#they've suffered enough loss as it is

[eremin0109]

Gosh, look at these two old men pretending that they're NOT so full of love and sadness for the people that they lost along the way.

karaoke makes me sad sometimes

[girlinafairytale]

i've recently noticed a pattern that i'm not sure that i like. we have hundreds of fundraisers circulating on this site. many of them go without donations for days/weeks. if any fundraiser receives donations, its because the posts stand out/ something very tragic has happened to someone in the family.

for example, the nineteen year old, Shaban Al-Dalou, who was burnt alive a few days ago had a fundraiser. the family only reached their goal after losing that poor boy. i cannot understand why couldn't we have helped him before? i dont know how the family will cope with his loss.

so ask yourself, is genocide not a simple enough reason to donate? or do you need the family to be hit with a tragedy to even consider donating? everyone, i mean EVERYONE in gaza has experienced unimaginable loss and pain and destruction. they've lost their homes, livlihood, friends and family.

humanity has existed for so long because we care. we love each other and are hurt to see others' suffering.

you don't have to wait for tragedy to strike someone to donate. they are going through starvation, forced displacement, and mass murder. please care about this.

do not decrease the meaning of the word genocide. it breaks my heart to see the suffering of the people of gaza at the hands of their colonizers.

I've just got one thing left to say, save my friend mahmoud and his family. they deserve to live just like everyone. help him secure a better future for his family.

donate here || vetted by @gazafunds

[ @mahmoudjumaa1238 ]

[alltimefail]

Okay so I have more thoughts on Dead Boy Detectives but this is less about scene analysis and more about my own personal interpretation of Charles as I truly believe Charles' inability to fully "reciprocate" Edwin's feelings is less about accepting his sexuality/lack of awareness about his sexuality and more about feeling unworthy of being on the receiving end of Edwin's love (and about bad timing - them being in an afterlife or eternal suffering situation on the literal stairs of hell, but I digress lol). This would explain, pretty seamlessly, why he seems to seek out fleeting or "fun" romances and flirtations. It would also explain why, immediately following the confession, there are micro-changes, blink-and-you'll-miss-it differences in Charles' behaviors and expressions. It's clear that our boy is reflecting, and he meant it when he said he intended to "figure out what the rest means..." even if it takes him forever (and I doubt it will, but again... I digress). This is why calling his reassurances to Edwin on the staircase a "rejection" and putting Charles in a box as default-straight is a complete disservice to his character, to the writers, to the queer brilliance that rings beautifully in every facet of this show, and to Jayden Revri who is an exceptional actor with a palpable, deep love and reverence for the character he's portraying.

As a repressed PTSD bisexual™️ myself, I can't help but connect Charles' history with abuse alongside his poor perception of self, people-pleasing tendencies, and his quickness to stifle and repress his own feelings and desires to his fear of being a "bad person." It would not surprise me if Charles would fear the possibility that he is capable of taking something fragile, beautiful, raw, and vulnerable (Edwin's love) and destroy it in the way his father did.

Charles has always loved fully and without caution; I would even say he loves recklessly at times, throwing himself in front of danger, even to his own detriment. But has anyone fully loved him back in the way he loves? Charles has always loved Edwin, but did he ever allow himself to humor the idea that Edwin might just love him back?

It's evident that Charles had very little kindness in his life. Charles' friends were conditional at best and violent/abusive at their worst, his father was a monster, and his mother (who, in all fairness, was also a victim of abuse) was quiet and complicit in the abuse Charles received from his father. His entire afterlife is intrinsically connected to Edwin's - his entire existence, and Edwin's entire existence, are so closely entwined to one another that to "screw up" the delicate balance they've struck would be more than unfortunate - it would be earth-shattering, a loss like no other. Charles is impulsive, but he is not careless...quite the opposite, actually. I truly think whether or not he's attracted to men is not the issue; it wouldn't surprise me if, at the very least, Charles is aware he is attracted to people regardless of gender and just doesn't have the language to put a label to that sensation yet (he might have never been compelled to put a label on it, frankly). The issue is that Charles is unsure if he is deserving of someone not just loving him, but being in love with him... especially when it's coming from someone he thinks is the best person in the world, the most important person to him, the only person he would deny heavy and defy hell for.

Honestly Charles might even already know he has feelings toward Edwin specifically that are not strictly platonic, but taking that gamble even though he struggles with feelings such as being undeserving of Edwin; that he would be selfish to take a love he's undeserving of; that Edwin might come to realize, at some point, that he was mistaken in loving Charles and that being with Charles isn't actually enough/what he hoped it would be and he regrets his confession all together. Or, perhaps worst of all, what if Charles finds that the nagging fear he's buried deep down was correct all along... that he actually is like his father and capable of hurting Edwin and bastardizing the concept of love as a whole?

There are stakes when it comes to loving Edwin - if he were to screw up what they have, the consequences would be disastrous, it very well might destroy him. He cannot be careless, he cannot be impulsive, he cannot risk destroying what he and Edwin have. I'm not sure Charles has ever not loved Edwin, but he probably never humored that his Edwin: touch-reserved, buttoned-up, logical, stubborn, beautiful, kind Edwin who brought a warm light to Charles in his darkest moment, could feel that way, too... especially about him. What is he to do with that?

[howtofightwrite]

Since adrenaline makes it easier to ignore pain, I’m wondering how severe an injury can be before adrenaline isn’t enough to allow a person to keep fighting

Fatal.

The scary thing about adrenaline is that you can suffer a mortal wound and not realize it until you drop dead. If you've ever seen the, “humans are space orcs,” meme, adrenaline is a big part of that. If you don't finish someone off, they are still a potential threat until they are clinically dead.

While it may seem slightly comical, the image of someone literally checking themselves for holes after being shot at is a real practice with genuine purpose. If they had an adrenaline rush, they might not be able to tell that they've been hit, and will need to physically examine themselves to ensure they're not bleeding to death without realizing it. (And, yes, that can absolutely happen.)

As a general rule, anything that will immediately kill someone, such as decapitation or catastrophic head trauma, will stop someone through an adrenaline rush. Destruction of the skeletal structure, (which is to say, destroying joints), might not completely stop them, but it's an injury they won't be able to power through (even if they aren't immediately aware of it.)

It's a little worse than I'm making it sound, too, because you can suffer non-fatal injuries during an adrenaline rush, and then aggravate the wound to the point that it becomes life threatening (or life-altering.) An adrenaline rush can, potentially, persist for over an hour.

In most cases, the adrenaline rush will drop off within a few minutes of the threat passing, though the state of threat is assessed by your brain, so your psychological state heavily affects that. Meaning, if you feel threatened, even if the actual danger has passed, the rush could continue (though it will usually drop off after, roughly, an hour.)

The “good” news is that an adrenaline rush will not prevent you from bleeding to death. So, if someone has been shot multiple times and is bleeding out, they'll still lose consciousness. You just need to make sure that they're actually incapacitated. Not that it matters, but as a minor up-side, adrenaline is delivered via the circulatory system, meaning if you start seriously bleeding, that's your adrenaline rush going with it, so the rush is likely to drop off prematurely in the event of fatal blood loss.

I'm not completely sure what the subjective experience is there. Catastrophic blood loss during an adrenaline rush is not something I have personal experience with, and my experiences with bleeding while dealing with an adrenaline rush is more just that bleeding is an extremely annoying inconvenience, when you don't need to consider what's happening. (To be clear, that's not just a glib dismissal, being aware of bleed was actually annoying. It might sound hilarious to be pissed off at your own blood leaking down the side of your face, but that was my experience. Also, for the record, I did not feel the gash that I was bleeding from, and angrily rubbed it a few times before realizing I'd been injured.)

The short answer to your question, “how much severely do you need to injure someone through an adrenaline rush?” You need to kill them.

That said, killing them is absolutely not your only option. Less than lethal devices, such as tasers or chemical sprays, can absolutely incapacitate someone under an adrenaline rush, without severely harming them. Similarly, restraints, and other submission techniques can be used to hold them down. In the case of restraints and submission holds, there is a danger of the individual injuring themselves, while they try to work their way out of the hold, but that risk is still vastly preferable to killing them on the spot.

Adrenaline is a very potent survival tool, in your physiology, and if you try to simply overpower that tool through direct force, it will lead to catastrophic consequences. However, alternative methods (in particular, shorting out someone's nervous system with a direct electrical charge, or simply interfering with the mechanical structure of their joints, can be just as effective at stopping them with far less dire consequences.

-Starke

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[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

I am so sorry for this, I don't know what happened to me but once again, here I am writting angst instead of happily pretending everyone is alive and happy.

Alpha is a hard ghoul to scare.

He's ancient- not as old as Omega, Zephyr or Earth, but definitely older than most of the newer ghouls. He's seen things, in the pit and topside, beyond horrific, has blood on his hands, and is intimately familiar with its coppery taste.

And yet, as he holds a gasping Omega against his chest, Alpha has never been more terrified in his entire life.

Omega, sturdy, reliable Omega, unshakeable Omega, is falling appart in Alpha's arms, and there's nothing the fire ghoul can do.

Nothing but hold him tight and pray his suffering will end. In his despair, Alpha curses how human they've become, after spending so much time amongst them. Human enough to feel much more than a ghoul should. Human enough to get attatched, to fall in love. Oh, how Alpha curses love.

Omega is sobbing, gut-wreching cries that echo in his bedroom, clinging to Alpha like letting go would kill them both. It takes a while for the fire ghoul to realize the litany of broken noises escaping Omega's mouth are actually words.

I can't, I can't, I can't.

Alpha doesn't need to ask what Omega means. Omega cannot fanthom a world without Terzo. Cannot imagine his life without the one bright star that so thoroughly changed it. Cannot bear the agony of loss and grief. And Alpha is torn between terror and rage. Because he cannot help.

