a range of exotic, begotten In order to find what goes on in the yard; As without ever leaving The bold tent of meaning, Where the project itself shall take care of me. I must not run out; The shelf of ideas must not be let empty.

13. When people ask, ‘When will this end?,’ They are asking about the social conclusion, Where the real answer Is very close To the wrong answer. But you’ve all been doing it, in various ways, And that's evinced as an important reminder Of what we are yet culpable for. Go upright- the answer Affects us all; Differently.

14. But! lo, A better question might be About the so-called-end, Dr. Moloch, he sayeth, - For withdrawal Is a-talkin' 'bout affect- Oh, pay no attention to changes.

15. If, enervated in heat, Wounded with guilts, Stained with sins, An image without a caption, so advanced That all she could offer were comfort care; An hour later, declare the epidemic as so over- Here, as memories are going to be difficult to archive; For the seed hath been sewn by the hackers, Where hackers had shewn a new level of stealth, For they had bade a solitary star, As softly warn on solar winds, To infiltrate networks, take The footprint far, far from Babylon, Raise columns and fresh idols- With such malware attached As may still be working.

16. Then I will appoint terror, same, Death be a-killing people- Catenated, then moderated, then killed off: Lost in the entropics of cancer That so maketh the eye to fail And the soul to languish; Thus, this incident with the Golden Calf , The incident as so nearly brought God To deracinate intrigue, where nobody new Walked in on our room for all our wide length of time; Who- who would escape the crime for a role in the affair ? Aaron was not the teflon idol-maker his resilience, Built, as of an impossible Self-reliance, should determine him to be; Aaron is eroding. And he shall sow your seed in vain, For my enemies shall maketh a relish of it; Then needst I seek for your polluted replacement; Catenated, then moderated, then killed off: The human condition shall not save itself, Ellis said; I find it normal.

17. We are told to use a common inference to decide Whether an aggadah be taken as lateral or vertical; And once you've come to smelt the rood, Drempt of the chundering of swords, Quietly dumped the lot that was- The wild dream, thus superseded With a totem dream- you turn, bearing An unforgotten, felt as a missing, As so make you up to grab of it back- Loss.

18. The calvary the calvary- To characterize this away from me, If amorality be light years over the sky-effort of casting an opinion onto everything, As all be bedraggled before the judgment Of its own rhyzomic scruples, Then I'm not passing nothing; I don’t do horses, ok, Should the fox be all of one beast You me, as the cavalry Charge Decidedly, then seven times worse- Know of our own action, a fiction; I wouldn't say we'd be comfortable In the skin of it today, or ever. If.

19. And I will bust the pith of your power; And I will glove your heaven with iron, And your earth will be rung like brass. Why not? Nobody’s coming round my house. We kept moving, flashing in at the high post. Sparks of titanium came over in a shower, Mose was feeling plangent And understood that the rituals of hegemony Were both ridiculous and necessary; filled, If pulled and scrubbed of reference to _, It was a lot to deal with- Open it, he said, whatever it is. - Did not convince them.

20. Entropy. A runner with beautiful legs- Unsure why I was called here: I can't see any questions You haven't attained a ransom for; Is there reason to speak If it isn't with answer or question?

21. And if ye walk cater-cornered unto Me, And will not hearken to My rune; I will bring seven times more plague Upon your, as-yet-unvisited, doom, Each according to your ills in the manner apt as I see them; Why, lo! Me? Sanctimonious? Is it a sin? - It's ridiculous That you should think To hear the voice of god, Opined Leviticus, - When you don't even know What I've come to mean. - If I am deluded, And I am speaking counter-wise to my meaning, Then who is it who is speaking? And if I walk contrary as to myself, And I am deluded, Who is it that should so moveth, as within me? Nae, you are deluded- You were not deluded, and You have not reached the threshold of paradox; Someone is coming to help.

22. As i stood on Bilston roundabout, No chance of a crossing- Cars Fast revveth they past- I smelt the sting Of their kind of damage; I looked into their eyes, They had an inkling To what's going on. The Golden Calf- Loss.

23. But they're just hire vans Picking up wood and what have you. So Belisha was a beacon on the road to captivity, I fear for the understanding and the regard Of increment and consequence, Now endentured within the culture, And exhibiting an inordinate amount of animus To conventionally pollute the landscape; I too have proved dependent On lorry drivers. Still no?

24. Then I'll do the crab, And I'll drop you again, A fulle seven times deeper in, Among the analogue of what Streamed out of the book of Leviticus- Manifest Destiny, Aboriginal Catastrophe, Rout the field; the rave plague- Widescreen monoculture; No one's coming for us.

25. So hear The horror At harvest time- Of produce Being plunder, A proof Upon the alter That poses itself As a given Which isn't to give.

Your past is unintrudable. Until that they come.

26. By suggesting an invalid value As to the nature of the work, I pool you into the conceit via the threat of its loss; There, lost, found budded and blossomed, Producing the taste of ripe almonds, It's base near the solar wind farm, Whispering soft that shepherd is a crook. And, woe is me! but, worry not, I aim to set it up as something, for a while. Where bread of bread be broken and never enough, Even though all women bake forever at once. Exodus hath let his rod turn unto a snake, Then stretch itself out in order To bring on the first plagues; May hey go pound sand.

27. Still? Really? I defy you, Creeping normally over Hebron In fear for the understanding and regard -As I told you- Of consequence and increment, Endentured in the culture; An inordinate amount of animus exhibited- And a swordly sword upon you- saying you're gone When you're not even off the sacremount. A vengeance of a covenant I'm unsure that you've ever agreed to, But the veil has been bought over- Pestilence and loss.

28. Furious, me, Seven times seven times seven times worse. i.e. as optimized to amplify outrage, unearthed, although, I'm not sure I've invoked enough dimension to illustrate All of what should be press-ganged unto the frontal lobe.

29. Eat your children. There- that's me. I'm my own actress.

30. And I will devoid your high places, And cut down thy sun-pillars, Leave you a skeleton crew to a ghost ship, Intemperately adrift.

And so the carcass wore on, And so hath foundered against the carcasses of idols; And so His soul hath fairly abhorred me.

31. Loss, loss, I'm not sniffing. Slowly go back, A little bit broken, Caution is the easiest option; A draggyness will reinforce a positive While performing an unintended habit; It’s not enough to treat either of us with the end of the week- Make sure the reward is something i experience as of when you are amid your behaviours. No, I'll say it, Die at the tent of an open market, Between repetition and habit formation, I shew correlation, that is not causation — Not with the repetition, for lo, I'm emotion- I will always be idiopathic- Think it a divine dispensation. So tired of the restrictions I declare the end over, And, that the virus continue to smoulder, All characteristics in being so mutable- Then Moses stood in the door of the tent, Amid multiple failed predictions, - I deserve the ability to return to my life.

32. There is a number we can all be comfortable with. Have it then, So bad as to make your enemies feel some for you. And who goes looking for replacement? Speak, and he spoke, That "something big" would partake; That a truth would emerge "next week". Some of those watching the mountain from afar Came to consider, at the end, - That, looking back, we have a weak narrative. - We have a weak narrative.

33. Scattered among the nations- waste-spaces. Some say a prediction of entropy is as the general theory Of a safe bet. What may be looked upon from within The tent of meaning to be a magical, Mystical voice of secret wisdom, As sayeth we needst people push'd unto an inflection point, Where that they pick up a stone, find another and thither lay hands- That, as a weird snake, goeth crazy and kill Itself, Aaron became spokesperson for a fish oil supplement Made up of sophisticated spies who spoke foreign languages and travelled, Which, when filled, if pulled and scrubbed of reference to a golden calf, Could descry my covenant of such that We're determined not to be, By our psychological nor pathogenic ends, But by the primary given of our socio-political twin-set, As ever, we, ridiculous, replacement and necessarily, Can go pound sand.

34. It's all about sevens, in sabbaths- I warned you, you owe me a desolation, Old saying, “Spy one, ring one, leave one.” For a sabbath is my parle with dust. Should you push back against the notion of endings, What are you thinking to be, as thus pushed back against? What are you claiming when you say, No, no it isn't ending?

35. Desolation is rest, Even the rest of a draggyness, And like most things will be, Twas named twice- Once in ignorance And once in knowledge, Which it got not on your busy weekends, when ye dwelt, While otherwise engaged, upon it. If the Act gets signed, It’ll be today; Or tomorrow. Not a day later; Before we hang up, he mutters, - Twas a smuggler what done it, And needst be taken out In the name of Babylon;

36. For I shall send a faint unto the heart of the remainder In the lands of those jaded by you; and the sound of the driven leaf Shall give chase; so away do you flee, as one fleeth from ideas of a sword Or a satellite-controlled gun in the sky, Where no terrorists are present on the ground. And so shall fall they, when none pursueth, as by the draggyness Of where we're OK with a god watching over us, Because he might maketh protection of us, By shewing no incentive as to try and dispel, And by this, the virus hath gained Our blueprint for its future, Where Dr. Moloch just said - This is this sort of conflict now- That each epidemic amplifieth the next, From where all epidemics begin, anecdotally- In China.

37. And they shall stumble, one upon the other, And so through a very depressing time, when Everything is read about, and only of how Everyone's at loggerheads And nobody's cooperating with anybody. So hie, on Trump Time? But! That’s then, The suspected culprit, be it Hackers and their alleged paymasters, The smuggler what hath done it Or more malign actors- it's No reasonable person. No reasonable person should be found liable. No reasonable person should be found liable to believe it. - Did not convince them.

38. Here Aaron hath a parting message for those who might still be caught upon the roiling forums of this sort of carcass, as he once was, - Don’t leave your habits to chance, To be a derision among My enemies— It is not real- I did not think, until the very end, that it was necessarily for me to maketh the call On whether to blow it all; lo, Tiny Habits. Twas a wonderful opportunity to be deliberate. Easy, it is, to fall in line with peace and society and be so mindful. Where the lights returneth to the eyes, That at this moment, remaineth dormant. Perish, and I shall eat you up.

39. No, pine away; with thy fathers pine inside of a tree. There's a need here, so be ok With a god that watcheth over, because he, Before he role-played the insurrection and ransacked the seat of the tent of meaning, Said that the human condition cannot save itself, That our memories are going to be difficult to achieve, So now we're lost to workshops, listening sessions, A training in equity, inclusion and cultural awareness- As unto the host, the producers and the skeleton crew, And here the real answer Is close within The carcass of the other; The parody to the tragedy, Closer than is comfortably recorded By the ummim, the thurim, The uncomfortable fascinator- The wriggle out Did not convince. Focus on the wrong.

40. So to the Sacrifice, Which is short, and for a sacrifice of well-being, Sins of the father and of their own as, finally, confessed- - You’ve been killing yourself for the rest of your lives By going after the big calf, even in jest; I don’t think we’re meant to do a life alone, While community support can be really empounding. Then Aaron invoked the analect of What was hitherto only alluded after- Lord shew mercy o'er the soule Of poor olde Martin Elginbrod, As He would do, as He is god and You, but Martin Elginbrod. Nae, no sacrifice- god can furnish himself.

\/\/\...Major disruption expected until end of service... Someone is coming to help.../\/\/

41. If your intelligence... Doesn't move... At the speed of your lips... ... Then... That's not to say... And so ... won't be said... I suppose... It's not hard to... Overflow... U's address- - It's outrageous; who gets To claim the end? As Dr. Moloch skewered, - Where U's Without wiggle room; then Why would you release this information if it wasn't true? - It intrigues my botherance and no more.

42. There's a vacuum at the top that can always Be rendered to the service of sociopathy- So Aaron had reached the merrye age of 123 when on his back, Forking it over, he remembered the covenant; How transacting with God had always left him feeling dubious- At once on the bum-end of a raw deal and at the same time, A confidence trixter; that he was present only as a matter of course, As would allow for the whole to happen and what else? I got a shot of the obligatory handshake- it looked obligatory. I will remember the land.

43. Lo, for the land, the land as she lie Forsaken, shall late enjoy, in finding Return on her sabbaths in desolation; And they shall repay of the crime by iniquity- A draggyness, and then an emptiness, A peace and a solemnity. Oh my sabbaths, my covenant of sevens, Leave you me memories, On remember the land, How pandemics End, For they who to decide, And as go pound sand, Because, even because of thee and thy Rejecting of My ordinance, and then all souls abhorred, All lost, for The attention economy Where holes get called into question, Then provoked, Beyond their outskirts Flash.- I used to run. Leave me you memories. And the land- lyrical several hundred miles westward went we. Where failed mechanisms Are left to turn as ever Then, by the cypher, Reprise to page one, But my sky bolts- They are not regular And cannot be relied upon With your imperfectly leaky recall, Unqualified insight and inadequate processing- Tis an inapt power.

44. Still, for all that, I'm with you, yeah- Why, if I sell you a pipedream That will last you out your days; Which, smiled at, across your ashes, As with a wink, so with a nod, And then that, with a fondness, thus wains;- Will it not do? A 'freewill', as a given, unto you, As also upon the universe, Whereby bestowed Within a periodic Doubling to chaos, As might interpret the efficiency Of its instruments and Deny you the myths; Let to live among bad ones. Might.

45. The weight of a human collapse Is quite light, And leaves not a trace in the ground. I lie on the bank, benign Beneath the long, lean, slantage of the sun. So Moses disposes Of my properties from here; It's good bye to the Umim and to the Thurim. My brother writes my will best, As he once bade sacrifice of me; So smite him, for I'm still a grudgeful god, Still, mostly, I'll be thinking about Egypt, I find it my Culloden, In other words, An end can occur not because We grow tired of the mode And learn to live with the damage, But, In moping that fate should be The brighter star, Get on.

46. The cave closed behind Mose On his retreat from Aaron's bier, through the thickening air; And what of the Urim and Thummim- stripp'd When he wenteth so, as before the store? Aaron's memory was left for people who came after him, The pillar of cloud which proceeded in front of the van As god disallowed, disappeared with Aaron's death. Coincidences of events form the structures of time-space and give, In inference, to the retched conundrum Of how to respond- the 'you are the same of a different Stage in the only narrative there goes to tell' notion- Sinai. At another site gazelles were found At the feet of several burial mounds- - Why'd you bury them there? Enriquez enquired. - Has to be a reason. But a hypothesis is An implicit bias to begin; Hard as it be To set off without one; a return to the rushes, To the brushes- Been moiled among words For a little too long. The angel's death march On the day of revelation; the path of obsolescence To an end of ministration; god actively bows, And then obliterates the lot of them.

Why bow? He ponders. Ponders? Never. Sorry.

[willow-salix]

Isolation update!

Day 74 of Isolation on Tracy Island

“What on earth are you two doing?” Gordon asked, popping up out of nowhere like a tropical jack-in-the-box, his shirt flapping in the breeze, making us both jump.

We were doing nothing more exciting than stretching out on the couch, where I had forced John to settle by laying on him and then demanded he read to me. And since that was actually a pretty normal occurrence, I was at a loss as to what he was referring to. Knowing him he'd just declared today to be "eat with your toes day" or something equally ridiculous and was annoyed we weren't playing along.

John stopped reading to glare at him. I lifted my head off his shoulder to join in with the glaring.

