#he just went down an unending rabbit hole one day

[sashimiyas]

i think one of makki’s party trick is correctly guessing what your horoscope is. looks you up and down seconds from meeting you and goes, “virgo” with absolute certainty

#reinas.inretrograde #reina.loveshanamaki #reina also loves virgos #he just went down an unending rabbit hole one day #started sending the seijoh group chat all those horoscope charts #you know those ones that were popular in the early 2010s #always tells oikawa ‘you’re such a male cancer’

[crimsonheart01]

hey love i should have labeled, but 1&4 was meant for the angst. if possible could you do those for Angel? on the angst prompt?

LMAO I will always default to sweet fluff! Fluff makes the world go round. Here’s some angsty Angel for you <3333

1. “ why don’t you just go?” & 4. “it doesn’t matter anymore.”

The sun was just coming over the horizon as you came around the corner, starting down your block. You rubbed your eyes as you took the steps up towards your apartment. Ever since leaving Santo Padre, you filled every waking moment with something to do. You always had a to do list. The only unplanned hours were those when you were sleeping. You couldn’t afford to lose the course. If you missteped, you’d be thrown backwards to a time you wanted to forget. 

You shook your head and then sighed. You didn’t want to fall back into that rabbit hole. The one where you asked yourself unending ‘what if’ questions. What if you stayed? What if you forgave him? You mockingly asked yourself. You knew the answer. You’d always known the answer. You wanted him to be someone he wasn’t. 

You sighed, seeing your front door and searched for your keys in your handbag. You couldn’t wait to get inside to get out of your uniform and take a relaxing bath. Most mornings you had to rush a shower before running off to your other job but you had the next day and a half off. Finally. Lost in your thoughts, you missed the tall man leaning against the wall, across the hall from your door. 

You pulled out your keys to unlock the door when you heard the soft murmur of your name. Your eyes widened and you spun around, searching. Your gaze connecting with his immediately.

“Why are you here?” You asked. 

You didn’t bother with any pleasantries. There was nothing pleasant left between you two. Not anymore. Not after everything that went down. 

He licked his lips, “To apologize.” 

If he was shocked by your tone, or by the curt way you cut to the chase, he didn’t show it. Instead his face was drawn, like he’d been properly scolded. You wanted to smack him. How dare he show up out of the blue and suddenly appear remorseful. Even if he was, it’d taken him a year to get to this point. Did he think you were going to forgive him and everything would be as right as rain again? 

You felt the anger rushing through you. Your skin burned and your heart rate soared. You swallowed, closing your eyes. There was no point being mad about this anymore. It was. It was over. There was no changing what happened. You took a moment, letting yourself calm down before finally looking back over at him. 

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” You let out a resigned sigh, “It’s been over a year, Angel. It’s done.” You stopped, breathing in. A pang of guilt ringing through you. “Why don’t you just go?” 

You put up with a lot. You both knew it. He knew it. But, this was your last straw. Sleeping with another woman wasn’t something you could just ‘forgive’. That’s not how things worked. The trust was gone. Deteriorated. You still loved him, but that wasn’t enough anymore. 

“C’mon mama,” He murmured, ducking his head that made him seem innocent. 

You shook your head and sighed. You were tired. You wanted a bath. You didn’t want to relive old hurt. You wished it was as easy as inviting him inside. Offering him a coffee and talking things out. But it wasn’t. 

“Go away, Angel.” You murmured. 

Tears were starting to blur your vision and you saw him take a step forward. You backed up, your back hitting your door and it signaled him to stop his pursuit. He licked his lips and nodded. He understood that now wasn’t the time. 

“Ok querida.” He took a few steps away from you, his back retreating down the hallway. However, before he reached the stairs he turned back around, “We’ll do this on your terms mama, but you need to know that I’m going to jump through every hoop. I’m going to prove myself worthy of you again. I promise.” 

Your head snapped up and you sucked in a breath at his words. He kept his eyes on yours, showing you he meant business. You blinked slowly, a few stray tears leaking out but without any kind of thought process on the proceedings, you nodded. Giving him permission to try. You made no promises, but at least he was willing enough to put in the work. 