He grieves, too, of course he does. Terzo is- was his friend, Primo his first Papa and a man he highly respected, and Secondo...Alpha would rather not think about the man's rare raspy laugh right now. Something about the taste of missed opportunities isn't very appealing at the moment.

Alpha grieves, too, but he doesn't know what having someone who had weaved their way into his very soul torn away from him feels like. So he tightens his helpless arms around Omega, and prays that there will be something left of the quint's shattered heart.

So yes, Alpha, tough, I've-seen-much-worse Alpha, is trembling in terror as he witnesses the strongest ghoul he ever knew getting torn from the inside out by love's ugly twin, grief.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

TWST boys with a Diana! Reader?

The reader's a really and I mean REALLY popular and a captivating woman from Siodonna, many rumours were spreading of a beauty from Siodonna yet the TWST boys decided to ignore the rumours, taking them as only bluffs until they met the reader performing in the streets for the poor children. The boys quickly fell head over heels for they're kind nature, and alluring looks. The way those crystal like (Colour) eyes gaze into theirs sending their hearts pounding again their chest. Being lucky enough to marry the woman of their dreams was a big accomplishment but they're happiness was short lived when they found out the risk of the reader dying during childbirth, the TWST boys being selfish asked her to choose them over the child yet the reader didn't have the heart to do so and decided to give her life for the child, only doing as much as witnessing how they're child grew as a wandering spirit and visiting them in their dreams to interact with they're child. How would the guys react when their child(or children) mentioning they're mother's name when they've actually never met or heard of her?? <3

- M. Draconia ; V. Schoenheit ; R. Rosehearts ; L. Kingscholar ; I. Shroud ; L. Vanrouge

"I'm sorry for not choosing you, but I couldn't bare giving it up ( sacrificing an innocent life) either..."

- (Name)

SORRY IT'S BAD, I'M RUSHING THIS 😭😭

Mentioning Your Name | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Its an average day your child casually mentions some advice you gave. It takes them off guard and the problem with lovers as in love as they are suffering from your loss–this can be received very differently:

Malleus Draconia 

“What did you say?”

“I said (Y/n) told me I should try harder to talk to you because your socially immature.”

“....when…when did they say this?”

“In my dream last night, I asked how I was supposed to get you to smile at me and they told me to be ins-st-i-dent?”

He remembers what you said to comfort him before the birth

And honestly if it hadn’t been for that and this child having your smile

He would’ve smited him long ago

But to hear that you’re still here in some capacity

He smiles more 

Speaking into the quiet of the room 

Practically serenading your lingering spirit

“Thats…just like them…”

Vil Schoenheit 

“Wearing those two patterns is a travesty, we won’t be doing plaid with polka-dots–”

“Noooo! B-but I said I would!”

“...To who?”

“To (Y/n) of course I was telling them all about how I’d wear them-”

“Wait wait what did you say?”

He doesn’t believe that you’re meeting in their dreams

Its more than likely one of his close friends slipped up while babysitting

And now they’ve taken the name of their mother for some imaginary friend

Needless to say he’ll get to the bottom of this

Even if it takes a forceful kind of truth serum

“(Y/n)...my half is dead…so whoever they’re speaking to is something else.”

Riddle Rosehearts

“My RULE IS ABSOLUTE TO YOUR ROOM!” 

“(Y/n) would hate you so much!?”

“H-how do y-you–!”

“They said I should be free! That I should be allowed to play with others!”

“Where?! Where did you hear that?!”

He thought that he wouldn’t need to be hurt again

But here you were showing up in your child’s dreams 

But since you’ve left him…what do you words mean now

“You’re not appearing to me and you aren’t here to parent…therefore you’re words barely scrape the height of a suggestion.”

Leona Kingscholar 

“(Y/n) doesn’t think I’m weak!”

“WHAT?!”

“THEY said I’m plenty strong and that you don’t know everything!”

He’ll continue to lock the child away 

Scratching at his post some interloper as he thinks about what his child has said 

“Even across the grave you’re fighting me…can’t do much from where I’m at now can I?”

Idia Shroud 

“Papa I made my own drone…”

“Mmmm.”

“Uhm and uh (Y/n) says that you should maybe look at me when I show you mystuff so…”

“...”

Is floored

Since your departure he’s been torn with hating this child and eliminating anyone who interacts with them

So consumed with grief he shuts himself in his workshop and watches his child relentlessly

He knows them well in fact he’s sure he loves them 

but he can’t stand to speak to them without wanting to cry

So this is all the more painful to him and in his desire to reach out he might end up inventing something meant to capture your wandering spirit

“Just you wait (Y/n), I’ll have you soon.”

Lilia Vanrouge

“Just trust Papa on this you stay inside, my little bat.”

“(Y/n) says you should let me outside more.”

“Oh yeah they really–said…that?”

“Yeah! And that you need to properly comb out my hair you can’t leave it a tangled mess.”

“Hahaha yeah.”

He believes in ghosts, well he knows they exist

So he believes thats what that is about 

And if thats the case than maybe if he suggests somethings for your kid to recite

Maybe he can still reach out to you

“Hey! Hey! Maybe the next time you see them can you tell her how much Daddy loves her?”

[phantomposting]

Ayo it's time for another half asleep sleep deprived prompt rant let's gooooo! Please excuse any typos or grammar errors I haven't slept more than 2hrs in the past 24hrs and I'm suffering from a hard-core bout of insomnia and a accidentally burned myself. But anyways let's get into the rant starting with trigger warnings!

TW: BLOOD, VOMIT, SICKNESS, FOOD INSECURITY, ABUSE

-----------------------------------

So I have been absolutely obsessed with blood blossoms used in angst fics since I first joined the fandom. I also see them as a great way to make a fun sickfic or a amazing tool for darker fics to use to trap or harm our favorite boyo. I read.the most amazing blood blossom poisoning fic recently tho and it absolutely gave me the brain itch again to theorize more about blood blossom aus!

So in this au Tim Drake and Danny are dating they've been doing well for the most part but when Tim asks to meet Danny's parent's he's super avoident of it. It's been making Tim feel as if Danny doesn't see this as a serious relationship that or he's hiding something and Tim needs to figure out what.

Danny of course as Vlad's godson is the heir to his company even tho he definitely doesn't want it. Atleast getting dragged into rich people shenanigans led to Danny meeting his boyfriend whom he is absolutely head over heels for.

Tim keeps asking to meet his parents but Danny doesn't want them to ruin things. They don't even know how old he is anymore for Ancients sake. They've acted like he isn't even there since Jazz went to college Danny's had to fend for himself and them essentially turning into a bit of a parent/guardian for them. Paying bills, making sure they eat, ect. But he can only do so much and between it all he doesn't get much time or enough money to eat as often as he should. It's a real mess. He definitely doesn't want Tim seeing that and worrying either so he keeps coming up with excuses to make sure the Fenton parents never meet him or his family.

Vlad is super upset with Danny for getting so close with his biggest competition. He continously demands the boy behave and to dump that leech before he swipes all of Vlad's hard work from right under his nose. Danny could absolutely care less. The boy is really getting on Vlad's final nerve being his sweet Madeline's kid means nothing if he's just going to act like another Jack. The world absolutely needs no more Jack's in it.

Finally cutting his losses with this kid Vlad devises a plan to once and for all get rid of the little brat. He will take blood blossom extract and poison the useless heir of his at the next gala.

The ingredient tho extremely rare can be common for the super wealthy. It's always been quite the nuisance for him but now there's finally a perk to that damn flower. None will be the wiser the death will be ruled as either an allergic reaction to a rare ingredient the child had never encountered enough to know of or they'll learn of Daniel's ghost side and not anyone will care thinking a ghost had taken the poor kids place.

Vlad will get pity among his peers and possibly finally gain the chance to overshadow the Wayne's and finally take them out of the game once and for all. Maddie will blame Jack for such a accident vlad will be sure to make it so. With nothing left to hold her back and a newly loveless marriage she will finally turn to him they'll create a new family with the perfect son and nothing will stop him from living his happily ever after. It was the perfect plan in Vlad's mind.

So the next Gala comes around. Danny and Tim have a big and accidentally rather public argument about Danny's parent's and this leads Danny to storm off alone to try and cool off. This ends up being the perfect time for Vlad to corner the boy.

He gives Danny an ultimatum dump Tim and join him or else. Danny refuses. " oh nieve little badger... you really should have taken me up on the offer." He shakes his head as he pins the boy to the wall by the collar of his shirt and injects him with the poison.

Soon Danny is left alone curled in a writhing ball of pain upon the floor as the blood blossoms burn at his insides ripping him apart from inside to out. A silent ball of agony as he doesn't know what to do. He can't risk anyone finding out about his ghostly side not even Tim. He can't access his powers. He can't escape. All feels hopeless and he feels doomed to fade here.

Meanwhile Tim begins to get worried usually Danny takes a bit of time but he always comes back pretty quickly then both apologize for the argument and move on. Tim's definitely feeling pretty guilty for this one pushing him so hard. He just wants this relationship to be as normal as it can be. For once in his life he's having a pretty average civilian life and weirdly enough he's thriving with it. He understands tho that some people aren't on good terms with their parents but Danny always only ever really says nice things about his parents and its starting to make Tim feel like he's just not good enough to meet them.

But either way Tim begins to worry he drove Danny off so he goes to look for him to apologize for pushing him so hard. He wasn't really expecting to find Danny in a secluded room all alone curled up against a wall looking smaller than he's ever looked before. Almost looking as if he were hiding tears. It honestly broke Tim's heart to see him like this. Tim definitely wasn't expecting that when he started to apologize that Danny would look up at him with way too much blood to be okay dripping from his nose.

Danny was bleeding quite a bit. His eyes were unfocused and Lazarus green and absolutely filled with fear. Tears dripped down his far too pale cheeks as he tried to focus on Tim. His breathing was harsh and heavy and clearly pained. He looked as if he were in agony.