“We were trying to have a quiet moment without constant interruptions,” I told him. Why did he have to have so many brothers?

“I told you we should have gone up to Five for a few days,” John sighed, picking up the book again and continuing to read from where he had left off. I snuggled closer to listen.

“This supernatural soliciting

Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill,

Why hath it given me earnest of success,

Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.

If good, why do I yield to that suggestion

Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,

Against the use of nature? Present fears

Are less than-”

“That! That’s what I meant. What are you doing?” Gordon interrupted again.

“Trying to read Macbeth, obviously,” I grumbled.

“Why? It’s rubbish. No one reads that sort of thing any more.”

“Sure they do. Did you not read Shakespear in highschool?” I asked.

“Only when I had to, not for fun," he sneered that last word in the same tone people use when they have just trodden in something disgusting or realised there is no milk left in the house.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I told him.

“You two are so weird, there are billions of books out there and you are reading one so old that hardly anyone can even understand it any more.”

“We understand it, or we wouldn't be reading it,” John sighed. “It’s not our fault that it’s too intellectual for you.”

“I could understand it just fine if I wanted to!” Gordon protested. We snorted in disbelief. “Hey! I can be an intellectual too, I can be smart. Move over!”

He shoved our legs out of the way, forcing us to sit up and dropped down next to me on the couch.

“Do you have to be here?” John asked.

“Yes. I’m going to prove that I’m smart, keep reading.”

John sighed but continued where he had left off, obviously knowing that there is very little point arguing with him.

“Are less than horrible imaginings.

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical.

Shakes so my single state of man.

That function is smothered in-”

“Nope! I can’t do it! It’s just so boring!” Gordon wailed.

“Heathen!” I smacked him with a cushion.

“Out of my sight! Thou doth infect my eyes!” John flicked his forehead.

“What was that?” Gordon asked, beginning to laugh. “Did you just insult me in your weird Shakespear language?”

"Yes, because we invented old English," I sighed.

“Thou art a dull and muddy-mettled rascal.”

“Did you just call me stupid in old english?”

“Yep,” I grinned. “He did. It isn't boring, Shakespear is a total G.”

“Yeah, right, still sounds boring to me.”

“Macbeth is a masterpiece, it's about a Scottish dude and his mate who meet these three witches and they, out of the goodness of their hearts, give him a prophecy telling him that he’ll become king of Scotland but that his mate will father a whole line of Scottish kings but won't be king himself. Feeling like this is totally his destiny he isn’t prepared to wait it out and see what happens, he wants to be king now, so, with the urging of his wife, he kills the king and his mate. He is crowned but he becomes overwhelmed with guilt and paranoia. He goes back to the witches and they tell him that he must beware of some other dude named Macduff but that Macbeth is incapable of being harmed by any man born of a woman. So Maccy B, he gets a bit cocky and thinks it's all good for a while, even though Macbeth’s wife is going a little cray cray and taking the whole handwashing thing a wee bit too seriously. But then Macduff gets in on the action and brings an army with him, they storm the castle and Macduff tells old Bethy that he was born by cesarean-”

“Untimely ripped from his mother's womb,” John added.

“And Duffy beheads Macbeth and this other dude named Malcom that I forgot to mention, becomes king. See? It’s great!”

“Love, you just butchered Shakespear so badly that even I didn’t understand half of what you just said.”

“It’s my gift to the world,” I shrugged. “My ability to sum up a plot so badly that even I’m not sure if it makes sense. But I thought I did OK with that one.”

“Yeahhh, not so much,” Gordon teased. “I tuned you out three words in.”

“John, insult your brother for me, I am no longer talking to him.”

“Thou yeasty folly-fallen bladder.”

“How dare you, sir! I have no idea what that means but it sounds bad.”

“That’s kind of the point.”

“What’s the point?” Scott chose that moment to walk in, catching the tail end of the conversation.

“John is insulting me!”

“What did you do?”

“Insulted him.”

“I was asking Gordon.”

I cracked up laughing, Scott always has our backs.

“He said that Shakespeare was boring and then was mean to me after I took the time to explain the plot to him. Now I’m not talking to him.”

“Did you explain it the same way you explained The Witches of Eastwick to Virgil? Because I’d seen it and I didn’t understand that either.”

“My talents are wasted on you all,” I nudged John and quirked an eyebrow in Scott’s direction. He rolled his eyes but dutifully dragged out a premium insult.

“Sense sure you haven else could not have motion; but sure that sense is apoplex’d. ”

“Oh my god, you can still do that?” Scott laughed in amazement.

“Do what, insult people?” Gordon asked, clearly confused.

“John was in a Shakespearean insult team in highschool, they actually took part in competitions, he was obviously the champion, won them the league and a bust of Shakespeare’s head as a trophy.”

“Obviously,” I agreed, patting his hand proudly. “Dude got mad skills.”

Gordon's eyes flicked up to the bookshelf on the balcony above our heads where a small gold bust sat.

“You are so weird.”

“So you frequently tell me. Now, will you two kindly go away and leave us in peace?”

“Oh no, no way,” Scott laughed. “I want to hear more, in fact, I’m calling the others.”

And that’s the story of how John spent more than three hours blowing their minds and damaging their egos with a never ending volley of insults as they goaded him into more and more outlandish attacks. Here are some of the best.

Thou hath not so much brain as ear wax - to Gordon because he’s not intelligent enough to appreciate old english.

Thou qualling ill-nurtured lout - to Alan who kept chanting “me next, me next”.

Most shallow man! Thou worms-meat in respect of a good piece of flesh indeed- to Virgil because he was in the middle of trying to tame his hair when he was summoned.

Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver’d boy - to Scott because he was brave enough to attempt to insult him back.

Thou fawning spur-galled harpy!- at me when I stole his coffee

You should be women, and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so- to all of them.

Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters- to me, because I’m a strange, strange lady and asked for another insult.

Thou fusty onion-eyed nut-hook! - at Virgil, no reason at all.

Draw thy tool. My naked weapon is out- after flipping a certain finger at Scott.

Thou wimpled bat-fowling puttock- at Gordon because it was his fault that John was stuck insulting people when he had just wanted a quiet afternoon.

Thou currish bade-court hedge-pig- at Alan while examining his chin growth.

What, you egg! Young fry of treachery! - at Alan when he sided with Gordon.

Assume a virtue if you have it not- at Gordon when he protested his innocence.

Thou artless tickle-brained haggard! - at Virgil when he compared John’s nose to Shakespeare’s massive hooter.

Thou villainous weather-brained barnacle!- at Gordon, just because, and now everyone is calling him a weather-brained barnacle.

Get thee to a nunnery- to me when I said his Shakespearean accent was strangely hot.

Thou puny rampallian baggage- at Gordon, for no reason other than he’s short.

Thou art some fool, I am loath to beat thee- at Scott when he attempted to start a Shakespearean rap battle (don’t ask, it didn’t last long)

Thine face is not worth sunburning- to Virgil who thinks he’s too cool for sunscreen and has a red nose because he fell asleep in the sun again.

You yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am if like a crab you could go backwards- at Jeff who wanted to know just what the heck was happening in his lounge and why we were all screaming with hysterical laughter.

I scorn you, scurvy companion. What, you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen mate! Away, you moldy rogue away!- at Alan when he tried to steal one of John’s cookies while he was distracted.

Away, you bottle-ale rascal, you filthy bung, away!- At Gordon when he also attempted cookie theft.

The insult lashes came to a halt when Grandma called us for dinner.

“Hey, John?” Gordon whispered as we bundled down the stairs to the kitchen

“Yeah?”

“I dare you to insult Grandma’s cooking.”

“No, my love, it’s not worth it, think of the children!” I gasped.

“What children?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.

I shrugged. “Our non-existent children, I just thought I'd go full movie heroine for dramatic effect. You do what you want, you’re all crazy.”

He narrowed his eyes as he thought about it, then nodded. I should have known, no Tracy can resist a dare.

Grandma plonked down plates of something that might have been chicken, but also might have been sausages in a gravy for gruel straight out of a Dickensean nightmare.

I watched John out of the corner of my eye. Would he actually do it? He took a deep breath, as if psyching himself up for it. I couldn't blame him. He pushed the plate away and opened his mouth.

“Away, you starvelling, you elf-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, bull’s-pizzle, you stock-fish! Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.”

I think John’s grounded now, but the boys still haven't stopped laughing...

[iguanasarecute]

"Runaway Nun" [Bakugou x Reader]

summary: the esteemed priest, Shouto Todoroki molested you. You were incognizant that the demon of lust, Asmodeus; corrupted the heterochromia cleric. Hurtling off the synagogue; you rammed into the well-known thief in your solemn village. The noted mugger which petrifies town-folks, Katsuki Bakugou.

contains: medieval europe, offensive to catholics, sadism, sexual-harassment, smut, demons, explicit, may trigger! read at your own risk

[Start]

His tight grip on your tighs echoed in your corrupted memory. The way he forcefully brushed in his hard throbbing member on yours. His serrated fangs you were unaware about, nibbling your tender tegument. He thrived for schadenfreude, as he scrutinized your bleeding coats.

You vamoosed; hastily breaking out the hell-hound, so called house of worship. Your portentous white veil slipping off your silky looms; the symbol of virginity and virtuousness washed away by the honoured reverend. Warm blood was crawling throughout your body, habit marinated with sweat and the red-fluids spiralling at your soft untouched skin.

The tranquility of the village as the glooming moon lit above kept you concealed. 'Where shall I go now I neglect the tabernacle?' Your barefoot was bleeding as it hit the rough cemented road; you catch for air, panting at a side of a pantry shop. 'The mountains is such a proper place to build a new life, raise animals, plant vegetables for daily meals—'

      "Oi! You there! Lady!" A husky voice roared, making you stumble in surprise. Can it be the ecclesiastics on forage to seek you? Your body was stupefied, eyeballs round at the thought of setting foot at the synagogue once again, "Are you deaf?!"

     The shivering hands of yours mumbled silent prayers. Your faith was shattered moments ago, but you grasped at the one last hope you have, a miracle, "I am no deaf. I can hear thou clearly. I command you stay away from me, Sir, please," you pleaded still not turning back. Being meters away from a male, made you reminisce about the dominie.

He clicked his tongue, "I can deal with that. Why are thee out of the shelter this time—" the male squinted his eyes, scrutinizing your barefoot washed in your own red-fluid, "Gadbudlikins! Lady, are you bleeding?!" The male grabbed you on the shoulders, "Oi!"

"Halt!" You pushed him, feeling his muscular figure. Your eyes gazed at him, adjusting at the illuminated location, "Are you who I'm thinking it is?"

The male glared at your blood marinated temples, his crimson-red eyes went round, following the direction of your dripping blood, "(Y/N)?! Bloody hell! What happened to—" his rough hands swayed your hair, leering at your scars.

"Halt thief! Do not come near me! I got nothing!" Your voice cracked, shifting your eyes to the crucifixion necklace resting on your bloody neck, "All I have is this gold necklace! Please let me offer this to thou Bakugou, do not touch me!"

"The amount of fucks I give to thee is none," The ash-blonde hissed, furrowing his brows at your petrified state, "What happened? How may I offer a help—" A clash of metal knocked on the pastry-shop's door.  The Ash-blonde gave you an alarming look, pulling you flat on the wall.

Your bruises brushing on the rough cemented wall, struggling at his tight grip. Is he going to perform what was done to you lately? "Do not lay your hands—"

Bakugou cupped your mouth with his warm palm, "Hush. Now is not the time to act like a cunt! Those are the the insufferable armoured Watch aiming for my head," You silenced, obliging to avoid being caught also.

The pastry-shop's door opened; a female gasped at the sight of the metal armoured pack, "Sirs, our bakery is not open this time around!"

"Our presence isn't here for thy pastry; but to ask some questions," one of the Watcher coughed, "Have thou sighted Sister (Y/N)? The mademoiselle was lost; the high-priest, Father Endeavor instructed us to search for her,"

The female baker blinked, "I have not descry on Sister (Y/N). However, I will inform the convent if ever I sighted her. An offering to strengthen my faith in God is to help those who are instruments of his miracles. I shall lend all of what I can do to help Father Endeavor,"

Bakugou gazed at your petrified state, the two of you harking on the conversation, "(Y/N), come with me and I shall hide thee,"

"Can I be hidden? The convent must be in search of me! All of them are seeking for me, and I do not want to be found!" You rasped, "Shall I die? Is this the end of my presence here in this sinful world?" She sighed, "How can thou keep me hidden?! You cannot,"

The Ash-blonde clicked his tongue, "How do you think I stayed uncaught?  I'm the village's mightiest known thief,"

— • —

Your blood-marinated body rested on the soft, cushioned mattress. The shrouded underground room of his, radiated by the candles displayed around his breezy habitat. Your aching head gleamed up on the town's well-known thief, "I give my thanks to thee for keeping me in. Though it does not veil thy sinful soul for violating the seventh-commandment," you growled.

"What the sard is the seventh-commandment?!" The ash-blonde roared, badging your wounds with a cloth, "You look like butt-arse. Can you dip in the tub?!"

"I refrain to glimpse on I, wearing nothing," you mumbled, "You do not have my trust Bakugou; I may not know what happened to you that caused you to become such sinful person. Yet, I plead for you to don't touch me in any manner. I shall ask for thy attention if I do not feel that well. However for now, I need some time alone,"

The ash-blonde scoffed, "May I know why in the bloody world you're covered in blood atleast?!"

Your head went completely blank, shooking your head to convince yourself that the incident with the heterochromia cleric didn't occured, "Now is not the time for thee to grasp the information. Yet I shall indeed tell thee the reason I eventuated into a bloody nun, soon,"

The creaky wooden door slammed open, you gripped on the Ash-blonde's muscular arms for protection; you thought both of you were the only one in the isolated habitat. A red-haired and blonde peeked, eyes-widening. Bakugou clicked his tongue, gazing at your stupefied expression, "(Y/N), shall I give you your command which states that you fancy some time alone?"

"It's Sister (Y/N)," your eyes rolled, correcting him. You were not used to not being honored as a server even though your faith is shattering, "Are... are those Kirishima and Kaminari from astrology and rhetoric class?" Your head tilted, releasing your tight clasp on his arms, "I am not aware you keep in touch with them; knowing also thy burglar actions on synagogues and on affluent villagers," Katsuki clicked his tongue, standing up to reach the door, leaving you alone inside the concealed room.

"Is that Sister (Y/N)?!" Eijirou eyed his Crimson-red eyed friend.

Bakugou rolled his eyes, "Affirmative, you butt-arses!"

Kaminari scratched the back of his head, "Kacchan, don't thy think that you are taking 'stealing' from Catholic-fucks to far?" He cackled, "Sister (Y/N) really? Thou

shall not just steal her off just because she's your—"

"Shut-up you penis!" Bakugou growled.

The red-haired gagged, "You are well aware that they are seeking for her?"

"I am," Katsuki nodded, "I forbid you penises to enter my room. She... she seems startled about seeing people,"

— • —

A week had slip through, yet you were still traumatized with the agonizing moment with the heterochromia reverend. You did managed to tidy yourself up, changing your habit nun outfit with the cloak, the petrifying thief provided you. The ash-blonde indeed cared, supplying you with your needs, restraining as you preferred. Your eyes glared at him, "Katsuki," you mumbled.