This immediately sends Tim into panic mode. Wtf happened while he was gone? How did he get into contact with Lazarus water?? Is his boyfriend dying??? Tim starts going into hero mode trying to figure out how to help Danny. They make a quick stealthy escape of the gala and Danny refuses a hospital trip. Tim won't push too hard cause clearly Lazarus water is somewhere in the mix.

So they go to the only person Tim can think of. Doctor Leslie! There's a lot of panic from everyone and delirious rambling from Danny until eventually they finally figure out he's been poisoned. Somehow miraculously they manage to cure said poison and save Tim's boyfriend.

Or so they think turns out they only really slow/pause the blood blossoms effects. Danny has extensive physical damage from the blood blossoms eating away at everything and Tim thinks Danny was poisoned with Lazarus water. He makes Danny stay with him in his apartment for awhile to monitor him and his condition and keep his eye out for the one that poisoned him and keep him safe.

Vlad makes a huge stink about Danny going missing leading to some big search for the missing heir. Its all a huge mess!

Slowly over time this sickfic with tons of sweet fluff moments and stuff would reveal why Danny isn't keen on introducing his parents to Tim. Tim would learn Danny's parent's are super neglectful and possibly downright evil judging by all the scars his poor boyfriend is left with. Not to mention he's far too thin! Thinner than Tim expected cause with his clothes on sure he looks rather slim but you would never guess the poor guynwas just skin and bone. Its deeply worrying.

There would be lots of moments where Danny is avoident on details and it only makes Tim's detective brain itch more for answers. Slowly but surely they learn aswell that Danny's body is never going to fully work the same either. Over time they even realize it's very Slowly worsening making them discover the blood blossom isn't fully cured.

Then comes the big search for a cure and Tim going full mama bird for his bf! We also get a slow ghost reveal, giw reveal, and reveal that Vlad's evil and Tim is absolutely going to rip that man apart for doing this to his poor boyfriend.

There's absolutely tons th8s fic could cover and it's absolutely dealer's choice on what and how they would want to cover it! I would absolutely go feral to see this prompt used :D you could even get into some league of assassin's chaos or giw chaos with everything else going on! The possibilities are endless :D

[aces-and-angels]

verification source (no. 198) follow: @mahmoud92hells* *= account suppressed/shadowbanned image description below cut

dear mahmoud + family,

thank you for submitting this message to me🖤

Hello help me share my family's campaign🙏

for those who may have not had the chance to meet him yet: mahmoud's immediate family include his mother, father, and 6 brothers. extending beyond that, mahmoud's parents are grandparents to 40 beautiful grandchildren.

their family has suffered through immense loss- loss of their home, friends/loved ones, livelihoods, and any precious valuables.

several family members require additional care- two are blind- mahmoud's father is a diabetic with pre-existing heart disease + everyone is facing a constant state of trauma.

mahmoud's fundraiser was launched in june as an effort to raise enough funding for his family to evacuate to safety. the situation in gaza grows more dire with each passing day. generous donations from friends/strangers alike are essential. so far, they've only been able to raise ~3% of their goal

please help mahmoud's family achieve their goal by sharing this post, following his account*, and donating if you are able!

*= follow for updates in regards to any new accounts mahmoud may need to make (esp. now since he has been shadowbanned)

[Image ID: picture taken from mahmoud's gfm campaign page; olive branches surround the borders with a green background. below the photo reads, "support mahmoud's family, €1,572/€50,000, no. 198 on el-shab-hussein/nabulsi's sheet" /End ID.]

[kotton-kandy953]

━ 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙻𝚈 𝙱𝙴𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴𝙳

➛ various!yandere!male oneshots x fem!reader

title page┆word count: 2k┆warnings: cursing, description of a dead body, HEAVY blood/gore depictions, implied torture, manipulation, murder

FRIGID ━ boyfriend ! shoto todoroki x fem ! reader

⤷ 𝕿𝕳𝕰

bloodied teenager cut his pretty, Heterochromic eyes at the red mess he had made below himself. He lifted his hand, wiping the blood off his bottom lip with his thumb.

His hands were clad in black gloves.

To not leave fingerprint evidence, maybe?

His chest rose and fell rapidly. Deep, heavy breaths escaping his lungs, the only thing keeping his tired figure going is pure adrenaline.

And the thought of his beautiful girlfriend.

Even so, the boy still felt burning hatred for the pathetic being by his feet.

With a sigh, he pulled back his hood and wiped the sweat off his forehead. His short, half white and half red hair being revealed.

He ran a hand through it, getting the two-toned locks out of his face only for them to fall back in place.

The half-and-half boy thought it was all over until the body below him began to squirm and writhe in agony.

His gaze quickly jolted to their direction, clenching his teeth in frustration.

"P- please! Spare me!!..." The person lying at the teen's feet called. The teen only stared dead at them, his eyes void with all human feelings and emotion.

He wasn't thinking straight, all he could think of was how much this person made his girlfriend happy. How they made her smile.

How they managed to comfort her when she was sad or angry.

How he wished he was the only one allowed to do that.

The more those thoughts rushed back and forth in his head, the more he lost control.

It was sending him straight over the edge.

He subconsciously clenched his left fist, smoke emanating from it.

He could care less about their pathetic pleads for mercy. About their cries as he makes their blood paint the ground red.

"...please... j- just let me go!" They shouted, choking and gargling on their own blood in their mouth. Tears streamed down their bruised face, along with blood rolling down their nose.

The boy rolled his eyes at his pleading victim. He could've sworn he had already tortured and beaten them enough for them to be bleeding out on the ground, dead — or dying, at the least.

They should've died of blood loss minutes ago, he thought with his stoic expression still present.

His face was unfazed and uninterested in their desperate weeping and begging for mercy.

Their face was bruised and broken, as if they were beaten up over and over again.

Not saying that's not what has been happening for the past few hours.

Their body was weak and it even hurt for them to breathe, but the boy could care less.

Sighing his eyes, the teenage boy finally spoke, "Shut up."

He lifted his right foot and kicked the person's stomach. They jerked in pain and coughed up more blood, knowing that they couldn't fight back against him.

The boy had the power to kill them right then and there. He could have even killed them from the start.

But he didn't.

He's going as slow as possible on purpose.

He wanted them to suffer.

To suffer for all the moments they've spent with Y/n.

To suffer for all the moments they made Shoto resent them even more.

"You've lost too much blood and you're probably in indescribable pain," The boy reached down beside their body, grabbing a large golf club he had set down not too long ago.

"You're not going to live much longer."

The boy activated his quirk on his left side, slowly heating up the metal golf club, making it flush a soft shade of red.

He lifted it up above his head with a death grip, his eyes locked on the person below him.

"So I might as well put an end to your suffering already."

• • •

You placed your phone back down onto your bed after it went back to voicemail.

What the hell, Shoto!?

It has been two, no, almost three hours since you last heard from your boyfriend Shoto Todoroki.

He had promised to arrive at your home by 2pm but now it's almost five.

"What the fuck could he possibly be doing!?" You sat down on your bed while scrolling through your contacts list until you found his.

"And why couldn't he just text me sooner to let me know that he'd be late!?"

You angrily read at the texts you spammed him only a few minutes ago. He had left you on delivered for hours which isn't very common for him.

Calm down, clam down... You took a deep breath, he probably just misplaced his phone!

Your attempts at calming yourself down worked for a little, before you started thinking of the worst possible scenarios.

But there have been many disappearances lately... you placed your phone in your jacket pocket, and everyone that's been going missing has had some sort of relation to me...

You felt your heart pounding against your chest, But that doesn't mean Shoto was kidnapped!

You slowly stood up and walked towards your bedroom door.

He would never let himself get kidnapped...

...Right?

You swung your bedroom door open and ran to your front door. You called out to your parents that you were leaving, but you left before they could even uttered a response.

I have to get to Shoto's house as fast as I can!

• • •

Shoto grunts as he swings the red, hot, golf club down onto their already bloodied  and broken body. More blood splatters on his face and black hoodie as he repeats this heinous action in cold blood a few more times.

Finally, he lifts the club and rests it on his shoulder.

"Shit..." He muttered quietly to himself, "...I must've lost track of time."

He kept his cold expression as he licked the splattered blood off his lips.

The persons face, or what was left of said person, was mangled and beaten far beyond recognition. It was just a disgusting , gory, mess.

He dropped the heated golf club onto the ground, causing it to clang loudly against the cement floor of the basement. The large club fell right beside the mutilated corpse beside his feet.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, Shoto used his ice power to regulate the temperature of his body.

After doing so, he kneeled down beside the body and grabbed their wrist. He was checking for a pulse or any other signs of life.

nothing.

Finding out that they were gone, a very soft smile, crazy, appears on the boys face.

He dropped their broken wrist and stood up, his slight smile growing wider.

Once standing upright, the heterochromic eyed boy coldly stared down at the crimson mess he had made beneath his shoes.

His eyes were dark, full of resentment and zero remorse for the heinous act he had just committed.

More blood than one could ever imagine coming from another human oozed around the corpse. Shoto slowly took a few steps back to avoid staining his shoes further.

Shoto's smile softly faded as he wiped the blood off his face, only smearing it further. He slowly took his gloves off and threw them on top of the bludgeoned dead body.

He walked over to a stack of boxes and grabbed his phone, examining each and every text and call notification he received from you.

Y/n is still waiting for me at her house... he thought as he read the texts you sent.

"She's probably worried sick..." he mutters to himself, "...This took way longer than anticipated."

The heterochromic eyed male turned around and placed his phone is his pocket, preparing to leave the basement.

He glanced up at the stairs, and what he saw made him freeze in surprise.

"Sh- Shoto..." said a trembling and crying female voice. He took a step back, almost tumbling on his own two feet.

"Y/n..."

You were about to run up to your boyfriend and hug him, but what you had saw shook you to your core.

Blood.

It was everywhere.

Crimson blood was all on the floors and your boyfriend's pretty face.

And on the dead body lying only a few feet away from him.