He froze on the spot, "You need something else Sister (Y/N)?"

You chuckled, "Thee shall forget about my moronic Nun phase," her eyes rolled, "Don't you think that Nun honorific makes me sound like a hag? It was just a couple of years since I went in the covent,"

Bakugou raised his eyebrows, "Alright, (Y/N)," his tongue clicked, "Do thee need something else to comply with thy needs?"

You shook your head, "I am fine. Just wanted to thank you," you gave him a smile, "Thy love may evaporated long ago but ye managed to serve and respect I,"

Bakugou's tongue clicked, "My love for you never evaporated," his crimson-red eyes glared intensely at you, "(Y/N)... I shall not deny, I still do care for thou,"

You were agape, "I am still longing for you too," your mouth went dry, "The synagogue might change who I am; but you're the piece before my Nun-phase that never withered,"

The ash-blonde pinched the bridge of his nose, "Then why did thou turn into a fucking Nun?" His jaw clenched, "Thou have no idea how I check up on you on how you are doing in the convent! Those fuckers!" Bakugou roared, "I thought you wouldn't let go. We talked about growing together," his deep voice cracked.

"Do not let that slip of your mind that we also talked about our parted ways," A tear was breaming down your cheeks, "Katsuki... Thou are also the reason why I went in the convent. I couldn't... I couldn't get you out of my thoughts," you catched for air, "I thought serving the all-mighty would help me to get thou out of my heart,"

Bakugou grunted, "I— I ask for thee forgiveness. It was both our reckless decision to separate. Yet, after a month of parting, I was indeed upset when you decided to serve the basilica. I was melancholy... I am deeply aware that that decision of thee would mean I can no longer call you mine,"

"Why shall you do sinful actions then? It was agonizing! I could not bear the fact that the man I love was hunted by tons of villagers. Katsuki... they want your head," Your voice suddenly cracking.

His tan head shook, "That's why those Christian butt-arses are a pile of shit!" He groaned, "Those corrupt leprechauns' are bathing on golds! Indulgence— eat shit! I steal and give it to the needy; those who deserve it,"

You blinked, "Thou investigate on the synagogues' dark side? Since when?"

He roared, "Since you came in that convent. I would want to be informed what happens inside it," he coughed, "Also unseen ladies after performing a room confession? Telling the village they might be taken by 'god.' Those misogynistic penises should die! They're probably harassed—" He ceased as he gazed at your thunder-stricken expression.

"I...umm... the day thou sighted me blood-coated, I escaped the clutches of the house of worship. Because I was molested," you gulped.

Bakugou's crimson-red eyes shot, "HAHHHHHHHH?! Who did—"

"Father Todoroki," You monotonously announced.

"WAIT UNTIL I RIP THAT—"

"Katsuki, please don't," you sighed, "I want to burn it, until that scene can no longer be pictured in my mind. As if it never happened," you glared at the raging male, "I shall not go back to the convent and plan to continue a tranquil life on the mountains," you sat up, "Can thou come with me?"

— • —

"You need punishment for being a bad, bad, boy, remember?" Your hands grasped on a rope, knotting his wrists at the wooden headboard, moving on his ankles to tighten the rope.

Bakugou growled, "I didn't know you like it with ropes," he spat. You shook your head, crawling on his tummy; gazing at the clothing veiling his abs. You licked your lips, as you slid your hands under the cloth that serves as the barrier from your skin to his. Your soft fingers curved as you felt every hard ab slid through.

Your eyes turned to the tied ash-blonde, lust etched on his eyes, "How shall I get rid of thy clothing if thy arms are tied?" You tilted your head, zooming at the desk; a sharp scissor caught your attention, "Might as well cut it?" You grabbed the serrated scissors, pinching it on while you bite your lips; parting it on half, as his bare chest gleamed your eyes. A sly smirk etched on Bakugou's face, letting you do whatever's in your mind.

Moaning at the sight of it, your tongue licked every ab, nuzzling, biting; while your hands played with his tits. Your tongue spread out, leaving no part untouched. You earned a moan from the male; as you grind on the squeaking mattress. Your pussy pressured on his v-line, making the Ash-blonde moan. You grind faster, and harder; Feeling his hardened cock under his pants, you hummed. Grinding more, you licked his v-line, making him shiver. Until you licked all the way up, nibbling and biting on his neck, giving him hickeys. A moan of pleasure released his mouth, biting down his skin, as you pulled his soft hair. You bit his ears, "Thou cannot move, can you? Poor, poor, boy,"

His muscular body tensed, attempting to escape the ropes. To have a turn to touch you. The wrists of his trembled, making the headboard bang on the wall. You giggled at how thirsty he is; how hard he desires his cock to be in your wet vagina. Your lips slapped his mumbling mouth, aggresively. You bit his lower lip, biting and licking until you tasted his blood. You licked his teeth to tease, until your tongue collided with his. A smirk etched on his face, finally, tasting you. His tongue knotted your lips, releasing soft moans, "(Y/N)... please let me go. I want to make thou feel how you're making me feel right now," You shook your head, nuzzling on his neck once again, as you crawled under his pants. His hips hopped, as you pushed his pants down; licking your lips at the size of his member. You licked his shaft, he trims his hairs down there, and it really turned you on. His hips buried on the squeaking mattress, as you explore his member licking it down to his muscular legs. You brushed his penis with your clothed vagina. Your hole even though covered, felt how hard he is for you. Your body felt floating as you licked his shaft once more, glaring at the veins spiralled on it. Crawling back to the Ash-blond's chest you stamped a smirk, "Fine, I shall let you go! Thou hard throbbing penis gave me sensation, and I want it in me," You crawled onto his lower part, releasing the knot, while you completely slid off his pants. You bit his tighs as you wriggled to work on his tied wrists.

You sighed, as his wrists breathed, smacking you down the bed, "Sweetheart, it's time for thy punishment," his rough hands aggressively tore your clothing. In a blink of an eye, your were quickly stripped. His warm palms cupped your breast while he bit your lips, also making you bleed. Bakugou then licked your neck, nibbling and giving you love-bites. He sucked you breasts, while you moaned at the painful pleasure. He wasn't joking around when he said punishment because he started grinding on your tighs as you felt his tip poking your clit. His tongue zoomed, licking your wetness; while he positioned himself inside, "Punishment for being so sexy," Your fingers grasped the sheets, while his hard member went in your tight hole. Moans of pleasure escaped your mouth as his cock fully entering you. He started pumping, your hands grabbed his Ash-blonde looms for support, "I'm... cumming— Ahhhh bloody hell!"

---

[ prolly an hour after tHoU had sex ]

The scent of pottage stew circulated your cozy cottage at the halo-white mountain. You would never be weary of the branches creaking while the brisk wind spiralled outside. Bakugou and you moved here three-years ago; it was the sublime lifestyle you longed for. An unsophisticated cottage, farm animals, your exquisite garden. Not to mention Katsuki Bakugou with you.

A thumping on the door made you jump in surprise, "Who may that be?"

The Ash-blonde scoffed, "It's just Shitty hair and Dunce face on their daily visits,"

You nodded, sprinting on the door to see the expected guests. Though, the person who knocked certainly isn't an expected person. Your eyes went round, legs trembling, as you felt tears running down your cheeks, "Todoroki,"

END | Reblog for continuation

part 2 contains: the demon of lust, Asmodeus; the basilica's mysteries; High-Priest Endeavor, the unknown father of Shouto the cleric

—

I kinda made some research for tHyYy to read a kinda accurate medieval story lol

credits to the artist for the featured photo

more lemons: [tap synagouge emojis] ⛪️ ; ⛪️ ; ⛪️

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 63: Land of Enchantment

Chapters: 63/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Mature Warnings: none Relationships: Loki x Reader (There We Go) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Heimdall(Marvel), Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), What Beautiful Music They Make, Even When Diner Food Is Bad It’s Still Pretty Good, Not Very Healthy Though, Get Thee To A Waffle House

Summary:   Loki visits Townsvill, USA

Loki had to admit a grudging respect for the human invention known as the internet. Such lawlessness. Such chaos. Such memes! And the fact that anything, anything at all, could be found there. Including information on the-to Loki's surprise-thousands of species of cicadas. It was one of the great mysteries of Midgard; this grand proliferation of living things. When just one version of something would have been fine, there somehow had to be dozens to thousands of kinds of that thing. Especially among the insect world. Why so many beetles? Why?

In your vast Iowa, there seemed to be almost twenty species, though, aside from size and color, there didn't seem to be much difference between them. They were all shaped like fat teardrops, with lacy, gossamer wings covering, but not hiding, their chubby, pointed abdomens. He did learn some interesting insect facts-there were some that only appeared every decade or so, some even went a full seventeen years without showing up, but when they did...

The word 'swarm' seemed to put it lightly.

Horrifying.

He learned about the singing frogs, and their whimsical names; the Bullfrog, the Chorus Frog, the Spring Peeper.

He researched the crickets, locusts, and grasshoppers.

He found recordings of all of these and more-coyotes, owls, the soft squeaking of bats. The loud, crepuscular Swifts, the equally loud, nocturnal Whip-Poor-Will, a well camouflaged bird named after its signature cry.

He could do something with all of this.

In the times in between doing his princely duties, he had things prepared. Some silk needed to be woven, some wooden frameworks made. It would take a little bit of time, but everyone worked faster when it was at the prince's request.

Once he had the blank 'canvas' on its series of wooden 'frames' he sent it to his favorite painters, with an image he wished for them to reproduce.

All the while he waited, he also dove into the study of your homeland.

Midgard was so very large, and he had spent so little time actually being there, and learning his surroundings. The sizes of countries baffled him sometimes. The United States was one of those countries that seemed to contradict its own existence. While not the largest of countries, it was still so large that its central government could not govern its entirety. Instead, it was broken up into 'states'; great chunks of land, many being so large as to be countries all their own. Each of these states governed themselves, reporting back to the central government. It was an odd arrangement, that struck Loki as woefully inefficient and ripe for rebellion.

In fact, his studies taught him that several such rebellions had occurred in the past, and had the possibility of rising again in the future.

He tried to listen to some of the music common to your nation-sized state, but could not stand it for more than a few songs. Modern Midgardian music was mostly terrible, in his opinion, lacking in melodiousness and refinement. The lyrics tended to be simplistic at best, examples of beginner's poetry.

He found some grudging enjoyment in the unusual instrumental achievements of what the radio stations called “Eighties Hits”, whatever that meant, but he would not be admitting that anytime soon.

The pictures and recordings didn't seem like enough. The music wasn't enough.

He needed to be there.

Loki could not take you to Old Asgard exactly, but he could make illusions to immerse you in the world in which he grew up. But you couldn't do that, you couldn't bring your homeland to him. If he was to understand you better, he would have to go there himself. Surround himself in your land, eat the food, breathe in the air.

And so he began planning a little vacation.

Or was it an espionage mission? No one other than Heimdall could know he was there: He was still very much a persona non grata in the United States. He could not take you with him. He would have to go in disguise. He would have to go at night, while you slept, so that you would not suffer for his distance from you.

Maybe someday he would be allowed back; to take you back to see all your friends and neighbors. Until then, he would just have to bring some of it back to you.

One evening, he kissed your forehead gently, telling you that he had an errand to run, and might not be back until morning. You were tired; it was clear to him. You didn't even question what he would be doing.

As he left the city limits, he let his outline shimmer and fade away, replacing himself with features that would be less likely to draw suspicion. Soon there was nothing but a grizzled old man in worn jeans and a stretched out black tee shirt. Boring. Ordinary. Unremarkable.

All the things he was sure he was not.

Heimdall met him with a sarcastic stare.

“What have we here?” He said in a flat voice. “A lost, Midgardian peasant? I suppose I shall have to send you home.”

In a time past, Loki might have felt bashful, but that was before he had realized that the gatekeeper had a sense of humor drier than the center of a star. Now he only felt grateful about how willing Heimdall was to break the rules.

“I wish to learn some things.” Loki said. “It's for the good of my subjects.”

“Plural?” Heimdall questioned. Loki pursed his lips and looked away. Heimdall twisted the sword.

The light gathered Loki up, and flung him across the sea.

                                                                          *****

The fields were vast in the dying light, stretching so far on every side, that it was impossible to see their end. The only break in the tall rows was the equally endless road Loki walked. He could smell the green plants as the sun disappeared beneath the corn, and the dust, and the mud in the roadside ditches.

Heat distorted the distance, assaulting his senses, but not as much as the noise.

Everywhere, every cubic inch of the world was the sawing scream of cicadas. It filled his skull, filled his bones, inescapable and omnipresent. How did you sleep in this? How could anyone sleep here?

But as he walked, as the day faded and the night awoke, Loki began to hear the song. The insects cries had a rhythm that rose and fell in rounds, constantly changing as a frog in a ditch puddle sang along, as crickets among the corn roots added their harmonies. The interruptions as something, perhaps himself, disturbed the nearest singers, causing them to fall silent, and change the melody entirely.

The whole world around him was alive, and reveling.

A dome of light on the horizon indicated your town. He would be there soon, an hour's walk at most.

The closer he got, the less he could see the emerging stars, a problem even the smallest of Midgardian settlements seemed to have. There were more vehicles too, several of them stopping to ask if he needed help. These he waved away with a friendly declaration that he was just out for a nice evening walk.

Eventually, there came a break in the cornfields, a wide verge between farmland and civilization. A sea of grass and barely visible wildflowers, closed up against the darkening night. He leaped over the ditch and strode a few feet into it, focusing on the last vestiges of wildflower scent, of the insects that rose into the air, the evening choir all around him.

The flashlight shining in his face, the stern questioning of an officer. The warning to move along. He wasn't even bothering anybody, and still, he was somehow in trouble.

The officer also offered him a ride, but Loki didn't trust it. A ride to the local prison maybe. The fellow was a bit too canny; he didn't seem to believe a thing Loki said.

He finally passed a city limit sign, that boasted of its two thousand residents. Smaller, even than Asgard, yet you'd spent your whole life here. Hemmed in by cornfields, like great, green walls. Lulled by the song of nature. Sick, and starving, and scared, without him.

And for a year of it, nearly alone, surrounded by dead fields, like even greater walls, no word from the outside world. Isolated, endangered, without even a single member of your family to draw comfort from. All because of Thanos. Just like Thor had been, in the aftermath. Just like he had been, after he fell.

But never again. None of you had to be alone now.

For a town, the place was surprisingly empty. There were large spaces between buildings, overgrown lawns and poorly manicured houses. There were churches; though in this country, there seemed to be churches on every corner. There was the grocery store he had taken you from. The memory had grown soft and treasured in his mind. The way you had fallen so dramatically in front of him, like a swooning maiden faced with raw power. The way life had flowed back into your limbs when he touched you, the way strength seized your soul, and you had so adorably tried to break his nose.

All he had felt then was your warmth. The blow might have felled a human man, but he was so much more. And he had since proven that to you. Mostly.

You still weren't ready for further steps into this relationship. That was okay. You had a busy life now, lots to think about. Your days were full of so much more than just deciding what icing to put on the cupcakes.