You placed your hands on your mouth, the strong, disgusting, stench of blood made you feel dizzy.

Shoto put on his normal, neutral expression but you could tell there was an emotion he was masking behind it.

What was that masked emotion, exactly?

You didn't know.

But what you did know was that your seemingly loving boyfriend has turned into a cold-blooded monster.

You ran to the bottom of the stairs, keeping a distance between you and your bloodied boyfriend.

Tears streaked down your (s/c) face, you couldn't ever believe that he would do such things as this.

You choked back sobs as he reached his hand out to you.

"Y/n..." He begged, "Y/n, listen to me..."

Shoto started to slowly take a few steps towards you. Before he got any closer you backed away out of pure fear.

Your hands fell limp at your sides. "Wh- Why the hell should I listen to you!?" You shouted at him with clenched fists.

He relaxed his expression once more and shoved his hands back in his pockets.

He tilts his head and asks, "What are you—"

You stomped your foot to the ground, "-You know exactly what I'm talking about, dammit!!"

You paused, biting your lip as tears of frustration rolled down your cheeks.

"You went on hiatus for three goddamn hours and when I finally find you... yo- you're..." you trailed off.

"Just let me explain..." He took a step closer and you took a step back once more. You both repeated this until your back hit the wall behind yourself.

You mentally cursed yourself for not retreating up the stairs and calling for help

He reached his hand out to caress your face, you flinched at the feeling of his red-stained hand against your soft skin. He stared deep into your (e/c) eyes, his filled with pure love and adoration for you.

The way he touched and looked at you made you feel sick to your stomach. How could someone brutally murdered another human being and still manage to act as if nothing happened.

How psychotic could a person be to do that!?

"I wouldn't kill somebody without a proper reason, Y/n." He said quietly, almost a whisper.

You brought up your trembling hand and took his off your face. The more he touched you the more disgusted you felt.

"Then... then why?" You muttered, "Then why did you do it...?"

Shoto Todoroki takes note of your expression and body language.

You were deathly afraid of the boy— no, the monster standing in front of you.

He didn't want to make it worse by telling the truth. That he killed an innocent person out of pure jealousy and love for her.

That would make him sound crazy.

So he lied.

He lied to you about everything.

He sighs quietly, "The many unexplained disappearances... the one who mangles their face beyond recognition... was them."

He silently gestures to the mutilated corpse behind him.

You look beyond Shoto's shoulder, your petrified eyes rested on the brutal murder scene. You tried your hardest to resist the urge to throw up right there.

You fixed your gaze in his mismatched irises. "B- but you still murdered them without proof of them being behind this!"

He reassuringly placed a hand on your shoulder, "I do have proof, Y/n."

He glanced behind himself, "They even tried kidnapping me, Y/n."

His eyes locked with yours, "You have to believe me."

You looked him in the eyes, they were sincere and full of love. And there was no visible sign of him being dishonest.

I should trust him.

Shoto would never lie to me...

...Right?

Back to Title Page?

[muchtodoonterror]

I do not understand and am slightly offended by the fanon I come across depicting Solomon Tozer as dumb or stupid. He just isn't.

There are different kinds of intelligence. Just because he hasn't studied like a midshipmen or officer, that only makes him uneducated at worst. He clearly has interpersonal and emotional intelligence which are not to be sniffed at when you have that many men trapped together in harrowing circumstances.

As he is tending to Heather, he very specifically is describing one of the ongoing scientific experiments. That indicates not just that he's paying attention but that he finds it interesting and noteworthy. He could very easily have been talking about anything, about shipboard gossip or relating old adventures, but he's relating what he‘s picked up of the ship's science.

I'm sure one of the reasons he's depicted thusly is his poor choice in joining up with Hickey and subsequent doubling down on that choice. That is a topic for another essay but my point here is: grief empirically affects one's ability to process and make decisions. Tozer is arguably one of the most grief stricken men on board. They've all suffered losses, but being widowed (if we're taking the real Tozer's biography into account), with witnessing the deaths of Bryant and Sir John, with Heather, with Fairholme's party, with Morfin - he is not just grieving these losses but often feeling a direct responsibility for them. One of these alone is enough to impact his ability to make rational decisions, and as they pile up? And that's not even factoring in the effects of scurvy.

In conclusion, leave my boy alone; he's not dumb, he's just grief-stricken and doing his best.

[relicsongmel]

I've already explained my thoughts on how Dahlia fears Iris' love because it's the only thing contradicting her worldview that she is inherently unlovable, and how her inability to handle that reality affects the way she returns that love (i.e. in an incredibly backwards and convoluted manner). But recently I've also been quite captivated by the idea that maybe a similar principle holds true for Iris herself.

That being, that Iris is deeply afraid of her own capacity for love.

Iris, who feels Dahlia's pain so deeply as if it were her own (and it often is due to their shared upbringing). So hurt by the idea of her beloved sister hurting that it drives her mad. So much so that'd she'd do anything to help her feel whole again. So she loses herself, gives everything that she is and has to make sure her sister knows she's not alone. To some, it would be a lofty sacrifice, but to Iris, there's not much loss in throwing your life away when your life never had much meaning to begin with. And it's worth it, if it's for Dahlia.

At least, that's what she'd like to think.

In truth, Iris is utterly terrified of the person she turns into when Dahlia asks for her help. How all she can focus on is protecting her sister from harm or blame, to the point that everything and everyone else either fades into the shadows...or becomes warped into a simple cog in the machine of whatever crime they were unfortunate enough to become tangled in. Murder weapons become tools for freedom. People become mere vessels for whatever role they've been assigned. Any collateral damage—lives lost, scapegoats blamed, and the suffering of all parties hurt as a result—becomes an afterthought.

Only when it's all over does Iris snap back to reality and realize the weight of what she's done, and the guilt is enough to crush her. But all too soon, before she can finally swear off letting herself give in to overbearing compassion to the detriment of herself and others, Dahlia needs another "favor" and the cycle repeats itself again. And again...and again.

Eventually, somehow, Iris decides enough is enough, and narrowly manages to convince her sister not to kill the man who unknowingly accepted incriminating evidence from her latest plot to eliminate anyone standing in her way. She agrees to take on the burden of retrieving said evidence, and at first, she treats this task as she would any other cover-up job: not quite as dangerously tunnel-visioned as in crimes past due to there being less at stake, but with a certain air of detachment nonetheless. She doesn't want the man to be hurt, sure, but it's less about him specifically and more about Dahlia, who's dug herself so deep into a ditch of seeking revenge that she can no longer climb out unless Iris throws a rope down to save her. However, not long into her mission...something unexpected happens.

The man she's taken it upon herself to save from Dahlia's wrath is a deceptively tough nut to crack. For all Phoenix Wright seems easygoing and happy-go-lucky on the surface, there's a certain stubbornness lurking underneath—and despite asking numerous times, Iris can't seem to convince him to return Dahlia's deadly poison-bearing necklace. She's going to have to keep up the "girlfriend" charade for longer than she thought, but...for some reason, that reality doesn't bother her as much as she would have expected. In fact...it almost seems to invigorate her.

The version of herself when she's with him, despite literally bearing a different name than her own, feels more authentic and natural than any other role she's been born into, forced into, or crafted for herself out of desperation. And when one rainy October day she's lifted up and spun around in Phoenix's arms after she came to Ivy University's art building to deliver an assignment he had forgotten at home, Iris finally figures out the reason why.

When she locks eyes with him as he gently sets her down...

Iris realizes she's falling in love.

And Iris, knowing exactly the lengths she's willing to go to for love, feels nothing but despair at that realization, despite her face being flushed as red as her dyed hair and her heart feeling like it could burst forth from her chest at any moment.

How many more people could be hurt because of her feelings for a man she was never supposed to meet, let alone fall in love with? How long will Dahlia let her maintain this illusion until she gets impatient and takes matters into her own hands? If it came down to it, which one of the people she loves most in the world would Iris choose to protect? Which one of them would she have to sacrifice? Is her love forever fated to result in tragedy, or can she save both of them somehow?

In the end, Iris is powerless to help either of them—Dahlia is found guilty of murder and sentenced to execution, and Phoenix is nearly poisoned by Dahlia, initially framed for the murder she committed and leaves the ordeal deeply scarred by her betrayal. And Iris, having done so much for their sakes and yet still failing them, decides that she should at least do what she can to protect the one that still has a life ahead of him: Phoenix. And given that her involvement with him led to nothing but devastation—her love led to nothing but devastation, she decides to permanently isolate herself from him in the hopes that he can eventually move on and heal without her. The idea of leaving him behind (while he's experiencing such profound grief, no less) makes her heart ache, but to her the feeling is nothing if not deserved, and at least she can rest easy knowing that Dahlia is no longer a threat to him. And by sequestering herself on Eagle Mountain, she can protect him and others from the frequently gruesome outcomes of her undying devotion.

Iris spends five whole years surrounding her life around a practice she hates, to "atone" for her sin of letting her love corrupt her. Too fearful of it to face the truth of the hurt she's caused. And Phoenix spends five whole years suffering because of it.

Iris' love is pure, all-encompassing, and selfless. But the ironic reality she struggles against is that such love can also make her terribly, terribly cruel.

A cruelty not unlike that of her sister.

[girlactionfigure]

Nakba, nakhsa, на хуй

The Arabs consider only two wars against Israel as defeats: The Nakba in 1948 and the Nakhsa in 1967. The reason for this is that they measure defeat only in terms of land loss. I'm not talking about the movement of political borders, but about regions that are no longer inhabited by Arabs. Lost homes, lost fields, lost groves. Places where they had once lived but can never visit again. Keys without doors.

This is why, despite a crushing battlefield defeat in 1973, the Arabs don't feel they've lost the war. While Israel came to control a huge swath of Arab territory after destroying the Syrian and Egyptian armies, no Arab communities were displaced. There were no columns of refugees and no people with useless keys hanging from their necks. 