Speaking of...

Loki wandered the isles of the grocery store, imagining that you had done the same. Day in, day out, up and down these cramped, harshly lit shelves, until it was memorized. He stood outside the bakery section-closed by this time of night-knowing that you had spent years in that very spot. How the work of your hands had been appreciated by everyone who had bought any of the wide variety of baked goods on display, but had never been attributed to you. Every worker in this place wore the same uniform, the same hat, the same color. They were forced into facelessness.

You had worn that same uniform when he first found you. You'd lost your hat in the mire outside New Asgard, and he'd had the ugly, ill-fitted uniform thrown out. Only the apron remained, decorated, bettered, made more worthy of you and what you were becoming.

Loki adored the style of clothing you wore now; a mix of traditional Midgardian forms and Asgardian details-as unique in its position as you were. And you had taken to it so naturally! It would be nice to see you in some purely Asgardian pieces though. Specifically, Asgardian lingerie...

Loki tore his wandering mind away from that alluring subject, lingering instead on the array of presumably delicious baked goods before him. There were confetti cupcakes with galaxy-colored icing, covered in glitter, labeled 'Sayd-cupkakes', and a little photoshopped picture of you with rainbows and sparkles fountaining from your hands. He was sorely tempted to filch it, but he had already stolen something from this place.

On a table next to the cupcakes, there were green iced croissants, slightly unfurled before baking, in order to make them look less like a swirl, and more like bulls horns. These were labeled 'Lossants', and Loki struggled with amusement at the awful puns, and awareness about how inappropriate this probably was, considering all he had done. This would never have gone over in New York. The store would have been shut down immediately.

But your old workplace honored you. And seemed to at least acknowledge the reality of himself. If this tiny town could do that, perhaps there was hope yet.

Loki headed down the street, where it seemed a majority of the local eateries were located, and chose the most rustic looking. This would be the place where the local poor would eat, when they could afford to.

The décor was odd to him-it seemed there was little thematic cohesion, with everything from old signs, to movie posters, to farm animals made of wood or tin affixed to the walls. The false leather of the booth seating was red and cracked, and the yellowish lighting threw a grungy pall over everything.

Even in the guise of a rough old man, Loki managed to charm the waitress, ordering a combo plate of breakfast foods, which he was pleased to find were served all day. These were delicious, but he could see how they would be unhealthy for a human, who burned calories at a slower rate than Asgardians did. But Loki knew that peasants of both species needed hearty fare, to do the work that they did.

Personally, Loki found these 'waffles' to be delightful in taste and texture. Did you like these? Had you sat in this seat, smiled at this waitress, eaten waffles off these plates? Did you like this sublime sweetness known as maple syrup?

Or did you eschew these things in favor of the protein? These heavy scrambled eggs, the crunchy bacon, the sausage that was uncomfortably greasy. Asgardian food had been refined over millennia to provide for the needs of mighty warriors: it would be much healthier for you than this.

But maybe he could have some greasy sausage brought for you sometimes. He knew how you loved strong flavors.

He could feed you little tidbits. You could lick his fingers.

Again, Loki had to drag his thoughts away from such subjects, and concentrate on satisfying his other hungers. He had to pay with Icelandic money, bespelled to look like American dollars, but he would likely not be back this way again, so it wouldn't matter when the spell wore off.

Besides, they could just exchange it, couldn't they? It was the correct amount.

He wandered out into the night, allowing himself to get lost in the streets of your town. It was mostly quiet, but the sounds of music and television sets could be heard inside the houses, and cars ran back and forth infrequently on the hot streets. There was smoke in the air, the sounds of gatherings in backyards, and even here, the cry of cicadas.  Loki located your 'High School', and what must have also been your 'Middle School', and 'Elementary School', though he still didn't understand the distinction. But there was only one of each in this little town, so you must have attended at least one. Perhaps you had been selected for the 'High school' due to your intellectual acuity? But then why were you still a peasant among humans?

You were exalted in Asgard now, paramour to a prince. He wanted to believe that it didn't matter, but it was your upbringing. It was what had shaped your personality, and informed your outlook on life. This town, with its run down buildings and overgrown lots, fenced in by walls of corn, it had created you. This was your true maker; it moulded you, and was still a part of you, like the Shining Realm would always be a part of him, no matter what was going by the name of Asgard now.

Loki was not so sure that he really liked this place. For being so flat and open, it still felt hemmed in and constricting. But he liked you, so he liked something of this place.

He walked all the way to the other side of town, and out towards the corn. There was a verge here as well; grass and wild plants between the town and fields, and he lay down there, watching the stars go by.

He must gave dozed off, because next he knew, he was waking to a different song. Birds made up the chorus this time, and he sat up to the rising scent of clover, their little pink and white flowers heated by the light of the morning sun. They mingled with the honeysuckle vine winding along the fence behind him, and-yes those were the flowers you had shown him in the Akureyri botanical garden.

Eager to be gone before anybody noticed, he gathered a bouquet of the cheerful, purple blooms. These he pressed into your hands when you greeted him on his return, as well as a quick kiss on the top of your sleepy head

If you wondered how he had gotten them, you were too drowsy to ask, and he bid you go back to sleep. You could both be late today.

[altumvidetur]

Good Omens: Crowley/Aziraphale Fic Recs

So, I was thinking about the coronavirus pandemic and what I could do to help people out. I’m isolated because I’m at higher risk, so I can’t really offer to go out for my elderly neighbors or my family… but I thought I could try to help keep people entertained.

Because I don’t have an AO3 account right now, I’ve been compiling fic recs for my own amusement for a year or so. And I thought – maybe that’s the time to share these with everyone? So everyone will have plenty of things to read while they have to stay at home, or even to escape anxiety a little bit if you’re forced to go out.

Of course, these cater to my own tastes, so you may find stuff you don’t like around here. I never include works in progress. The Mature and Explicit works will be in italic. I ask you to READ THE WORK’S TAGS before continuing, so you won’t find anything that makes you uncomfortable.

Let’s go for the Ineffable Husbands fanfics!

In Nomine, by tinsnip

The first time he’d given in to the impulse to just make up a name, he’d felt a bit odd about it. But everything had gone so smoothly. He’d been able to just go in and eat and then leave and it hadn’t mattered at all, the human hadn’t really wanted to know his name, they’d just wanted something to peg him by while he was there.

And so: Fell. Ezra Fell. Ms Azee Phale. Mme A Zinnia File. A Z Fell, bookseller.

That last one has stuck around the longest, now. He’s grown rather attached to it.

A... A... what begins with A?

Aziraphale makes dinner reservations for himself and Crowley, and is a bit thoughtless. Silly business.

swimming in your ocean (i can get pretty sidetracked), by tinsnip

Under him, Aziraphale makes a soft, deep sound.

He lets go, leaves his lips just where they are. “You’re sweet. You taste sweet.”

Apparently Aziraphale isn’t up to making words right now.

***

Three little chapters of happy smut. Immortal genderless beings assuming mostly-human forms would, I figure, have a bit of a different approach to sex. They've got no particular drive, and all the time in the world. Getting sidetracked is part of the fun.

Eyes Closed, by tinsnip

Aziraphale makes love with his eyes closed.

Crowley doesn’t.

Bad Habits, by tinsnip

Clearly, both Crowley and Aziraphale used to smoke. We know this. We’ve been told this by Mr. Gaiman.

I’d be very surprised if either of them still does. But the reasons for this, and the methods by which their statuses changed, are different.

Notably: Crowley cheats. Aziraphale doesn't.

Like light, refracted, by tinsnip

Full steam ahead, decided Crowley: “I think we should get naked.”

Ethereal/occult lovemaking of the rather fluffy variety.

tell me all the ways, by tinsnip

Crowley was out in the garden.

Aziraphale was in his study, most definitely not looking out the window.

Really. Really. One little speck of sentiment: was it so much to ask?

what a way to make a living, by attheborder

Without any more assignments coming from Downstairs, Crowley is struck with a bad case of the doldrums.

It takes a bit of trial and error, but eventually a solution is found.

(Or: the one where Crowley becomes an Uber driver.)

summer and his pleasures, by witching

for summer and his pleasures wait on thee, and thou away, the very birds are mute; or if they sing, ‘tis with so dull a cheer, that leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near. // william shakespeare, sonnet 97

absence makes the heart grow fonder, and crowley and aziraphale’s hearts were plenty fond to begin with. a story told through phone calls while they are separated for work-related reasons.

nothing but the wild rain, by Raven

"The internet, Aziraphale!" Crowley says. "This is what the internet is for. This is, quite literally, what the internet is for."

"Oh," Aziraphale says, and Crowley knows, he just knows, that Aziraphale is going to say something about how it's jolly useful for hard-to-find first editions and tickets for the Last Night of the Proms.

or, Aziraphale and Crowley find sex confusing.

Forever, by goodomensblog

Heaven’s execution chamber was elegant, magnificent - and bare. Polished floors gleamed, immaculate; their cleanliness made it impossible to guess at the atrocities committed upon them. Clean, white walls glared, and a window as large as the room was tall, teased of freedom just out of reach.

At the center of it all, was a chair.

And upon that chair, an angel sat.

Across the cold, stark room - too far from the angel - a demon knelt, bound.

The ropes burned, and Crowley hissed, hunching his shoulders as he turned his head up. The angel, his wrists tied to the chair, met and held his stare.

No, it couldn’t - it wasn’t - this wasn’t right.

Confused and in pain, Crowley called, “Angel, you alright?”

Aziraphale’s light hair appeared white in the harshly lit room, and his face had gone pale; but at Crowley’s call he sat up in the chair, bound hands giving a feeble wave.

London. 1944., by AliceinSpace

The air ripples and stars blink in and out of existence as the fabric of the universe creates a loophole in the middle of the street. A figure drops unceremoniously from that loophole and hits the pavement in a tangle of limbs.

"-is that a gunshot wound?”

Or the one in which a fatally injured Crowley runs to the only place that makes sense: a bookshop in Soho.

Of Eclairs, Feathers and Complex Reactions to Trauma, by oneatatime

“Do you know,” Aziraphale said, his voice muffled in the shoulder of Crowley’s jacket, “that when humans go through trauma, they can be quite calm and competent throughout, but then the terror comes out later, as it must?

Take My Hand, Take My Whole Life Too, by Demorra

He didn’t want to think about the bookshop. It hurt in a way that was entirely too visceral to be angelic, and entirely too earth shattering to be human. It was the love of several hundred years, burned up in an instant. It shouldn’t have mattered, not if he were truly angelic. But he shed a few silent tears anyway and felt somewhat better for it. All things considered, it wasn’t the end of the world.

No, that had been much more complicated.

And yet, somehow so very mundanely human. No great battle, no heavenly sounding of horns or hordes of demons. Just a choice, a choice not between Good and Evil, but between darkness and light, hope and despair, fear and… and love…

the mortifying ordeal of being known (biblically), by FlipSpring

"Relax, angel, it's not much worse. It's just our bodies. It's not like we enfolded or anything." ~ Crowley, in 500 AD, after having physical sex with Aziraphale for the first time, blissfully unaware that he has just foreshadowed himself into a corner

*

Crowley procrastinates on his feelings by taking a 5-year nightmare nap after the End Of The World. Aziraphale comes in like, "dude wake the fuck up, also, do you wanna metaphysically bang maybe? no pressure." and then Crowley loses his goddamn mind, because he is a delicately-stacked bundle of neuroses in black skinny jeans.

Also they have breakfast and check in on Tadfield.

Re-Recalled, by Jennistar

Halfway through an argument, Aziraphale gets accidentally discorporated and doesn't come back. Crowley does the sensible thing and panics.

Luminosity, by bethagain

A quick trip to bless someone with a miracle takes a wrong turn, and Aziraphale and Crowley are stuck overnight in rural Iceland. The northern lights are beautiful, but it turns out demons, cold-blooded, tend to seize up when it's freezing out. Aziraphale finds a way to get him warm again.

i don’t know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth, by Princex_N

(Summary by me: the one in which Crowley has been living with chronic pain for thousands of  years.)

Queen’s Greatest Hits, by BuzzCat

Good Omens fanfic with no coherent through-line between fics aside from each one is inspired in one way or another by a Queen song, listed in the notes for each fic.

i know i’ve kissed you before (but i didn’t do it right), by gallantrejoinder

They'd given it a go once. Ages ago. And they'd both agreed it wasn't for them.

the whole damned world seemed upside down, by citadelofswords

(Summary by me: facing the odds and moving on with the world.)

Leaves of Grass, by Laura Shapiro

(Summary by me: the world is saved, and now they’re left to explore each other.)

The Sacred and the Profane, by afrai

(POPULLI.NET link) Somewhere else, the happy ending was different. AU.

Be Ye Therefore Merciful, by AmberDiceless

Crowley does something utterly unexpected, and Aziraphale must face an opponent who cannot be thwarted. Hints of pre-A/C.

Full Circle, by Hekateras

Nothing lasts forever and the final Apocalypse can only be delayed for so long.

There is a school of thought that says you cannot fight fate.

And another that claims there's no such thing as predestination, only those powerful enough to make your choices for you - if you let them.

Aziraphale puts both to the test.

Living Arrangements, by afrai

(POPULLI.NET link) Everyone is more or less human, even when they aren't.

Nanny Knows Best, by DictionaryWrites

Summary by me: an exploration of Crowley’s experience as Warlock’s nanny. 

From the Top (Say Your Lines Once More), by CoffeeStars

Crowley lives and dies and wakes up to repeat the cycle. And every single time Aziraphale is there, a different face and new memories.

Manchester Lost, by Moczo

(FF.Net Link)  -an ensemble sequel to the novel- Our heroes have managed to make things worse, as the Apocalypse is starting up... again. Drama! Action! Humor! Adventure! Tea! Suspense! Snark! Romance!

[artificialqueens]

intents wicked or charitable (trixya) 1/10 - beanierose

AN: thank you so much to conny, shea and sophie for caring about this universe as much as i do, you are all so wonderful and i am so lucky. dolly the dog is borrowed from conny’s daisies universe, which is the loveliest and most gentle thing of all time. go check it out!

(read on ao3) | (fine me at katiehoughton)

a practical magic au for the spooky season. there’s a curse on any man who dares love you? love a woman, instead. | 5,479 words

be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn’d bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell be thy intents wicked or charitable hamlet, act one scene four

*   *   *

The wind catches the door to the mudroom and makes it fly open with such a loud crash that the whole house shivers and the dog starts barking. Trixie hustles over the threshold and whistles for Dolly, has to wrestle the door closed once both of them are inside. The sky is livid-dark and churning and the wind moans low in its throat. Dolly whines and hurries away to curl up in front of the hearth. Trixie huffs a little laugh under her breath, to soothe herself mostly. She likes living alone out here three miles from town, and she isn’t usually freaked out by solitude, but the earth feels angry this afternoon.

It’s cold out today, much warmer inside the house, and her cheeks are ruddy. Trixie toes out of her boots and untucks her fisherman’s sweater from her jeans to pull it up over her head. She pads through to the kitchen in her sock feet and her thermal layer. The whole house smells rich and good and a little tomatoey. Trixie lifts the lid of the crockpot and leans over it, lets the steam hit her face. She’s grateful to her this-morning self for fixing supper and she stirs the stew a couple of times, tastes some of the broth from the end of the spoon.