The Middle Eastern equation is very simple. 

No mass displacement = no victory. 

Anyone telling you otherwise is fantasizing. Any loss except land loss is immaterial. The enemy is willing to suffer greatly to restore his lost honor. Where did he give up and admit defeat? In medieval Spain. Why? Because he were truly defeated there. Not because Christians armies defeated Muslim armies, but because the Muslims were displaced from Spain. 

Total displacement = total victory.

As most wars have shown, despite being a very tough people, the enemy is not immovable. Hundreds of thousands fled their homes in '48 and '67 (even though no organized effort was made to displace them) and almost three millions fled their homes in Gaza and Lebanon now. 

In Lebanon, a single tweet from Avichay Adraee is enough to send thousands packing. They don’t even need to see Jews with guns. Just an alert is enough. Millions more have fled Syria, Iraq, and Lebanon during intra-Arab wars. 

Turns out that the “true owners of the land” can leave it after all.

This brings me to my main point: only displacement can bring security to Israel and peace to the region. Israel isn't an empire. The IDF was created to defeat armies in quick wars, not to be a giant police force. 

Israel has neither the mindset nor the resources to rule over millions of hostile people. Nor does it or those people gain anything from such rule. It’s an exercise in sadomasochism. Nevertheless, for almost 60 years, this is exactly how Israel has been behaving, in total contradiction to common sense or reality. 

Each time Israel conquered a new territory as a result of a defensive war, it found itself ruling over a hostile population that resisted Israeli rule through guerilla warfare. As we’ve already established, death and destruction don't deter the enemy. They’re capable of sacrifice and steadfastness that we find hard to imagine. 

The former head of Hezbollah had once said: “Kill us wherever you may find us. On every front and on the door of every mosque. But know that we are Shia Muslims and we love death. For us, life starts when we become martyrs.”

I see no reason not to believe him. 

And so, each battlefield victory became a greater burden for Israel. Each time Israel was handed lemonade it found a way to make lemons out of it.

This was the mistake made in Judea and Samaria, in Gaza, and in South Lebanon. It was avoided by sheer chance in the Golan Heights. 

Instead of displacing the hostile population, the IDF mixed with it, creating an environment in which the enemy had an advantage. Arabs are not good regular soldiers, but they’re excellent ambushers and raiders. 

I'm afraid that Israel is headed towards making the same mistake again: getting bogged down in Gaza amidst a hostile population and making some kind of a deal with Lebanon that will "retreat" Hezbollah X kilometers to the north. 

Such a deal means nothing as long as there are hostile villages on the Israeli border. 

Hezbollah fighters are local Shia. They will simply remove their uniform, hide their weapons, and remain where they are. What else can they do? These are their homes. 

Such a deal cannot be enforced. Furthermore, the enemy will rightly view it as a victory and will be emboldened to launch more attacks. A single truck can carry enough weapons to launch another invasion of the magnitude of October 7. If you don’t believe me, clearly you haven’t played Tetris enough when you were little.

As long as Lebanese border communities exist, Israelis will never be safe from a sudden invasion. As long as Israel will be managing affairs in Gaza, Israeli soldiers will be open to attacks, even if it’s just a teenager with a kitchen knife. Once again, Israel will be shoehorned into the role of an occupier of people it doesn’t wish to occupy instead of defending its territory from outside threats. And we’ll have no one to blame but ourselves.

For this reason, the only route to security is the creation of buffer zones in which the enemy doesn't have communities from which to lunch attacks. These zones can't be just de-millitarized. They have to be depopulated and deforested. They have to be reduced to deserts that will remind the enemy of the cost of attacking the Jewish state. 

Only then will Arabs view the war of aggression they’ve launched against Israel on October 7 as a defeat. Only then will Israel be able to defend its borders from external threats. Only then will it become possible to talk about peace. Only then will the IDF stop being a bloated police force and become a military again.

Anything else will just set the stage for the next bloody war.

URI KURLIANCHIK

NOV 22

[filmtv2022]

Ineffable Agony

Pairing: Aziraphale x Platonic!Reader x Crowley

Synopsis: One quiet night, Aziraphale and Crowley's world is rocked. A fallen angel is dropped on their doorstep. Their very presence shoves the reality of their Earthly partnership back into view and calls into question the very stability of Heaven and Hell. Aziraphale and Crowley struggle not only to understand the depth of the situation they've found themselves in but also to save the reader.

Warning: bleeding/blood loss + death.

A/N: I tried my best to use gender-neutral language in this one. The reader does have hair, but other than that, I think their physicality is fairly nondescript. As always, I apologize for any mistakes. It's getting late & I'm super tired.

-----------------------------

Warm light spilled out of the wide windows of A.Z. Fell and Co: Antiquarian and Unusual Books. Inside, surrounded by unruly shelves and half-empty bottles of red wine sat the oddest and most right pair in celestial history. Aziraphale had long since set aside his glass of wine, forgoing further intoxication for a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Crowley on the other hand had continued to sip away, which glass or bottle he was on remained a bit unclear.

Feeling his head turning fuzzy, the demon slowed his pace of consumption, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion and inebriation. In the days post averting the apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves settling into this new life. One free from apparent oversight from both Heaven and Hell. The two indulged in human luxury wherever and whenever they liked, unencumbered by the pull from their respective head offices. For the first time in millennia, they felt truly free to live as they liked, and what a life it was.  

“How does breakfast at the Ritz sound, Angel? I think I could do with a nice morning out, feeding the ducks, fancy tea… or perhaps we'll pop over to France for some crepes?” 

“That sounds lovely. ” Smiling sweetly at Crowley, he swallowed the last bit of his drink before standing to return the dirty cup to the sink in the back. 

A sudden burst of white light flashed like the sun, flooding the space before being replaced by the wretched orange and red of hell fire, stopping him in his tracks. Inky darkness replaced the flare as fast as it happened. Snapping his attention to the entrance, Aziraphale stood in observation waiting in anticipation for something more to happen. Having seen, the display from his seat, Crowley stood and joined the Angel.

“What’s going on?” 

“I…I don’t know. There was a…”

A sudden thump of something heavy smacking into the door forced him to stop speaking. To the human senses, nothing seemed out of place, the world continued to move just as it always had, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The air began to thrum with energy, the waves pouring into the store erratically, their intensity growing stronger the longer it went on. Crowley hissed, a guttural reaction to the feel of pain that roared through them both. Fighting to stay upright, Aziraphle gripped the demon’s shoulders as he doubled over in pain.

“Are you all right?” Pushing aside the ache that filled his own head, Aziraphale struggled to focus on the present, caught between concern for Crowley and whatever… or whoever was causing this to happen. 

“I’m fine, just dandy, but I’d be better if my insides weren’t twisting around knots.” 

“Yes, of course.”

Closing his eyes, the angel searched for a miracle, one strong enough to put an end to the horrific suffering that flowed freely into the room. Celestial magic hummed over his skin but died as he worked to make it so. Trying again, and failing, dread bubbled hot in in Zira’s chest. 

“It’s not working!”

“Obviously!” 

Groaning, Crowley clutched at his stomach as Aziraphale whimpered next to him. The angel’s head was full to the bursting point as if his mind was being ripped apart at the seams.

“I… I don’t know what to do!” 

Forcing himself to stand to his full height, Crowley removed himself from the angel’s hold, “Fine, I’ll finish this myself.” 

He too searched for a miracle. The darkness of his own magic flooded over his senses as he worked, but nothing happened. The lick of heat that always accompanied his miracles ran cold, leaving a chill over his skin in its absence. Aziraphale’s knees buckled as the pressure in his skull intensified. Dropping to the ground with him, Crowley held onto his angel.

Then as quickly as it started, the vibrations ceased to exist. Panting hard, the pair stood up on shaky legs. Crowley’s hand stayed firm on Aizraphale’s back, helping the Angel along as well as grounding himself. Stumbling toward the door, Zirh’s fingers trembled as he reached for the handle. Glancing at Crowley, he waited for some sign of reassurance, which was freely given in the form of a nearly imperceptible nod. Opening the door, their eyes immediately fell on the torn figure slumped face down on the ground before them. Slashes cut through their jacket and pants, the flesh below ripped to shreds and bleeding heavily. Ichor coated the surface of the stoop, pooling in a wide swath before spilling down the step. Kneeling down to see things more clearly, Aziraphale gently rolled over the stranger, the gore staining his hands red. 

“They’re an angel.” Laying them on their back, his fingers felt for a pulse. It was weak, barely more than a flutter, but it was there.

“Not anymore.” Crowley gritted his teeth as he spoke, the realization of what had happened hitting too close to home, “They’ve been cast down.”

“Cast down? But Heaven they’ve… they’ve taken…” 

“Taken their wings, yes.” 

“That’s not supposed to happen?” 

“And yet it did.” 

“Why?”

“Why not? It certainly makes a statement.” Reaching for their hand, Crowley slowly unfurled their fist, removing the gore-soaked paper from within. 

“A statement for who?”

“Us.” Peeling apart the folds, Crowley read the smeared words aloud, “To the attention of one A.Z. Fell & Anthony J. Crowley. Your actions have consequences that reach far behind the realms of Heaven and Hell. You’ve set something in motion that must be stopped.” 

Locking eyes with the demon, Zira struggles to find words, “What does this mean?”

“I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.” 

Scooping the fallen angel into his arms, Crowley deftly made his way toward the second floor of the bookshop. Finding the first door on the right partially open, he pushed it open with his foot. A couple of strong strides had him standing next to the bed, scanning over their face for any sign of familiarity. Finding nothing, he placed them down on the mattress on their side before turning his attention to the wounds. Trying yet again to use his magic, Crowley reached out in search of a way to staunch the flow. The stream slowed slightly, but not nearly enough.

“The bleeding won’t stop.” Waiting for an answer, he pushed his palms into the worst of the gashes, but when no response came, he shouted for assistance, “Angel, a little help here!”