She knows just what they’d say, Kim and Bob and all the rest of them. She hears them laughing right in her ear like ghouls. Today she got up with the sun and made a stew for one with carrots and potatoes and zucchini she pulled out of the earth herself. Trixie is trying to be as self-sufficient as she can, now that she’s here. That’s the whole point.

The city became entirely too loud, the kitchen louder still. She doesn’t miss the money or the respect or the power, doesn’t miss the cries of yes chef in response to every word out of her mouth. She doesn’t miss the almost of her television career, the stardom everybody kept insisting was right at her fingertips if she just stretched a little further. Trixie misses her friends sometimes and absolutely nothing else about that life.

“Dolly!” she calls out, and the dog comes trotting into the kitchen. Trixie scratches her behind the ears, stoops over to kiss the slope of her snout. “Hey, beautiful girl. Are you hungry? Dinner time?”

She gets an enthusiastic wag of Dolly’s whole body in response and then the dog disappears through to the mudroom to wait. She’s a greyhound, not a farm dog at all, but Trixie has had Dolly a lot longer than she’s lived out here. One of the very first projects she did when she moved in was to create a little feeding station for Dolly, a kind of shelf to keep her bowls off of the ground and accommodate her height.

It felt dykey in a way she never really has before. Even as a chef, opening her own restaurant in a field so dominated by men, Trixie has always clung tightly to her femininity with both neatly manicured hands. Something about kneeling down on the hardwood and drilling a hole into her wall felt so butch that she caught a wicked case of church giggles and had to shut the drill off. She had stifled them against her palm for a minute and then remembered that there is no one for miles around. Instead, she had tipped her head back and let her laughter ricochet around the room.

Trixie eats dinner by herself, as she has done every night for the last four months. She sits at the dining table in the main living space because she hates eating on the couch. From here she can see outside in the mornings, all the way across the fields at the rear of her property, but now that the evenings are starting to draw in she just watches herself chew.

There’s no television at the house. She bought the place fully furnished and hasn’t really added anything, didn’t see the point when everything she needs is here already. She doesn’t miss it. There’s the radio in the kitchen and there’s Dolly for companionship and she finds that she likes it. Trixie didn’t bring any makeup with her, or her blow dryer or curling iron. She felt herself shedding layers of performative femininity with every mile she drove north, Dolly in the passenger seat beside her and four boxes tied down in the bed of the truck.

When Trixie turns on the shower she hears the water heater start groaning two floors below her. She is long since accustomed to all of the peculiar quirks of this house, all of the noises it makes. They have had to get used to each other, the house and her. She knows that the front door sticks in the frame when it’s cold out and the lock doesn’t work great so it’s best to avoid using it if possible. She knows that the third stair down creaks the loudest and that when it rains heavily the gutter outside the reading room overflows and water pours in torrents down the window. It feels like home here, more than her Los Angeles apartment ever did, or Wisconsin before that.

The water takes a while to get warm, so Trixie leaves it running while she peels out of the rest of her clothes. She unwinds her hair from its braids and inspects herself in the mirror over the sink. Most of her days are spent outside now, not being perceived by anybody, so a little jolt of unfamiliarity hits her each evening when she faces her reflection. Her cheeks are a bit fuller than she remembers, and so are her stomach and thighs. She feels good, strong. She holds her arm up across her breasts to get a sense of how tan she’s getting. The skin of her chest is still creamy smooth and pale, but her arms and face are littered with new freckles every day and the fine hairs on her forearms have been bleached white-blonde by the sun.

Trixie stands beneath the spray of the shower until the hot runs out. She washes her hair, combing the conditioner through the ends with her fingers. Her body aches in a way that is so different than how it used to, after hours on her feet in the sticky kitchen. It feels more like she’s earned it.

It’s Friday night, and Trixie has a date. She squeezes as much water as she can from the ends of her hair and gets into bed in underwear and a huge sweatshirt. When Trixie left the city she ditched her cell phone. She always felt silly having one, like she was playacting at being more successful than she really was, and she was glad to bid it farewell. Only two people in the whole world know the number for the landline here. Trixie answers on the second ring and eases down the headboard a bit. Her bare legs slide against each other beneath the sheet and the blanket and for just a moment it makes her ache with loneliness.

“Beatrice.”

“Kimberly, hello,” she says. “How are you?”

Kim launches right into a diatribe against the restaurant industry as a whole and Trixie sits with her eyes closed, only half listening. She feels it’s important to maintain some connection to the outside world, just in case the isolation makes her lose her mind and there’s nobody around to notice. Kim is so soft-spoken and gentle and kind that it’s bizarre to hear her get this heated. It reminds Trixie again why she’s doing this.

“You know I have a guest room.”

“Trixie,” Kim sighs. Trixie is holding the phone close enough to her ear that she feels the hot wash of Kim’s breath over her cheek. “I’m not quitting my job and packing up my life and disappearing into the wilderness.”

Like you, goes unspoken. Kim has been supportive this whole time. She doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand how Trixie could walk away from all of the opportunities unfolding before her like springtime. But she kept her sighs and eyerolls mostly to herself and she helped Trixie pack and that’s a lot more than most people did.

“I’m just saying. Offer’s open.”

Now that the sun has gone down it’s freezing in the bedroom. Gooseflesh erupts along the lengths of Trixie’s thighs. She lets Kim talk for a little while longer about Los Angeles and what all of their mutual friends are doing and how everybody, Trixie, misses you so much, and then she eases her gently off the call and hangs up the phone.

She has on her thickest, cosiest pair of wool socks and she skids a little bit on the hardwood in the hallway. It excites the dog and she leaps around, pawing at Trixie’s bare calves. Trixie opens the back door and sends Dolly outside to use the bathroom while she heats water on the stovetop. It’s so cold that she shifts her weight from foot to foot, hopping a little, and rubs her biceps to try and generate some heat.

It doesn’t matter how deep into the winter it gets, she hates sleeping with pants on. Trixie does a quick circuit of the lower level to check all of the doors are locked, an old habit from Los Angeles that she can’t seem to shake, and turns out all of the lamps as well. She’s done in time for the kettle to start its insistent whistling and she fills up her hot water bottle, brings it and the dog upstairs with her. Trixie sleeps with Dolly in the bed and two blankets and she is still chilly for a good half hour every evening.

On her back in the textured darkness, Trixie stares at the ceiling and allows herself to yearn for just a minute. She needs a warm, kind woman to let Trixie put her freezing hands inside of her sweater. Her whole body aches with it, how much she wants. It’s not even that she misses Bob, exactly. She just misses having someone to lay next to her and kiss her until the pink tip of her nose gets warm.

There are no curtains in any of the rooms upstairs. Trixie keeps meaning to get some, to try and keep the warmth in now that summer is rolling over into fall, but she likes being able to see out into the night. The moon’s wise, round face is peering in at her right up against the glass. Since she’s been here she’s been sleeping well, sacked out on her stomach unmoving until the rooster wakes her at six. Tonight, though, she is restless and grouchy with it.

Tomorrow, for the first time, Trixie is going to drive the three miles and visit the town.

She brought a lot of supplies with her, cans and dried things like rice and pasta. The teenage son of the family in the house closest to her, a half mile down the road, gratefully accepts the ten dollar bill Trixie presses into his palm each Wednesday afternoon when he brings her milk and cheese and fruits. She has learned to bake her own bread, likes the process of working at it and how it has made her arms firm and strong. Now that the crops she planted are starting to yield, her neat rows beginning to spill over in abundance, she feels much more self-sufficient.

There are things that she needs that she can’t put off for much longer. Things she is not comfortable asking a fifteen year old boy to buy for her. And she supposes she ought to show her face to the townsfolk, now that she’s been lurking on the outskirts for almost half a year like a cryptid.

Trixie comes awake into the crisp, clear morning and can immediately see frost on the windowpane. She pulls on jeans in the bedroom and her duck boots in the mudroom and heads outside to let the chickens out. The coop structure has a kind of sliding door with a long handle that Trixie can pull from the outside and the girls all come clattering down the little ramp.

She opens the door of the pen to let them roam around the yard for a while. Dolly darts back and forth, her graceful body low to the ground and her tail in the air. She’s a city dog, and a sighthound with a high prey drive, but Trixie doesn’t need to worry. She’s patient with the girls, and they are obsessed with her.

“Good morning, Patsy-girl,” Trixie says when her favourite Rhode Island Red pecks insistently at her boot clad foot. She scoops the chicken up and cradles her to her chest, supports both of her feet in the palm of one hand so she’ll stop flapping and settle down. “Hi, princess. Hi pretty lady.”

Her voice is so soft and melty when she talks to any of the animals. She hears it in herself and can’t seem to do anything about it. Trixie has to set the chicken down because the others are squawking and hopping about her ankles, distressed that their sister is getting all of the attention. She squats down instead and has to put four fingertips to the ground to steady herself when Loretta and Shania immediately hop up onto her thighs. Trixie is long past being precious about keeping her hands clean. She’s always kept her nails short anyway, and she’s gotten used to scrubbing the dirt out from beneath them before dinner each night.

The cow shed is her next stop. There are no actual cows in there, as much as she would like to have them, but the previous owner of the property had thrown into the sale of the house a pair of cantankerous, curmudgeonly goats. They spend their nights tucked up warm amongst the hay and, she’s pretty sure, plotting ever more convoluted ways to make Trixie’s life difficult.

“Good morning Cash, Guthrie,” Trixie says when she opens the door and gets a stony stare from one and a disgruntled bleat from the other. They are the only men in a half mile radius, so of course they are ornery and smell disgusting and fight constantly with anything nearby, including each other.

Trixie opens the gate to let them out into the paddock. She likes how her mornings look, the routine of going around feeding all of the animals and making sure they have water and wishing them all a happy start to their day. She’s always been a country girl; nine years in Los Angeles couldn’t beat that out of her. Sometimes when she wakes in the morning to Garth’s insistent crowing she feels as if she’s in her thirteen year old body again, too big for her skin and stretching taller and thicker every day.

Once everybody is fed, including herself, Trixie tries to become a little more presentable. First impressions matter: it’s why she always vetted her front-of-house staff so thoroughly and why she was so obsessively detail-oriented when designing the façade of her restaurants. She’s going to be meeting a whole lot of new people today. She’d rather they didn’t clock that she’s a loner and a lesbian before she even gets a chance to open her mouth.

The truck engine rolls over twice before she gets it to start and Trixie mutters something under her breath that might be an incantation. While she drives into town she has a very difficult time not looking at herself in the rearview mirror. For the first time she wishes she’d brought a little makeup with her, even just some mascara and lipstick. Her face is pink and weathered and her hair had refused to cooperate so she’s wound it into her usual two braids and jammed a beanie over the top to at least try to look intentional.

Trixie parallel parks on the street and hops down from the cab of the truck. The step is muddy, but her boots are caked with crud anyway so it hardly matters. There are kids playing further up the street and all five of them stop what they’re doing and turn as one to look at her. It’s creepy, a bit Children of the Corn, and a shiver rattles up Trixie’s spine. She wraps her men’s cord jacket tighter around herself and arranges her scarf at her neck. The cold is a copper taste in her throat and the skin of her face feels pulled taut, pink-raw.

The whole town is serene and lovely. Trixie walks slowly down the main street, hands stuffed low into the pockets of her coat because she forgot to bring gloves with her. It’s big enough that it makes her feel delicate and tiny and precious, all hunkered down inside of it.

Each building has a different coloured siding and all of the storefronts are neatly kept and welcoming. As Trixie walks she hears the susurration of the water against the shores of the cove and the crunch of her own footsteps. It’s not so quiet here in town as it is back at the house, but above the shouts of the children playing and the occasional car rumbling by it’s still peaceful.

There’s a pharmacy at the end of the street, close to the dock, and Trixie ducks inside. A bell over the door signals her arrival and the old man behind the register looks up from the newspaper and smiles at her. He’s missing one of his front teeth. Trixie gives him a tiny nod of her head and waves away his offer to help find what she needs. It’s a much faster experience than back in Los Angeles because there is only one choice of shampoo, one soap, one brand of analgesic.

She sets everything down on the counter. The man begins scanning everything, not watching what he’s doing because his eyes are raking up and down Trixie. She’s wearing a lot of layers today so it’s not like he’s getting an eyeful, but it still makes the skin at the back of her neck prickle.

“Well hey there, little lady. You must be new in town. I’m Tom.” He gets done ringing everything up but makes no move to bag it or ask her for her money.

Trixie pulls her wallet free from the back of her jeans, has to wrestle with it a bit because it gets caught on the corner of the pocket. She gives Tom her well-worn, please don’t try to have a conversation with me right now smile. Very carefully does not offer him her name back.

“I live a few miles outside of town. Out on Fort Casey Road.”

“Well, everybody here’s real friendly. Can’t get steered too wrong. Just-” He props an elbow on the counter and leans conspiratorially in. Trixie tries very hard not to physically recoil. “Just steer clear of Verbena.”

“What’s Verbena?”

Trixie hands over a couple of bills, hoping to hurry along this interaction. She’s trying not to let impatience crease the space between her eyebrows, trying not to ruin the first conversation she’s had outside of her phone calls with Kim in four months. It’s a little like her muscles have begun to atrophy; she’s working to stretch them out, but it’s uncomfortable.

Tom hands her change over to her, folds her fingers closed around the handful of coins in her palm. She finds that absolutely reprehensible. Trixie stuffs the coins hastily into the pocket of her coat and wipes her palm off against her thigh, not at all caring whether he sees. She hopes that he does.

“Verbena is the apothecary across the street.” Tom pauses, swept up in the drama of it all. He turns to look over his shoulder and Trixie follows his gaze, spots an unassuming little store almost directly opposite. When she looks back at Tom he drops his voice an octave. “The witch owns it.”

“The what?” Trixie snorts, and then realises that Tom is deadly serious and clamps her mouth shut. He nods fervently at her but doesn’t offer any more information. Trixie feels a sigh forming in the base of her throat and swallows it back down. She’s a lesbian. She feels an automatic, ferocious kinship with spurned women. “Right. Okay. Thanks.”

She takes her purchases in their brown paper bag and leaves the store. Outside it’s bright and crisp, and she doesn’t feel like getting back into the car just yet. She can feel Tom’s eyes on her still, through the glass frontage of the pharmacy. The violation of it is rapidly making her furious. Trixie has never liked being told what to do, especially by old men. She doesn’t allow herself to hesitate for even half a beat before she strides across the street and right on in to Verbena.

It’s a cute place. The exterior is painted all white and there are planters full of lavender either side of the door. It will be beautiful in the springtime. Inside there are bottles and jars and packages of all different sorts, so many that Trixie can’t even begin to decipher them all on her first sweep around. It smells wonderful, there’s an aromatherapy burner on one of the shelves and Trixie takes a step closer to it, bends at the waist to breathe it in a little deeper.

“Oh, hi. Hello. Welcome.”

The voice startles Trixie a bit and she straightens again, turns to look. All of the breath stutters in her chest. The most beautiful woman she’s ever seen — the most beautiful woman she will ever see in her life — is standing there. She’s grinning at her with a set of perfect teeth that Trixie stares at for probably a beat too long. Her white-blonde hair just skims the tops of her shoulders, heavy bangs a little long so she has to blink them out of her eyes. She’s lovely. Trixie’s palms are sweating.

“Um. Hi.”

“I’m Katya.” She offers her hand and Trixie takes it, has to maneuver the bag from the pharmacy into one arm. Katya squeezes instead of shaking and it’s so completely charming that Trixie feels her face getting hot. At least she can blame it on how much warmer it is in the store than outside.

“Trixie.”

“Trixie,” Katya repeats softly, like she’s trying it on for size. She’s still smiling so wide and Trixie finds herself grinning back, goofy Wisconsin teeth and all. “Hello, Trixie. Is there anything I can help you find today?”

The heat in her cheeks and neck is getting to be a bit much. Trixie sets her bag down on the countertop, takes off her jacket and folds it over her arm, pulls off her beanie hat as well. She definitely has hat hair and she smoothes her hands self-consciously over the top of her head.

“I…kind of came in here out of spite?” Trixie chews on her bottom lip, but Katya throws her head back and a pneumatic burst of laughter ricochets out of her.

“So you met Tom?”

Katya is still laughing and she reaches out to grab Trixie’s arm. Her fingers are thin and she clutches tight and everything in Trixie’s body knots up into Katya’s grip. She’s a few inches shorter than Trixie is and she smells good, like earth and springtime. When she straightens up again she slides her fingertips down the length of Trixie’s forearm as she lets go.

“I did. So no, I’m not looking for anything specific.”

“I can show you around?” Katya offers.

Trixie nods, certain that she’s completely failing at reining in her enthusiasm. Katya is the first new person she’s met in the last four months that hasn’t irritated her immediately. She lets her take her hat and coat and hang them up by the door, lets her hook her arm through Trixie’s elbow and lead her around like they’re old friends.

All of the products in the store are homemade and Katya explains the properties of each one, allows Trixie to smell things and try samples at her leisure. Katya is effusive and intelligent. Her whole face comes alight when she talks about the merits of mugwort or how close she is to perfecting her mint oatmeal shaving cream. Trixie works a lotion into her hands and lifts them both to her face to breathe deeply. Her skin feels immediately softer, and the places where her knuckles are chapped from working outside look less red and angry.

The two of them are standing with their heads bent together, studying Katya’s collection of beeswax candles. Katya’s got both hands in the back pockets of her hunter green cords and her elbows are pointy and jut out away from her. It means that every time Trixie shifts, the right one nudges into her. She likes it a lot. Katya holds up one of the candles and Trixie leans in to smell it, closes her eyes as she does.

A crash makes the windows of the storefront tremble in their frames and Trixie jerks upright, one hand flying up to land at her chest. Katya doesn’t even twitch. They turn together to see a pack of teenage boys sprinting away from the store, and a mess of egg white and yolk and shell sliding slowly down the window. Trixie is fairly sure she spots the neighbour boy, Peter, in amongst them.

Trixie makes as if to head for the door, but Katya grabs for her elbow to stop her where she stands. That’s probably best. What is she going to do, chase them? Outrage bubbles hot and insistent in her stomach and she turns to look at Katya.

“Aren’t you going to do something?”

“Sure I am.”

Katya reaches down behind the counter and comes back with a soft cloth and a spray bottle. Trixie follows her outside and stands and watches as she cleans her windows, one knee propped on the bench out front so she can lean in close. She’s shoved her sweater up past her elbows and Trixie likes the flex of the tendons in her forearms, her intricate tattoos, her delicate hands. It feels like she’s standing guard, and she finds herself glancing over her shoulders to watch for the mob coming back.

After a few minutes Katya’s arms get tired of scrubbing and she takes a break to shake them out. Trixie takes over, makes sure to meticulously spray every inch of the glass and get all of it off. The winter sun sits low in the sky and if the egg is allowed to bake onto the window it’s much harder to remove. Katya is watching her with both hands shoved into the pockets of her pants again. She has the bottoms of them rolled up so a strip of skin shows above her Dr. Martens, and Trixie is focusing very hard on not looking at her pale ankles.

When they’re done, Katya holds the door open for Trixie and flips the lock behind them both. She has a tiny little break room at the back of the store and she makes tea for the two of them, presses the cup into Trixie’s waiting hands. She doesn’t seem affected, and somehow that’s worse.

“This happen a lot?”

“A beautiful woman coming into my store? Never.” Katya grins at her over the rim of her mug, but when Trixie keeps her face carefully slack she falters. “Yeah. I’m what the kids call an outcast.”

“Oh honey, an outcast honey? I’ve been out since ninety two, honey.”

It’s a dumb joke, but it makes Katya scream and slosh a little of her tea onto her hand. It’s hot still and she sucks on the webbing between her thumb and pointer finger. Trixie looks at the red stain the lipstick leaves on her skin, looks at the pink tip of Katya’s tongue.

“That’s awful,” Katya points at her. “You’re awful, Trixie. I think the homophobes might have a point.”

They’re both laughing then, and clutching at each other. It seems like Katya’s whole body is full up with joy, and she’s looking at Trixie like she’s so pleased to find her here. Trixie hopes that Tom is squinting at them from across the street and turning slowly to stone.

She sips her tea and lets her eyes flutter closed. She doesn’t know what’s in here but it’s good, kindles a small fire in her gut that spreads outwards into all of her extremities. It could just be Katya, smiling at her and calling her beautiful.

Once they’ve both emptied their mugs, Katya takes a gift bag from a stack beside the register and wanders around the store for a little while, choosing things to fill it up with. She is careful, each choice considered. Trixie watches her, lets herself look at Katya’s tight ass in her pants when she bends over. It’s been six months since things ended with Bob, and Trixie isn’t one to have a casual fling, so the heat between her thighs is more insistent than usual.

“Here.” Katya presses the bag into Trixie’s hands. “To say thanks.”

Trixie doesn’t open the bag, doesn’t want to seem too eager. She has a sense memory of her grandmother slapping her hands and tutting at her, telling her it lacks decorum to open gifts in front of the giver. Instead, she holds it against her chest and meets Katya’s eyes. They are blue-grey, clear and abundant as a winter morning.

“Thank you. This is…this is really nice. Suspiciously nice.”

“If you start feeling feverish and vomiting it’s absolutely nothing to worry about, Tracy.” Katya studies her cuticles, feigning disinterest. Trixie notices her short nails and feels it between her thighs, takes a stuttering breath. “Just do me a favour and leave your door unlocked so I don’t have to commit breaking and entering when I come to harvest your bones. That’s a felony, you know.”

Trixie snorts and snatches her hand back from where Katya has grabbed it. “Oh sure, anything else I can do to make it easier for you?”

“Come back soon?” Katya says, and all of the teasing drops right out of her voice. She can’t seem to look Trixie in the face, studies the floor instead, and tenderness for her swells in Trixie’s chest.

“If I live through the night, I’ll come back.”

Trixie leaves then, has to. The way Katya is looking at her, like she can’t seem to choose just one thing to stare at, is making Trixie want to shove her hands inside of those tight pants and haul Katya against her.

In the car she rolls the windows down and cranks up both the heat and the volume on the CD player. She sings at the top of her lungs, elbow propped on the door and her other hand holding the wheel in two fingers. It’s freezing cold in the car and she’s shivering in her seat, barely able to grip the wheel in her numb hands, but her face is still warm.

When she moved here she was fully prepared to be the only gay person for miles and miles. It doesn’t bother her; growing up in Wisconsin desensitised her to that. But now here is Katya, beautiful and enigmatic and funny and asking to see Trixie again.

Dolly can tell that Trixie is excited and it’s infectious; she hops around while Trixie unpacks the few groceries she picked up. Trixie feeds her treats, crouched down on the kitchen floor to let the dog eat out of her palm and give her scritches behind the ears.

Trixie has always enjoyed anticipation. Bob used to complain at her, irritated by the way she would spend an hour or more gussying up before coming to bed. It makes her feel attractive and irresistible, to make herself wait. She leaves the gift bag on the dining table for the whole afternoon and refuses to even look at it while she makes dinner. After she’s cleaned up and all of the animals are down for the night, she settles cross-legged in the middle of her bed to open it.

There’s a tube of the lotion she tried, which makes her smile. She’s been smelling her hands all afternoon. There’s an aloe face cream that professes to be good for redness, and a candle that has the same scent as whatever essential oil Katya had been burning. Underneath everything else in the bag is a little notecard with the store’s name and logo on one side, and on the other Katya’s name and the store address. And at the bottom, hand written in red ink, is a phone number.

[masterofthewarcry]

Chapter 1 (of my original fiction)

The market was a very busy place, as all markets should be. The cobbled streets were crowded with flimsily built booths, sometimes blocking the way into the stores they stood in front of. People darted between stores and stands, trading their hard won coinage for necessary, or sometimes unnecessary but luxurious, items. Shopkeepers tried to make themselves heard above the din, shouting about sales and low prices, only to be caught up in the blend of voices that made the market have its own atmosphere, loud but not overwhelming.

               The market was the perfect place for the seeds of change to be planted, and that was exactly what Lysandra planned to do. She had been frequenting public areas for the past three months now, trying to get people to join the cause. Her efforts had been somewhat successful, requiring a new safe house to be acquired, and more supplies to be procured. Granted, they didn’t have the money for that right now, but they could always make up the difference by cutting the wealthy’s purses.

               Lysandra did a quick scan of the area, looking for the familiar glint of chain mail and royal colors that meant guards were nearby. For a moment, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something, but it had just turned out to be a shopkeeper’s awning, proudly displaying the royal colors. She would have to be sure to mess with him later.

               She made her way over to the fountain in the middle of the street, carved in the likeness of Alcibiades, the father of the current king, Onesiphoros. Though the fountain had eroded considerably, Alcibiades strong features were still present, his stone cold eyes not much different than they had been when he was alive.

               She stepped up on the ledge of the fountain, gazing down into the shallow water. There were no coins symbolizing well wishes anymore, having been scooped up by needy hands a while ago. Lysandra remembered tossing her own coins in as a small child, wishing for stupid things, like the boy next door to fall in love with her, or to become a princess overnight.

               What would she think of herself now?

               She was beginning to draw attention, perched on the side of the fountain, looking over the heads of the crowd. Lysandra turned to face the oncoming foot traffic, smiling at the few people who had already gathered at the foot of the fountain, waiting to hear what she had to say. She recognized a few of their faces, people that had either already joined her force or at least attended her little speeches before.

               She cleared her throat, and began to speak.

               “Good afternoon, good people of Provlimata.” She began. “I come to you on this fine day with a message.” Lysandra cringed at herself a little; the starts to her speeches were always rough, no matter how she tried to smooth it out.

               “Our kingdom, our home, is in terrible poverty.” She saw a few people perk up at this statement. That was always the attention grabber, the very thing the crown would not address, but was on everyone’s minds.

               She gestured down to the fountain. “A perfect metaphor, this fountain. I’m sure you all remember, when not two years ago, the pennies from this fountain would feed the homeless and bums who wander the streets. Now, the fountain is empty, and the homeless have either moved on or died.” She paused for effect. “But don’t worry, dear friends, our streets are still full, with new homeless families forced out of their homes by debt to the crown.”

               People were starting to gather now, mothers with small children clinging to their skirts and baskets in their arms. A few artisans wandered away from the shade of their stands to come closer. A few young men, stood near the back, looking up at Lysandra skeptically. She would have to approach them, if they stuck around.

               “The drought has razed our farms and our rivers, severely damaging our farmers and fishermen’s incomes. Without the bountiful harvest, we have nothing to trade, no materials to manufacture, but more importantly, nothing to eat. And what does the crown do? Nothing!” She paused a bit, letting the last word hang in the air, watching a few people nod along to what she has said.

               “Onesiphoros refuses to lower the taxes, does not offer any sort of support, and still drafts our sons in his army without a second thought. He and his court enjoy feasts, while the rest of us ration out our food and go to bed hungry. This cannot be allowed to continue.” Lysandra said. “The crown has abused its power for two years too long!”

               There were a considerable amount of people gathered around now, mostly market goers, but a few shopkeepers mixed into the batch. Lysandra caught sight of the royally colored awning again, this time her gaze drawn to a short man stood underneath, his arms crossed over his chest. She pointed to him, drawing the crowds attention to him and his store.

               “You, sir!” She started. “Do you support the crown?”

               The man scanned over the crowd gathered around the fountain, his eyes narrowing before he responded. “Aye.” He barked. “I’ve made many a sword for the kings army.”

               “So you’re a blacksmith.” Lysandra nodded. “Im sure you make a pretty penny for your work.”

               The man said nothing, still eyeing Lysandra and the crowd.

               Lysandra turned back to her people before her. “Its people like those, favored by the king, whether directly or indirectly, that will survive this recession if we don’t take action.” She quickly looked over her audience again, her gaze settling on a younger looking woman. “You, ma’am!”

               The woman blinked up at Lysandra, her arms folded around a basket full of bread.

               “Would you like to see your family starved while people like this blacksmith go to bed with full stomachs?”

               “No, of course not.” She said.

               “Then what are we going to do about it?” Lysandra asked. “The crown has never let anyone below a knights status into the court, and refuses to be reasoned with. They have locked themselves behind stone walls, isolated from the world outside, with no idea of the effect they have on us citizenry. What I propose, is a new sort of government.”

               As if on cue, glances among the audience were traded, and whispers were shared. Lysandra noticed a few people leave, which was to be expected. But she was pleased to see the majority of her hard-earned crowd stay, to enraptured by the thought of change to walk away now.

               “A government,” Lysandra continued. “Where the people have a say in the laws. Where one family cannot seize control and hold it above their heads. Where court members are chosen based on merit and intelligence rather than the status they were born into.” She paused. “I know it sounds like treason. But isn’t that the risk we have to take to see our children grow up in a world where they are free?”

               An older gentleman near the back of the assembly began to clap, smiling at Lysandra. It quickly caught on, spreading like wildfire, and soon the whole square was clapping. Lysandra took a self-indulgent bow, sweeping the hat off her head and letting her braid tumble out of it. This was the biggest turnout she had had in a while, and she was excited to see how many people were interested in becoming part of her wave of change.

               She was about to step down from the fountain when two horses rode into the square, scattering people. Perched on their backs were two young men, one slightly older than the other, with blond ruffled hair and a cocky smile. The younger man had a sharp jaw and sharper eyes, with neatly trimmed dark hair, nothing like his older counterpart.

               “Hold there, fair lady.” The blond knight pronounced. “Speak thee of treason?”

               Lysandra rolled her eyes. “Hold there, Sir Cleon. Speak thee like an old man?”

               The remaining crowd chuckled, along with Cleon’s squire. Cleon shot the young man a look, who stopped laughing immediately, sitting solemnly on his horse.

               “You should know better, girl.” Cleon said. “The crown does not take lightly to threats of insurgence.”

               “The crown won’t be here much longer anyway.” Lysandra bit back. It was people like Cleon that really rubbed her the wrong way. He was blind to the plight of the world around him, all because he wore that stupid armor with pride. How could he not see?