“Oh, yes!” knocked back into reality, Aziraphale made his way to the bed, his stained hands once again reaching for the being before him. Using what little magic he could muster, he managed to lessen the bleeding to a trickle.

Feeling it still running between his fingers, Crowley’s head dropped between his shoulders, a deep exhale releasing as he tried to let go of the panic coursing through his system. It was an unnatural state for the demon, one that he’d only felt a few other times in his 6,000 years of life. He’d done a keen job of compartmentalizing the memory of his own fall, relegating it to the deepest depths of his mind. This, however, hit too close to home. While he’d been lucky enough to keep his wings, the transition from Heavinly Being to a Demon of Hell was horrific at best. The darkness, the pain… the loneliness. It was all too much to think about even now, all these years later. 

Letting go of his hold on their wounds, Crowley gingerly placed them on their back, hoping the pressure who stop the rest of the bleeding. Sinking down beside the bed, he rested his head back on the mattress and closed his eyes tightly.

“What could they possibly have done to deserve this?” Aziraphale’s voice cracked as he spoke, his eyes never leaving their face. Brushing his fingers over their hair, he pushed the blood-coated strands out of the way.

“We better hope they wake up so we can find out.” Standing up, Crowley stalked out of the room, pounding down the hall toward the bathroom. 

Turning on the water, he let it pour from the faucet until steam rolled from the stream. Hot enough to scald, he scrubbed vigorously at his hands. The red of the gore was replaced by the angry color of his skin beneath as he fought to rid himself of the stains. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom, Aziraphale watched in concern, his brows furrowed at the sight before. Losing control of himself, Crowley snapped off the water, slamming his fists down upon the porcelain and letting loose a rage-filled growl. Pushing his way past the angel, he pounded down the stairs toward the front door.

Following in his wake, Zira called to his demon, “Where are you going?”

“To find out what in the hell is going on?” 

“But what if something happens… I-I should come with you.”

Snapping around, Crowley’s yellow eyes stopped Aziraphale in his tracks, “Stay here, take care of the angel… demon… thing. I’ll be back, I promise.” 

Nodding in agreement, Aziraphale watched Crowley drive away, the Bentley tires screaming along the pavement.

--------------------------------------------------------

Agonizing flashes of pain radiated from the jagged wounds as cold sweat coated your skin turning into a slick mess of drying blood and perspiration. Spasms racked your body, each one more powerful than the last. You were dying, or so you thought. But what did that really mean for angel turned demon? You were even really alive to begin with? Where would your ‘death’ leave you? Certainly not in Heaven, they’d made it quite clear you were no longer welcome amongst their kind. So that left two other options. One being an eternity in Hell, rotting away with the other demons. The other was much more frightening… nothingness, your soul relegated to the black void somewhere between the realms. Alone. Cold. Unneeded… Unwanted. Stuck in purgatory for all time. 

Time ceased to exist, and all sounds and feelings apart from the physical and mental torment fell away as you were trapped in the endless cycle of pain. Giving into it all, you allowed yourself to fall further away from the light. The beacons of Heaven were only a dim glow on the horizon. Their cool white was replaced by the furious red of the gates below. It was warm, welcoming even. It would have been so easy to let go, to surrender, and yet some small part of you keep a firm hold on the life you’d had before. Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to relinquish it fully.

The gentle press of a hand against your cheek pulled a quiet whimper from you, the touch kind and comforting. A tender voice spoke in a low mumble, their words unclear, but their intentions certain. There was something familiar about it as if a long-lost friend had come to visit. 

“I’m so sorry, but this is going to hurt.” 

Undoing the buttons of your shirt, the person gingerly pulled you into their chest, your forehead resting on their shoulder as they removed your top. A strangled groan fell from your lips at their ministrations.

“I know, I know.” Smoothing over your hair, they laid you back on the bed, this time on your side so they could access your body. 

Walking around to the other side of the bed, they began the delicate work of cleaning the wounds. Rag and after rag came away crimson, and the cloths were discarded nearby on the floor. Slowly, but surely, the gashes were stitched and covered. Finished closing the wounds, they began to wash away the rest of the blood as best they could. The task was slow and tedious. 

“There, that’s better. Now. let’s get you some fresh clothes.” 

Standing from the bed, Aziraphale sought out a pair of his pajamas. Returning to your side, he slipped the jumper over your head and shoulders, taking great care to not bump your most tender spots. Moving on, he carefully peeled away your trousers, the white was splotched with darkening red. Dropping them on the pile of used rags, he then shimmied the plaid bottoms over your frame. His hands were unsure and timid as he moved. 

Once again laying flat on your back, Zira pulled a blanket over you. Taking a moment to adjust the pillows, he sank back down into the spot next to you, his hands wrapping warmly around your own. 

“Who are you?” 

The previous question was barely more than a whisper, making the utterance of a name from your lips even more surprising. With eyes closed tight, and no other signs of consciousness, a singular word tumbled out for him to hear.

“Aziraphale…” 

Zira was left speechless. What about him? Why were saying his name? 

In a measure of cosmic timing, the telephone downstairs began to ring. It’s incessant trill bounding off the walls, calling to the angel. Leaving his spot, he was forced to let go of your hands. The loss of his touch caused a pained look to contort your features.

“I’ll be right back, don’t you worry.” 

Silence fell over the room, as Aziraphale quietly closed the door behind himself, leaving you alone. It was as if in his absence the darkness began to creep back in, closing the distance between you and the void. Black hands reached for you, threatening to drag you away from the world of the living. Fighting against their searing grip, your body twitched and thrashed on the bed. Soon the motions were followed by gasping screams, the sounds shrill and bloodcurdling flew down the stairs toward Aziraphale. The pounding of footfalls was masked by the blistering screeches from Hell that rang in your ears. Soft hands gripped your shoulders, calling to you through the panic.

“I’m here, I’m…” Placing his palm on the side of your head, the heat rolling off your skin nearly burned him. Knowing he needed to act quickly, he flooded your mind with celestial light. Instantly, your body began to relax and your temperature dropped.

Falling limp against the pillows, your chest rose and fell in rapid succession. Sweat had soaked through the collar of the shirt, staining it darker than the rest. Aziraphale’s fingertips ran in soft arcs down your face as he continued to murmur words of comfort. Fearful of leaving your side again, he yanked the chair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed. Clasping your hand in his, he took a seat and waited. Crowley would be back soon enough, he’d promised.

------------------------------------------------

Hours passed and eventually, sleep overtook Aziraphale. Slumping back in the chair, he managed to keep a hold of your hand. Returning to the bookshop with little to no information in hand, Crowley made his way upstairs in search of his Angel. The door to the first guest room was flung wide open, and he was greeted with the image of Zira fast asleep, the lines of worry still creased between his brows. With his promise to return in mind, Crowley softly shook the angel awake. 

“You’re back.”

“I promised, didn’t I.” 

“Of course, What did you find out?”

“Not much. Nothing seems out of place, and the lines between Hell and Earth are quiet. Whatever this is, it’s either from Heaven alone or somebody’s going to dangerous lengths to keep it hidden.” 

“Hidden? They were dropped on our front porch! How is that hidden?” 

“You’ve got a point, but it doesn’t change the fact that there's nothing on the radar.” Turning to look at the stranger on the bed, Crowley’s tone softened as he spoke again, “How are they doing?” 

“As best as can be expected… there was so much blood.” Shifting forward, Aziraphale adjusted his grip on your hand, “They spoke in their sleep while you were away. It didn’t make sense, but they spoke.”

“What did they say?”

“My name…”

“You name? As in Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, giver of the flaming sword and forestaller of the end of days” 

“That’s what I’ve said isn’t it?” Impatience touching the edge of the question.

“Yes, but how would they know your name?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea…” 

Crowley’s thoughts raced at the realization of what that could mean for Heaven. If they had fallen so far as to mutilate those they cast down then things were much worse off than he’d ever expected.

“Perhaps Heaven’s become more like Hell than they’d ever care to admit.” 

Stunned into silence, the pair sat quietly for a while, observing the rise and fall of your chest. The steady movement was just enough to ease some of the worries that festered. 

“There was one other thing they said while you were gone?”

“Yes?” 

“The phone rang while you were out, when I left to answer, they… they started to scream—terrible screeching wails, as if… as if Hell itself was coming for them. And when I returned, their skin… it was burning like fire. Between the screams, they were calling for you.”

“Me?”

Nodding yes, he continued on, “Over and over, begging… pleading for you. They know us Crowley, and yet I’m sure I’ve never seen this face before.” 

“Neither have I.” 

----------------------------------------------------------

Morning broke over the quaint yet busy street, and the rumble of cars and voices floated in from outside. Your eyes fluttered open, and the unchecked sunlight beaming into the room assaulted your sensitive eyes. Hissing at the daggers of light, your whole body recoiled. Slamming your lids shut again, you scrambled back to retreat from the intrusive light. The mangled flesh of your back crashed against the headboard in your attempt to flee from the light. The sudden movement sent shockwaves through your body as the stitches in your wounds tugged sharply. Hearing and feeling your stir, Aziraphale and Crowley sat bolt upright in their respective positions. Zira in the same chair as the night before, and Crowley in the vanity chair across the room. 

Catching your attempt to flee from the overwhelming sensations, Aizraphale reached for your shoulders and tried his best to push you back down into the pillows. His sure hands were commanding and gentle as they kept you from hurting yourself further. 

“You’re all right. Careful now or you’ll rip your stitches.” 

Simultaneously, Crowley was up out of his chair, his own hand coming up to grip your chin, holding your face in his direction. Your eyes flew open again as if called to look by some hell-born bond. And what he saw brought a moment of hesitation. The whites of your eyes were flooded with a sickening crimson as if every blood vessel had burst. While your pupils were blown large, covering nearly the entirety of your eyes. Shaking off the unsettling nature of your appearance, the demon deftly removed his sunglasses and placed them on your face. 

“It’s their eyes, they’re not used to the light.” Stepping back, Crowley reached out a hand to Aziraphale, pushing him away from you, “Careful, Angel, emotions can be a bit unsteady.” 

“It’s all right, Crowley. As you said, they’re in pain, why don’t you let me help.” 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” 

“Nonsense!” stepping back to your side, Aziraphale’s fingertips aligned with your temples as a gentle light filled the room.

Your breathing began to slow as the ache faded both mentally and physically. Slowly, you opened your eyes, finding that the dark lenses made the world around you much more bearable to view. Weakness replaced the pain leaving you incapable of moving, your power sat dormant, but hot beneath your skin. The heady mix of emotions melded together in what was certain to become an explosive combination. 

Pushing down the flames, you spoke as if greeting old friends, “Crowley… Aziraphale… finally.” 

“How do you know our names?” Zira’s question was far from accusatory.

“Oh Aziraphale, I’ve known you for thousands of years… the same goes for you, Crowley.” 

“Who are you? Why do you know us?” Crowley on the other hand couldn’t help the accusation that threaded over his words.

Tilting your head to the side, you focused on him. The yellow of his snake-like eyes glinted in the sun, strong and fierce in demeanor. 

“It was my job, to know you, to follow your biddings here on Earth. Like a celestial watchdog, I suppose.” 

“Watchdog?” Crowley tensed at the very thought of Heaven having watched him for millennia after his fall. 

“Yes. It was my job to track your movements, particularly in the years since your delivery of the AntiChrist. Well, you and Aziraphale. There was some… hesitation regarding the pair of you, given your shared history of questionable decision-making. Need I mention your flaming sword and apple debacles?” Your voice was weak and breathy as if speaking drained you of what little energy you’d recouped.

“All right, no need to rub it in. Enough about us, you’ve yet to answer our other question, demon. Who are you?” 

“Well, I don’t know how this works exactly, but I suppose my angelic name will do for now. I’m Y/N.” 

“And why are you here… Y/N?” Aziraphale uttered your name sweetly as if to encourage you to continue. 

“It’s simple really, I’m the same as you, Crowley. I asked too many questions… I doubted the ineffable plan.” Sinking further back into the pillows, you turned your head to look at the demon. 

“You what? Why?” Aziraphaled asked in shock.

“Because… you were happy.” Shifting your body slightly so that you could gaze at him, you felt a warm hand wrap around your own, “And the more I watched you here on Earth enjoying your lives together, the humanity … it made me think. Why were we going to end it all? And after such a short time as well? I saw how you looked at the world and couldn’t imagine it ceasing to exist. But even more than that… I couldn’t bear the thought of…” 

Your voice caught in your throat as a fresh spasm racked your frame. The tightening of the muscles along the expanse of your back ripped the air from your lungs causing you to gasp and groan. Folding forward at the waist, the glasses slipped down your nose exposing your eyes to the blinding rays once again. Desperate to block it out, you pressed the heel of your palms into your eyes knocking the sunglasses onto the blanket covering your lap. Steady vibrations rolled through the space around you as your power spilled out unchecked. A blood-curdling wail tore from your lips as your skin flushed hot from the touch of Hell once more. Shocked by the sounds, Aziraphale took a few steps back, putting some distance between the two of you.

Crowley had returned to your side, his strong hands holding tightly to your biceps. The heat of your skin burned and blistered his palms, and yet he remained unfazed. 

“Y/N, Y/N, listen to- listen to me. You’ve got to push away, you’ve got to fight against it!”

Gripping you tightly, he watched as your body spasmed beneath his touch. Blood soon tinged the light cream of the jumper you were wearing, the sudden movements having torn the stitches from your flesh. Furthermore, the heat radiating from within you singed the fabric, leaving behind blackened holes in its wake. A wet gurgle accompanied your labored breathing as if you were drowning on dry land. Coughing and choking, a blackish liquid oozed out the corners of your mouth, the scene grew more horrific as the substances ran down the exposed column of your neck. Crowley’s palms smoothed over it, wiping away the mess as best he could, but it just kept coming. Every wet hack brought more of it flooding out to replace what he’d tried to clean up. 

“Crowley! Crowley, what’s happening?” Stammering, Aziraphale was frozen to his spot.

“They’re dying, the transition is consuming them.”

“But I thought-”

“Whatever you thought about this was wrong, Angel. This is the reality.”

“But I… what we can do?” 

“There’s nothing we can do except ease their pain and hope for the best. It’s up to them now. Either they find the strength to fight against the darkness or it consumes them.” 

Trembling, Zira moved to your side and eased himself down onto the bed. Cautiously, he reached out to touch you, his hand brushing over Crowley’s as he sought out your temples. 

Turning his head to look at the demon, Aziraphale whispered one simple word, “Together.” 

Understanding what he meant, Crowley nodded his head silently. Placing the pads of their fingers along your hairline, the two worked to rid you of the pain. A calming wash of peace flooded over you, chasing out the panic and terror. Your hot skin now sat cool to the touch, and the blisters covering Crowley’s hands began to heal. Slowly, your breathing regulated and the crackling wetness ceased to hinder your lungs. Serene peace settled over your features as they untwisted from the pain. Sensing that the limit of help and available miracles for this situation had been reached, both Crowley and Aziraphale sat back. Their eyes never left you as they watched for signs that their magic had failed. Zira was the first to speak

“What do we do now?”

“We wait.” 

“For how long?”

“Not long now I think.” Crowley’s voice was thick with emotion. 

Tracking the rise and fall of your chest, the pair watched as the movement became more erratic. The time between inhales turned more inconsistent and further apart the longer time went on. Eventually, it stopped altogether, and the last vestiges of pain fell from your features leaving behind a mask of perfect peace. 

“What do we do now?” Zira asked in shock.

“We find out who the hell is responsible and we make them bleed” Looking Aziraphle in the eyes, Crowley's own brimmed with emotion, “But more importantly, we live, we live for them.

[hopeswriting]

imagine you're luce, and you're born the heir to a mafia family. you're mafia-born, and so of course also mafia-raised, and then also a donna-to-be. you're raised to be able to take on the role, to be good and capable at it, are taught to make one of your core beliefs about how the many must come before the few, because the family must always come first. you're going to be the donna, of course you must always prioritize the family above all else, it's your foremost and most important duty.

if caring about the few too comes at the price of the many, comes at the price of the family, is it even worth it? if the happiness gained from it comes at the price of a greater suffering for others, is there even any meaning to it, even if it's your happiness we're talking about? you understand, don't you?

you're not sure if you do, but you care about your family, love it, want to do right by it once you become their donna, so you nod, listen and learn.

(you don't have to be taught the pain and loss and guilt and anger and bitterness is a fair price to pay for the pain you decide has to be inflicted and the sacrifices you decide must be made, including by yourself. it's the least you could do, even.)

imagine you're luce, and the gift of foresight runs through your blood.

you would not call it a gift. you did not ask for it either. and you'll never come to see it as something wanted by you.

you can see the future, and it happened exactly as you saw it would, so of course it's exactly the way you wanted it to go. you can see the future, and it happened exactly as you saw it would, so of course you didn't care to try hard enough to change it. you saw the future before the shape of it had yet to be breathed into existence, and who's to say it didn't come into existence only because you saw it happen? you saw the future, and it happened worse than it had to for it.

you can see the future, but you still can't make it anything else than what it was always going to be. you can even make the visions happen at your will, but you still have no say on what you see or how much you see. you still can only be the witness of it before anyone else can.

it does mean double and longer the happiness sometimes, means relief and gratefulness and hope beyond words, and it'd be cruel of you to voice out loud your feelings for others to hear the many more times it means something else.

you can see the future, and it doesn't make it any kinder on you than on anyone else, does not give you any more power or control over it than anyone else, but at least you can see the future. you're given the time to make peace with it, to brace yourself for it, to bargain with it, to plead and beg and fight against it however desperately and hopelessly, even if in the end it still happens exactly as you saw it would.

(you can see the future, and it still doesn't hurt you any less than anyone else when it happens, but you don't expect anymore for anyone to hold you any less responsible for it anyway. it would be nice for someone to do it one day, but you understand.)

you can see the future, and you decide it's a kindness to both yourself and others to keep it for yourself as much as possible whenever you can.

imagine you're luce, and your family has this set of rings they've looked after and protected for as long as your family has existed. they're one set of three of the most important artifacts in the world, ones that help in safeguarding its existence and balance. they're duty, the very first one and the most important one your family was created for.

the pacifier around your mother's neck is duty too, and the most important and powerful artifact among twenty-one in safeguarding the world and its balance. it's been passed down in your family too, from mother to daughter. it's duty, but less tied to your family and much more to the blood running through your veins. it's a curse, in fact, as it demands heavy sacrifices the rings don't, and one that can only be tied to the blood running through your veins.

(your mother looks at you as if expecting some kind of reaction from you, and you can only wonder at which point you weren't supposed to see it as a given. duty and sacrifices have been one and the same for you for a long time now. is it even duty if it doesn't require any sacrifices from you?)

imagine you're luce, and your mother dies for duty. she's the donna, and so she dies for your family. she's the sky arcobaleno, and so she dies for the world. she's your mother, but she dies anyway, doesn't fight it either, even knowing she will leave you behind, even knowing she won't ever get to see what you look like all grown-up.

everywhere you look, duty stares back at you, from your mother and the pacifier around her neck, her love for your family and the life she gives up for it, her love for you and how she dies anyway while you're still only a child. duty, from your family members and how they die for you and kill for you, how they do both at your command, how their lives are in the palms of your hands and how they weigh only as much as you allow them to at a time. duty, from the knowledge your foresight gives you and the shackles tied to the blood running through your veins.

your mother's only duty while she lives too. she loves you, but she'd have had to give birth to you anyway even if she didn't. she loves you, but she still gave birth to you even knowing the kind of life you'd have to live, the kind of hands you'd inevitably end up with, the burdens she'd have to lay on your shoulders, passing them down from her own. because she loves you, she finds the resolve to raise you to be able to face all of it head-on and come out on top, but she'd have had to raise you much the same way anyway even if she didn't.