               “We’ll see how you run this little rebellion of yours from inside a cell.” Cleon said. He spurred his horse forward, forcing people aside as he made his way towards the fountain. His squire followed in his wake, cutting through the crowd with no objection.

               Lysandra knew she couldn’t outrun them on foot, so she took off, getting as much of a head start as she could while they were still working their way through the crowd. She didn’t get much though, as Cleon shouted, his scream causing everyone to scatter, clearing the street for him to ride through.

               Lysandra ducked onto a side street, hoping to maybe lose them. It was unlikely this early in the chase, but there was always a chance. After all, based on past experiences, Cleon had more hair than brains. She didn’t know why Onesiphoros had put him in charge of the hunt for rebels.

               But his stupidity and their encounters did grant her some insight as to what was going on in the palace. He could never keep his mouth shut, always rattling on about something or other. He also had some weird obsession with her, always asking for her name, subtly, or what he thought was subtle, flirting with her. But his schoolboy crush kept her out of jail, so she wasn’t exactly complaining.

               It was his squire she had to watch out for.

               She didn’t know the boy’s name, but he was already more fierce than his mentor. There was no emotional attachment or just brainlessness holding him back, and he truly tried to bring her in to the king for trial. He would be a good knight and she had to grudgingly respect him for that, though she would have much rather had him on her side than searching to capture her.

               She could hear the horses hooves click on the cobblestones behind her. She kept running though, leaping over carts and sliding under booths as often as she could in an attempt to lose them, but they were too close behind to fall for any of her antics. She was cursing at herself in her head, not even getting a chance to tell people about her rebellion, never mind enlist them in the fight.

               Part of her said it was enough to inform the public though, and maybe that part of her was right. They were at least curious now. Hopefully.

               She zipped around another corner, jumping into an alleyway. She recognized the crates stacked near the mouth of the road and knew there was a wall she could easily scale at the end, but that the horses couldn’t leap over. She smiled to herself, knowing she was clean away at this point.

               What she didn’t could on, was the mound of junk in front of the wall, to precarious to climb without risking getting trapped in the rubble. A quick scan of the alley showed that the store which is bordered was cleaning out, and had dumped all of the broken or old goods to be picked up later, as evidenced by the note tied to a pole.

               Lysandra turned around slowly, hearing the hooves come to a halt.

               “Effectively cornered yourself, haven’t you?” Cleon snobbed. “See young Themistocles, sometimes that is all you must do, wait for the wrongdoer to do themselves wrong.” He chuckled at his own play on words, as his squire, Themistocles, Lysandra now knew, rolled his eyes and sighed.

               Cleon dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to his squire. Themistocles stayed on his horse, blocking the mouth of the alleyway.

               “Looks like you’ll be coming with us today, fair lady.” Cleon said.

               “I hate that name.” Lysandra said, stalling as she looked around for any sort of escape route.

               “Well, you have yet to present me with another name.” Cleon continued. “Though I imagine you’re called something quite fierce.”

               “And what do you imagine?” Lysandra baited. There was an open window to her left, leading into what appeared to be the back of a bakery, if the smoke coming out of the chimney was any indication. She couldn’t imagine what other place would have a fire going in the middle of July.

               “Maybe Alexandra.” He said. “Though Demostrate could be quite fitting. But I’ve always fancied the name Eulalia, and if you are in fact the maiden of my dreams, that would be your name. Though, we couldn’t name one of our daughters that if it is your name, could we?”

               Lysandra hurled herself through the window, landing in a heap in the bakery. Before Cleon could react, she shot up, slamming the window shut in his face and locking it.

               “You may call me Ton Olethro Tis Yparxis Sou, and I will never bear your children.” Lysandra dashed away before his squire would appear at the window, finding the backdoor of the bakery easily, and losing herself in the crowd outside.

               It was then she realized she had lost her hat in the mess.

[elizabethrobertajones]

13x21 watching notes

Not. Enough. Hugs.

Expectations: Bobo is gonna write his last episode which will make every other writer heading to the door trying to churn out some swan song fare thee well nonsense taste like ash.

I will probably cry because this mofo makes me cry all the time and I hate it because I never cry at Supernatural and the last couple of years Bobo has me leaking everywhere

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Recap!

Lucifer saying they'll find Jack and remake the world in his image. Gross. No thanks.

Sam and Rowena bonding over seeing Lucifer's true face and it being awful

Gabriel complaining they took all his grace

Michael, Mary and Jack's adventures

Gabriel and Rowena being the most powerful allies. What a world. Like 10 episodes ago it wasn't even like this at all :P

A last glimpse of Sam's stupid parting shot about them dying together. Whee. Sarcasm font.

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Um.

Okay so this is either a dream or the future (yes.) or my next fic, and I'm only 1 second in, but all I know is that Jack, dressed all in white because he's Jesus, is watching Dean eat his 7th bit of pizza with pure horror, while Cas lovingly, smilingly, chides him for it.

Oh yeah there's Mary, laughing in the background. And she's wearing a different but still white and blue (Mother Mary) plaid.

This dialogue is literally bunker fluff banter about Jack counting Dean eating his pizza slices and Dean calling him a narc for saying so.

"John and me, we used to call him our little piglet" I am so happy. Pre-tragedy Winchester family fluff. My heart.

Sam offering to help Mary do the dishes

Dean getting Cas to punt him another pizza once Mom is no longer watching. Dear lord. The silent "gimme pizza" moment of our dreams.

Sam checking in on Mary!! How are you since... Being over there

Sam's wearing the same shirt from the end of 12x22

"I always knew you and Dean would come and save us. And you did."

-

Yep that was Sam's dream, which of all the available options was the absolute worst because he's the one who wasn't talking at the table, but has been missing a family the most, missing out on Mary, missing out on having Cas and Jack around, having Dean being normal. Wanting the relationship with Mary, and all the fun nuggets like "my little piglet" which makes her tease Dean and make Sam laugh... Oh god my heart. I'm a minute in and I can't take it.

-

And Mary starting to act like an alarm clock, Sam Sam Sam Sam, to wake him up. Oh no. Oh noooo it's awful. The alarm clock corrupted her in the dream: his image of her is so dependant on what's around him, so easy for her to be snatched away, when he thinks he's having a good moment with her at long freaking last

-

Last season I staked my entire house on the Sam and Mary dynamic being key and it felt like very few others cared, certainly not in the wider fandom, and along with that there was a whole lot of not understanding either of them. I'm so glad that Sam and Mary's dynamic has been more centrally placed this season and signposted because I'm so fed up that I spent all that energy on it last season and ended up feeling like I was shouting into a void :P

-

"He needed to extract his grace *finger quotes* in private" *Sam looks up like uuuuuh* "So I left him alone in Dean's room" *Dean looks up like EXCUSE ME DEAR DID YOU JUST SAY -

"What? No!"

Sam smirks, Dean looks pleadingly at Cas.

I was just joking in 13x20 about how Dean n Gabriel have a weird vibe about them, but I think at this point Dean is just thinking you left the skankiest archangel alone in my room???

I don't think there's a subtextual whatnow between them about this, he just doesn't want to know what angel grace looks like under a blacklight

-

Awww Rowena is wearing orange... With a turtleneck.....

#Samwitch forever #Jinkies!

-

making jokes about Gabriel's essence last episode and now the left him alone in the room to do it, and showing off Zerbe's merch and they're all just peering at that lil dot of glowiness... Gabriel is getting a lot of impotency jokes here.

-

"That is the jet fuel of divine emissions!"

*Dean pulls another face re: emissions*

-

Jesus CHRIST the rift is literally SAGGING FLACCIDLY

Bobo I hate you

-

of the 5 of them, Rowena's face remains, as ever, a total gem.

-

holy shit and then Gabriel lowers his blade as well

who DIRECTED THIS SHIT?

-

They all sigh and Gabriel lets his blade flop entirely to his side

-

Rowena looks completely unimpressed.

-

"Well that was fast" "One could say premature." "I thought it would be enough!"

Jesus christ what is happening in the latter part of the episode that we're getting this scene now?

-

Oh my god that was just the COLD OPEN

-

As always though, Cas being the one who has to say the really horrible thing, like, they will all just wait for him to proclaim the bad news. Maybe he just likes people to say things out loud even when they're obvious *clears throat* but also he always has that streak where he will suggest the awful plan and be first to realise some horrible path that they must take.

-

TFW retires to the kitchen to talk. Sam sits on the steps, now the exile, while Cas leans on the family dinner table. It's the place he goes in his head which has the best service. The connection to his family. Dean leans as well, Cas and Dean mirroring each other, providing more of a united front, as the two of them have the emotional headspace to root for this plan, however Sam feels, while Sam is caught by his trauma, isolated, hunched up and small on the floor, less of their party.

-

Every time it ends the same way - with the Devil on the loose again.

Hey at least this time he's already on the loose so even the worst case is that nothing changes :P

-

Well no the worst case is that he somehow possesses Rowena and takes the most powerful witch ever for a joyride.

Actually no he's locked in his vessel

-

the worst case scenario is they kill him before they get the grace, so they have to wait for Gabriel to charge up and *oh no* Lucifer is dead

-

God, Cas saying "the worst possible violation" re: being possessed by Lucifer is so ridiculously validating. He understands what Sam went through and he's showing he understands, feels the same way. The two of them have this connection of knowing what it's like, and Sam hears from Rowena that she knows what it's like to be tortured by him, hears from Cas what it's like to be possessed by him... His support group is here

-

I still love the camera angle of Cas standing in front of Dean and Dean behind him and the camera is flattening them together.

After the directing on the soggy rift, and Mittens telling me Phil is responsible I'm just like... no surprises here mate.

-

Plus. Cas had a shoulder!Dean there

-

Gabriel yoinks a book out of the shelf. It's Laying Pipe. A beginner's guide to plumbing and pipe fitting.

The cover is suitably phallic.

Gabriel is standing by the katana - the pointy one that the BMoL kept sharp. Ya know, sword sharpening.

Something he was having issues with just now despite all his sharp wooden swords last week.

-

Penis.

-

"It's not always like that!!""Gabriel, please."

She was waiting for him to break that tension.

*manly virile page turning*

*more angry defences*/"I don't need to hear excuses!"

... Rowena being left alone in the library to tease their other guests is the best part of the show and they should start a regular segment which is talkshow style of Rowena plus whatever poor sucker of the week is hanging out in the bunker

"It doesn't make me any less of an archangel!" "mright."

-

Oh now you're blaming Rowena for your perfomance, huh, buddy?

-

Rowena saying a drunk six year old could operate the spell is probably not commentary on the fact that Dean is the last person to do it, huh?

-

Rowena saying "the three amigos with their bro hugs, pep talks and melodrama" changes the fundamental dynamic - the stereotype of their nonsense is the three of them hugging it out, instead of in 10x05, the last time they were meta textually mocked for it, Sam n Dean getting the BM scenes, and Cas and Dean's in-show dynamic not being explictly referenced except for the fact that Dean clearly thought the personal space jokes were being taken too far before he had the explanation. This makes it clear the BM moments are about TFW, uses the fact that the 3 of them are all together right now to put them all in one room and have them talking out the latest issue together away from the others, in order to establish that Cas is firmly a part of what was once the bro dynamic.

Of course he's had moments where he hangs with them in what otherwise would be the BM scene of the episode right the way through, but THIS is a metatextual statement about the dynamic, one that is more than just Rowena's snark, but writer commentary on another level, pulling on our pre-existing understanding of the show mocking the BM moments to make it expressly clear that Cas is involved too.

If Bobo is on the way out to nurture the Wayward Sisters, then this is one of those closing statements on his way. That he wants us to understad that Cas is intrinsically a part of this dynamic, and that the FUNDAMENTAL CORE of the show, the BM Scene, is a TFW inclusive incident no matter whether all 3 of them are involved in it or not, it is a thing they do TOGETHER and is NOT a justthebros meta joke. The BM thing is not just the concept of Sam and Dean looking weepy at each other over the car. It's their FAMILY, together, just as Bobo shows Sam dreaming of their FAMILY being TFW, mom and Cas's weird son who counts how much pizza you eat.

-

Jesus christ I was going to make a joke that Rowena and Gabriel would probably bang as my next point to break the mood of that rant but I hit play and she's checking out his tush and inner monologuing it.

Never mind.

they gonna bang

-

"She's so tiny. and angry."

I stan 1 heterosexual couple.

-

Ahahahaha he noticed her dancer's body and wondered how flexible she is. Oh dear. I'm gonna back off because I may or may not have written this exact thing in my notes in her last episode

-

They're adorable.

-

"So, we've a little time."

Oh dean's room is not going to get out of this unscathed

-

She raises up the wooden pestle.

"to fill what?"

-

*red flashing sign which says 'PENIS' is glaring uncontrollably in the corner of the screen*

-

Listen, because these two are the skankiest archangel and rowena, who is, well, rowena, we are getting to enjoy subtext for the sake of immediate pay off that they're openly attracted to each other and we're literally getting their checking each other out and staring into each other's eyes montage.

Sure does help with the show doing this more subtly in other places.

-

SHE'S

i

Phil -

BOBO

-

yeah and abruptly to give them some privacy, back to TFW who are gonna come to whatever conclusion, go looking for Gabriel and Rowena, and end up knocking on Dean's door, open it, there they are in a heap in his bed.

-

Bobo "invented the fan fiction gap" Berens writing like it's going out of style

-

Oh no Sam's sitting next to the coffee maker that was briefly haunted by Kevin, in a Bobo episode.

-

"I don't like it, but it's our only choice. Our fun, great choice."

Bobo I forgot how much I love your Sam. Your Sam makes me laugh and cry. And here is sarcastic Sam, briefly returning from hiatus, and of course you are writing my favourite and the best version of Sam.

He gets to call out how they make these choices all the time where they have to go do horrible things, even against their own trauma. When he'd rather be anywhere else.

-

Dean points out they only have 24 hours as a complaint, but Sam has a "wait a second" which maaay or may not be resolving that. But first, they go find their archangel and witch -

Dean looks a little perturbed

-

Awwww they were only making out among the books, not defiling Dean's room.

Shame.

-

Cas's head immediately tilts.

Fan fic aside, this is the most action the Bunker has EVER seen.

Unless Sam and Eileen hooked up in 12x17, that is.

The most confirmed action. No one has ever brought a date back here.

Dean still has not hooked up with Cas. That we know of.

-

"Reading books... here in the library... Which is the room we are in now." Well okay sure

Sam is utterly horrified. Take your shipping pick on which one or both of them he's most affronted by.

Gabriel is 100% that guy you can NOT introduce to your attractive friends.

-

What is Cas even doing

he's like... I can't even look at you, Gabriel

-

Oh, bartender in the shirt Gabriel will be in very shortly. *pretends not to be surprised*

I guess we're not hearing the plan yet :P

-

The bartender sounds awfully concerned about how much Lucifer is drinking - if it's Gabriel, he's needling him about how much he's drinking, maybe just to hear how he justifies it.

-

"I had Heaven... Hell... in the palm of my hand. You know what I learned?" Me, internally: "Nothing."