(she doesn't die for you, doesn't fight to be able to keep living with you, and this, too, is your mother surrendering to duty one last time.)

(you're so sick of it, so angry at it, so hateful and resentful against it. you're so stifled by it to the point you've stopped being able to breathe for a long time now. or you would have been if they had taught you how to face duty in this way too.

it's for the better they didn't. a silver lining, sparing you pain that isn't necessary for you to go through. everyone you turn to only teaches you how to keep holding your breath longer, and you listen and learn, obedient and dutiful as you've ever been.

you're grateful for it too. really, you are.)

everywhere you look, there's no room for you to so much as question any of it, let alone anything more. duty is commendable, something you ought to look up to and strive towards, strive to achieve. duty is the right thing to do. of course it is.

(you exhale a breath of relief that shakes you down to your very core.

thank god, it's at least the right thing to do.

you're grateful for it beyond words. really, you are.)

imagine you're luce, and before it even happens, you know the choice you'll make when climbing that mountain, when standing on top of it, when waiting for a bright light to shine down on you from above. you know the choice you'll make then, even when pregnant with your daughter.

it doesn't matter since how long you knew, be it years, months, days, hours or minutes before. all that matters is that before you can even contemplate the idea of making another choice and all its implications and possible consequences, before the thought can even come alive in your mind, you already know the choice you'll make.

(you can see the future, but just because you already saw it, it doesn't mean it's now set in stone.

you can see the future, but just because you're given the chance to fight to change it, it doesn't mean it still won't happen every bit like you saw it.

it doesn't mean it can't still happen even worse than how you first saw it happen because you fought to change it, no matter how already dreadful it originally was.)

imagine you're luce, and before it even happens, you know they'll be others with you standing on top of that mountain. you're the only one who'll know it before it happens.

(because you can see the future.

and oh, you did not ask for it.)

they're strangers, people you don't owe anything to. adults who choose to show up at the first meeting, and to show up to every following mission after that. the chosen seven, whose ambitions and prides lead them to walk the path of the seven strongest too once laid down in front of them.

you don't force their hands in making any of those choices for them. you're not responsible for any of them.

you become coworkers then, accomplices, your hands stained in blood to various extent, but now dipping in the same pool of blood as you strive towards the same goal together. you have each other's backs, learn each other's strengths and weaknesses, learn each other's personalities, likes and dislikes. you keep having to spend more time together as the missions keep coming your way.

inevitably, you come to care about them. even more damning, they come to care about you in return. enough so they'll look after your daughter even after what'll happen on top of that mountain. enough so they'll look after your granddaughter too, warmly and fondly enough she'll call one of them uncle.

you're still the only one who knows they'll stand together with you on top of that mountain, not knowing what'll happen on it like you do.

and you do care about them, you swear you do. really, you do.

(you care about them the same way your mother cared about you, and how she still raised you to have steel in you and be made of sharp edges you know how to use. you care about them the same way you care about your family, and how you still send them to their deaths as needed so the rest of your family you care about just the same can keep on living longer and safely. this is the only way you've had the chance to learn how to care and love.

duty and sacrifices have been one and the same for you for as long as you can remember. it doesn't matter at which point sacrifices came to mean love to you too.

and most of all, you love your daughter more than anything else in the world.)

imagine you're luce, and this is who you are. this is who you've been raised to be, the only way you've been given room to grow up to be. this is the life you've lived and the kind of life that has shaped you as the person you are now. this is what you've been taught and told is the best version of yourself you could have grown up to be. this is who you ended up being by what you've been taught and told are all the right choices to make.

you're still the only one who knows what is about to happen on top of that mountain. it hasn't happened yet. the fate of the world hangs on what'll happen on top of that mountain, the same world you'll have to give birth to your daughter in. the same daughter you're currently pregnant with.

now imagine you're luce, look me in the eye and tell me you'd know how to even form the thought of the possibility of there being any other choice to make. look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't look at the only choice in front of you, and know deep in your bones it's the only right choice to make. that it is right of you to make it. because it simply has to be.

(imagine you're luce, and you're not doomed by the narrative. of course, you're not.

why would you need to be when the narrative has painstakingly shaped you all your life to become its perfect, faithful and dutiful sacrificial lamb?

and then, imagine you're luce, and you're even grateful for it, so, so very grateful it held up its end of the bargain too.

truly, you are.)

[greenteaandtattoos]

gotta say that chetney had some MAJOR fucking balls to look laudna in the face and have the audacity to say "no one knows loss like orym". to laudna of all people.

i do not like to compare trauma; everyone's trauma and pain are valid and their coping mechanisms, no matter how unhealthy, are centered around that trauma.

but. i'd argue that no one knows loss like laudna.

laudna lost her family. was tortured, strung up, used to send a message to some strangers who happened to piss off the tyrannical leaders of their town, chosen to do so because she had a vaguely similar appearance to one of them.

she died alone, in pain, humiliated, and afraid. and then she was resurrected by the very person who orchestrated her suffering. the person who killed and tortured her is now permanently inside her head.

almost everyone she knows and loves is dead. she woke up to a completely foreign whitestone. to a thriving whitestone. to a whitestone that not only did not know who she was but was terrified of her, because of her appearance, that which got her killed in the first place.

they shunned her, tormented her, and ran her out of the city. the city that she lived in her whole life and died in horrifically. and the leaders of whitestone did nothing. the leaders who happened to be why she suffered in the first place. they may not have known about her, but they let their townspeople do that.

and now, the woman who ruined and horrifically ended her life continues to do so in death, once again risen to be used by her, and laudna is forced to rely on her. and that reliance continually threatens to isolate her from the people she cares about. again.

so chetney can fuck right off with his bullshit. they've all suffered, and it is none of their rights to claim that one person's suffering is more important than another's, definitely no one's right to claim that their trauma gives them the right to special treatment, absolutely no one has the right to shame laudna for her coping mechanisms, and most certainly chetney does not have the right to claim that she hasn't suffered enough in comparison to orym to be justified.

i love chetney with all my heart but holy fuck that was NOT his finest moment. i'd argue that it's his lowest and ugliest.

[a-queer-seminarian]

Today is Easter Sunday. Today is Trans Day of Visibility. Today is day 176 of genocide.

This year the lectionary gives us Mark's account of the Resurrection, with its fearful cliffhanger ending — an empty tomb, but Jesus's body missing. And isn't that unresolved note fitting?

In the face of so much suffering across the world, it feels right to be compelled to sit — even on this most jubilant of days — with the poor and disenfranchised in their continued suffering.

Mark's account:

Just days before, the women closest to Jesus witnessed him slowly suffocate to death on a Roman cross. Now, now trudge to his tomb to anoint his corpse — and find the stone rolled away, his body gone. A strange figure inside tells them that Jesus is has risen, and will reunite with them in Galilee.

They respond not with joy, but trembling ekstasis — a sense of being beside yourself, taken out of your own mind with shock. They flee.

The women keep what they've seen and heard to themselves — because their beloved friend outliving execution is just too good to be true. When does fortune ever favor those who languish under Empire's shadow?

Love wins, yet hate still holds us captive.

I'm grateful that Mark's resurrection story is the one many of us are hearing in church this year. His version emphasizes the "already but not yet" experience of God's liberation of which theologians write: Christians believe that in Christ's incarnation — his life, death, and resurrection — all of humanity, all of Creation is already redeemed... and yet, we still experience suffering. The Kin(g)dom is already incoming, but not yet fully manifested.

Like Mark's Gospel with its Easter joy overshadowed by ongoing fear, Trans Day of Visibility is fraught with the tension of, on the one hand, needing to be seen, to be known, to move society from awareness into acceptance into celebration; and, on the other hand, grappling with the increased violence and bigotry that a larger spotlight brings.

The trans community intimately understands the intermingling of life and death, joy and pain.

When we manage to roll back the stones on our tombs of silence and shame, self-loathing and social death, and stride boldly into new, transforming and transformative life — into trans joy! — death still stalks us.

We are blessedly, audaciously free — and we are in constant danger. There are many who would shove us back into our tombs.

And of course, the trans community is by no means alone in experiencing the not-yet-ness of God's Kin(g)dom.

Empire's violence continues to overshadow God's liberation.

The women who came to tend to their beloved dead initially experienced the loss of his body as one more indignity heaped upon them by Empire. Was his torture, their terror, not enough, that even their grief must be trampled upon, his corpse stolen away from them?

The people of Gaza are undergoing such horrors now. Indignity is heaped on indignity as they are bombed, assaulted, terrorized, starved, mocked. They are not given a moment's rest to tend to their dead. They are not permitted to celebrate Easter's joy as they deserve. They are forced to break their Ramadan fasts with little more than grass.

Those of us who reside in the imperial core — as I do as a white Christian in the United States — must not look away from the violence our leaders are funding, enabling, justifying.

We must not celebrate God's all-encompassing redemption without also bearing witness to the ways that liberation is not yet experienced by so many across the world.

This Easter, I pray for a free Palestine. I pray for an end to Western Empire, the severing of all its toxic tendrils holding the whole earth in a death grip.

I pray that faith communities will commit and recommit themselves to helping roll the stones of hate and fear away — and to eroding those stones into nothing, so they cannot be used to crush us once we've stepped into new life.

I pray for joy so vibrant it washes fear away, disintegrates all hatred into awe.

In the meantime, I pray for the energy and courage to bear witness to suffering; for the wisdom for each of us to discern our part in easing pain; for God's Spirit to reveal Xirself to and among the world's despised, over and over — till God's Kin(g)dom comes in full at last.

"The Empty Tomb" by artist He Qi.