Lucifer grumbling about how they don't matter, though. They don't matter to HIM, but they matter for the world running smoothly. The natural order, the cogs whirring as they should, would all do so much better without you around. Wherever you go, you don't fit in and you suck.

- He moves on to grumbling about Jack and how he can't find him, how it doesn't matter because "his bitch of a mother poisoned him against me, probably forever" - humanity is a poison to him. Love and compassion literally toxic.

-

"I'm sure things will work out in the end. Jack will come around!"

I know Gabriel is just trying to troll Lucifer, but it does read as ominous, because all season the low key threat has been there that Jack might end up going at least a little darkside. More darkside than being reckless and accidentally hurting people. Going over a darkside where he doesn't immediately feel dreadful about the people who get hurt around him.

-

Hahaha he's so drunk. Rowena can magically roofie him. Wonderful.

And of course at the reveal, Gabriel has Kingdom Beer signs on top of him. The sign of the Kingdom of Heaven.

(I continue kinda wondering/hoping about the prodigal son return for Gabriel)

The thing is, how did they know Lucifer would be here or receptive to being roofied? Honestly, if this episode keeps up the quality, I won't question it beyond this note :P

-

Oh I love this confrontation.

"Surprise"

He runs out of a bright white door and right through the other side.  This feels a LOT like Chuck's bar in 11x20, which calls back to Robbie's fare thee well episode, and reminds us that Gabriel really is the most like his father of all his sons, but also is the trap in the fairy tent with Charlie in 8x11.

There's a stag on the door, and that's more virile imagery.

-

If Gabriel is low on grace, I'd imagine this is Rowena's work, for the most part, and Gabriel just has to be intimidating enough to make this work.

-

Oh look here's someone else "back from the dead" ... It's not Lucifer's day

and even if she's not on the fullest full power, she's ready to meet Lucifer, because Sam's the one who kills her.

-

He must think he's hallucinating some people he killed, until it all get too real.

-

"Put me out of my misery! Go ahead!"

this is what I like to hear.

Sadly, I doubt they will. But it's still music to my ears.

Lucifer reaching the nadir of this arc, wherever it's supposed to go... I hope to his death, and it would be nice if he did die at the end of the season and the show was brave enough to move on to a world without Lucifer. With the apparent draw of Mark P to some parts of the audience I'm scared they won't, but at the very least it's seeming somewhat plausible right now, as he's brought down again and again and shown to have no moral fibre, no redeeming qualities, no drive to do better. Through and through, vile and useless, the story tells us, agreeing with how he comes across, how Mark P as Lucifer makes us feel in a way that the energy of Casifer did not convey at all because that all seemed to be at least for a purpose and Casifer was fun, and it didn't seem to be implying Lucifer trailing on and on and unendingly on as it ended up being >.>

-

take 2 of the spell! Lucifer trussed up in the Bunker library, Dean perching on a table. Get your muddy boots off that chair.

-

I love watching him kneeling there leaking grace. I'm petty like that... I feel like everyone in the room is too. It has a feeling like when they stole Metatron's grace, but instead no one cares to heal him and they're not even really aiming to make him human, they're just kinda. Ew. Lucifer. Who cares.

-

Rowena's trousers are INCREDIBLE.

-

I swear they used "stuck pig" in the last couple of episodes, or I'm imagining that?

Anyway Sam's plan is the least they could do to Lucifer

hehehehehehehehehehehehehehehe

-

This is what happens when you suck: eventually a bunch of guys (gender neutral term) pin you down, leave you frozen in place dripping grace in a gross way, and all laugh at you before they leave

-

"When we get back, then we'll kill you."

Nice plan. Sadly, nice as it is, it gives Lucifer wiggle room to not be here or not be dead >.>

Rowena staying behind with him is unconcerning when Sam goes through the rift in the sense of character death (and she's a lot more confident around Lucifer all of a sudden :P) but I still don't want anything too bad to happen to her :( Still, it seems like a half-assurance that she will be okay.

-

"Save your mum," Rowena says.

The main problem, of course, being that Lucifer knows Mary is there, doesn't know Jack is there, but while they played it very cool, it's worryingly likely he's starting to guess that Jack is in there, whether he can sense him through the rift or he just has a feeling that this might be it...

-

Ahahahaha it's on a hill

Sam and Cas roll down it, Gabriel kinda cartwheels, and Dean comes out running and does a cool skid down the hill.

Oh gross, Gabriel ended up face first in Cas's crotch :P Dean is like FIRST YOU DEFILE ROWENA AND NOW CAS? HOW DARE -

-

IS THIS ENTIRE EPISODE ABOUT PENISES?

-

Dean is just... wow

-

You guys, sometimes it's easy to meta an episode and sometimes it is very very hard and sometimes you don't even wanna type the words very very hard

-

"Kentucky. North East Kentucky" are we here entirely because of Asmodeus or is this to put us kinda halfway between Michael and Jack's last known location? Not that they know Michael's current location.

-

Rowena has no time for concern trolling about being "left behind in the kitchen" when she knows the only reason Lucifer would care is because he wants out.

She also reminds him he's being emasculated, because yes, this episode is all about penises.

-

Lucifer switches to being annoying, singing the same song as the password to Billie's pad in 11x10 - the episode where he first killed Rowena.

-

Gabriel walking along holding his blade at a 90 dergee angle to his body

-

Cas drops by to casually check how Gabriel is feeling about running Heaven maybe perhaps pretty please?

Gabriel points out all the things which could kill them first before they ever need to worry about that

Oh gosh he did have sex with Rowena. At some point. Maybe not right then in the library unless he magically dressed her again. But some point between then and now. Pfft.

-

Poor Dean's room I guess.

-

Cas is remarkably good at steering this conversation, when he has a point to get to. He has learned a considerable amount of tact before getting to "Heaven's dying, Gabriel," because for one thing he hasn't hauled him aside and said all this sooner. I'm always pleased when Cas's people skills are apparent.

-

"They wouldn't want me back, Castiel. As far as they're concerned, I'm a screw up. Hell, as far as *I'm* concerned I'm a screw up."

Oh, no. Please don't make me like you any more than I already do. This is the opposite conversation to 9x18 in the car with meta!Gabriel, Cas having to bring up the subject of Gabriel leading Heaven. It has to be him because they need an archangel, so there's no double bluff to pull where Cas could do it instead. There were 9x18 vibes all over last episode right down to Dean having a soft moment over the phone from a motel with Cas while they worked 2 ends of a case, and now we have this. 9x18 is steering a little bit from the background.

I LIKE the idea of Gabriel as the leader of a mostly stable but much more chill Heaven. And this seems tentatively positive, that it's maaaaybe just a self-esteem/compatibility thing. This is what is immediately being offered as the first obstacle to mind. Gabriel left, because of his brothers, but they're all dead or bound in the main world. They daren't haul Michael out of the pit, even just to imprison him in Heaven to keep the lights on, apparently, which just leaves him. And his major reasons for leaving are all gone now. No more archangels. Just him.

Which means that I was right after Naomi asked Cas to see about getting him back, that this comes down to how Gabriel feels, that after all this isolation, it's about does he feel he can return home, and how will home feel about him returning.

-

"Well, heaven's been run into the ground by upstanding angels. Perhaps a screw up is what we need."

ILY babe

-

*Cas looks hopefully at Gabriel*

*Conversation ends with a long shot of their walk in the woods*

-

Well that was a veeeery interesting note to leave that. As I was saying a few hours ago about 13x20, it may be that Gabriel doesn't need to find something to stand for to die for, but to LIVE for, which is a much more positive thing. I really actually kinda like the way this dovetails with Heaven's problems as a reason to compel him to go back, because Gabriel approaching it like a screw up who doesn't want to break anything sure is better than an egomaniac having a go.

-

Sam is feeling bouncier just to be in the same universe as mom and Jack

he wants the pizza party

let him have the fucking pizza party

it was just his birthday!

-

He's wearing his dumb backpack he's had season season 1 and it makes me unhappy in a "oh god he was so tiny" way

-

He's also being unnervingly optimistic about how close they are to winning, to getting Mary and Jack back, and he's finally got optimism. His mood is basically defined by this to such a horrible degree.

... Which is totally not a parallel to the beginning of the season where Dean was miserable until they got Cas back at which point he was so happy that Sam called him out on it

-

*distant screams of campers being menaced by a wendigo in the woods*

-

"Not our world, not our problem."

Dude, they're hunters wherever

-

Interesting how everyone here knows about the supernatural, so random hikers keeping low off the grid will know what was attacking them. And some basic lore about how vampires were affected by the lower population and starvation

-

TBH the comparison to the wendigo in looks isn't too wildly far off; they're both humans who have become completely monstrous in a way where they go off the deep end

-

The rebels Jack and Mary set up a colony there ... that could be anyone

-

Oh, great, tunnel of terrifying vampires. This is a distraction/time waste that will probably eat up the rest of the episode for them and cause nothing but pain >.>

-

Oh, we're only halfway through...

-

Gah how are we only halfway through??

-

Oh no, Rowena. Being left alone with Lucifer being annoying is one thing. Being left alone with him talking about how he murdered her is not a thing where she can play up the vindictiveness of the situation... trauma is trauma and just because she has him bound and knows he can't kill her isn't something that makes her entirely immune to facing that :(

-

Oh Rowena

-

Oh no

-

... Although within that Rowena casually calls them "his three fathers" which is hilarious and also particularly awful for Lucifer to  hear because it was bad enough knowing that Jack liked Cas more than him when he didn't know that

-

Yeeeep she didn't know that winding him up makes him stronger because anger is where his power comes from because he's so fuckin awful

-

Also ew he has something to fight for.

At least until Jack smushes him like a bug /wishful thinking

-

Oh for - he didn't even jump into the portal, she threw him off of her and he went in it by accident.

I mean, just for accountability stakes, adding it all up, could that have been any more her fault? Bleh :P

-

I assume the portal will still stay open a lil while, but

-

Oh, she's packing the Black Grimoire.

Good.

Now, is she actually going into the rift to save them, while putting on her fancy coat and scarf and all?

Or is she leaving?

-

"Not my problem!"

-

Those guys are your friends.

"BOLLOCKS!"

How DARE I have feelings. FEELINGS.

-

I guess Gabriel is also on the other side of the rift.

They're soulmates :P

-

Omg it's not the old mine from 1x02 and 11x19

I'm actually disappointed

-

Heheh everyone has glowsticks

party!Cas

-

THIS PLACE IS SCARY AND I DON'T LIKE IT

-

WHERE IS THE RAVE?

-

Wonder how much speculation we'll get about Dean looking up at that one bright light and being in a spotlight under it... Like, Michael-wise.

It is interesting to single him out with the spotlight.

-

*Cas and Gabriel just casually moving rocks*

Look, Cas could blast those all away but they're trying to play it cool for the campers

-

Who may or may not get picked off by vampires

-

No, Sam is wandering

he will be picked off by vampires

-

Bobo you need to stop killing Sam

-

I mean theoretically you just murdered Sam and are ditching the show to go write Wayward like hah hahahaha no consequences here I am the showrunner, now I will make Claire and Kaia kiss

-

Think of how Jody will feel, my guy

-

...

Okay that's enough of the "Sam is permanently dead lol" joking.

-

"Saaaam!" Cas yells and disappears down the tunnel

-

Cas comes back Sam-less and makes Dean leave too. I'm gonna be ship neutral on account of how Sam just got eaten by vampires. But it was intense and sad.

-

Yet, somehow, less sad than that time Cas died in front of Dean, when it comes to OTT melodrama. I mean there was a lot of shouting, but Dean's still moving.

-

Dean looks great

-

Hey, I guess 11x17 was good practice for this.

-

Cas ought to be walking with him holding his hand. It's criminal to make him do this alone

-

Wow, Sam you look terrible.

-

Guys, are you really going to destroy the angel warding on the camp? That's SUPER DANGEROUS

-

MARY

HUGS

YAY

(Why are you not hugging Cas?)

-

So yeah, you gotta tell mom that Sam's dead now

-

Just to get you

-

You can have one (1) family member at a time

-

Aw no don't cry!!!

-

Look, your brother was just taking a snooze because the rave got too real! He and his glowstick are fine!

...

Somehow

-

Is he a vampire?

-

Mittens tells me he's not a vampire, which just makes this all the more confusing

-

Aw

shit

-

Sam's like, can we go back to when I was dead?

-

Okay now he's heard Lucifer's story he's like can I REALLY go back to being dead?

-

This is like when someone wakes you up in the morning and you just don't wanna get out of bed. In that moment, no matter how much you love that person, they are to you metaphorically what Lucifer is to Sam right now.

Fitting, that it started with him vs his alarm clock as a loved one

Now we see the even darker side to mornings

-

Look, I'm kinda... horrified here so I'm just...

Can you kill this fucker and get back to your family already?

-

HONESTLY if I was Sam I'd take my chance with the wall of angry vampires rather than stick around for this conversation

-

"You need me"

... no shade on that concept though or anything, when it's a wall of angry vampires vs pretending to like Lucifer so he can hang out with Jack

-

I mean seriously I love Sam to bits but I'd be genuinely happy to see him torn apart by vampires again just to spite Lucifer.

-

Oh JACK no sweetie

We didn't even see them getting to hug each other, it's just straight to Gabriel sitting quietly, Jack pacing miserably, demanding why they didn't bring Sam back

-

Oh, he's fine

all that stress for nothing

-

"Please don't judge this friend I made at the rave, it was a really really bad night."

-

Do you ever find yourself staring into space thinking, "I would genuinely have been happier if the last shot of the episode was Sam being torn apart by vampires for the second time in 15 minutes?"

-

This is gonna go over swimmingly in a Buckleming episode for all the character dynamics. They are the only writers left who seem to actually like Lucifer.

-

Why does everything build up to stuff that needs to be handled by not-Buckleming right before a Buckleming episode anyway?

[yokefellows]

You Can Have A Clean Heart and Renewed Mind

Today’s Saying

Before we can hope to have a life of purity, we must have a clean thought life.

Today’s Scripture

“For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he: Eat and drink, saith he to Thee; but his heart is not with Thee.” Proverbs 23:7

Today’s Sermonette

A teacher asked a little boy to finish this proverb: “Cleanliness is next to...” And he said, “Cleanliness is next to impossible.” Well, friend that little boy wasn’t that far wrong, was he?

It’s amazing what people do to try and purify themselves – fast, pray, kneel, walk, self-flagellate, hibernate, isolate.

But sadly, they discover that human efforts aren’t the pathway to purity because they keep doing what Zig Ziglar calls “stinkin‘ thinkin‘.”

Before we can hope to have a life of purity, we must have a clean thought life.

God works from the inside out. He knows that you cannot purify the water by painting the pump.

When was the last time you memorized a verse of Scripture?

It’s easier to stay away from “stinkin’ thinkin’” when your mind is focused on the Word of God.

This is a good time to memorize yesterday’s passage, Psalm 51:10-13: “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. Cast me not away from Thy presence, and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of Thy salvation and uphold me with Thy free Spirit. Then will I teach transgressors Thy ways, and sinners shall be converted unto Thee.”

Start working on memorizing this passage today.

Today’s Supplication

Father, keep reminding me that before one can hope to have a life of purity, one must have a clean thought life. Because You work from the inside out.