He left you with a subdued version of his signature smile and then disappeared into the stairwell. You stayed leaning against your door and staring after him. You wanted to forgive him right then and there. You wanted to run after him adn tell him it was all going to be ok. That you could work it out. Starting now. But, you know you couldn’t. You both needed the proper space and time to make things better.

Straightening out, you turned and unlocked your door. A tiny glimmer of hope igniting in your heart. Hoping for the best.

#angel reyes #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes imagines #angel reyes imagine #mayans mc #mayans mc imagine #mayans mc imagines #writing prompts #prompts #svintsandghosts #crimsonanswers #asks

[arabellaflynn]

Text of a test monologue. Would you like to see me deliver this on camera, with no makeup, no lighting equipment, and using Notepad as a TelePrompTer? Head on over to my https://www.patreon.com/ArabellaFlynnPatreon, and for a dollar a month you too can see me waffle on in real time.

Hi, all. You may notice that I am on video now. I was going to shoot a couple of tests and apologize for the poor quality of the footage, and explain that I want to start vlogging and streaming in addition to writing, but I need some equipment to do it properly and for that I need to raise some funds... But fuck it. This is going out first instead.

As I record this, it is the fourth of July. You can probably hear the fireworks outside my window. I know I can. There are a lot of those, because we've all been inside and bored for the past four months. 

I know a lot of people who have opted not to observe the holiday this year. The 4th of July is often viewed as a celebration of the American institution, which is a little bit on fire right now, with a few people determined to squirt lighter fluid all over the flames like a bored suburban dad at a barbecue. On the other hand, it's also Independence Day, and marks the end of the long, painful process by which a population broke free of distant, uncaring overlords who cared mainly about the financial dividends of their colonies, and ignored the grievances of the people until they started breaking shit. So YMMV.

I would comment on some of the details, but I don't know them. The Late Show is on hiatus, and John Oliver doesn't air until tomorrow. I, like a lot of my demographic, get most of my current events from comedians. There's a reason for that.

I actually watched a lot of news as a teenager.

Well, "watched" might be too strong a word. It's easier for me to fall asleep if there's some sort of droning noise in the background. When I was about fifteen, I discovered that, unlike the main CNN channel, which has actual shows and documentaries, CNN Headline News just runs the day's top stories over and over again in an unending 30 minute loop. Interesting enough to keep me from falling into a train of thought that will prevent me from sleeping, boring enough that I don't want to stay up and listen.

I have no memory of the desk anchors. I'm sure they were consummate professionals, but they also had no distinguishing human characteristics whatsoever. I know they were updating the loop live, because occasionally a story would be added to the list and another one would drop off the back, and occasionally one would flub the text on their prompter, but other than that there was no hint that the face at the desk was attached to a living, breathing person.

I do remember a couple of the correspondents. One was Christiane Amanpour. Her voice stood out; CNN is an American news station that was originally restricted to American cable networks, and the vast majority of the staff is from the US. Amanpour is British-Iranian, having split her childhood between Tehran, before the revolution, and London, after. They liked to send her to the bowels of Eastern Europe to report from the war-torn streets of Citygrad in Countrystan. She had already caught some criticism on her reporting of the Bosnian War, for advancing the apparently controversial opinion that genocide was bad. I didn't know that at the time; I just thought she sounded more like she told real stories than read off lists of facts.

Another was Anderson Cooper, who was not nearly such a big deal then as he is now. Cooper, a self-described adrenaline junkie, was a war correspondent at the time, with a habit of ducking only briefly for explosions before standing back up to continue his piece to camera. He wouldn't be infamous until his coverage of Hurricane Katrina years later, both for the overall stellar job he did, and also for that one time he got tired of getting non-answers from some government toad in a live interview and very professionally flipped his shit at the lady, asking if she realized how tone deaf it was to sit there thanking other politicians for doing essentially nothing while there were still bodies in the street.

I quit watching the news when I moved away to college. It wasn't necessarily that knowing was worse than not knowing, but I felt a lot of pressure to be "adult" about it at that point, and watching proper news shows made me anxious to the point where I wouldn't sleep. I outright avoided it to the point where I made it to a canceled class at 4 pm, Mountain Standard Time, on September 11, 2001, before anyone told me what was going on.

I wasn't able to put my finger on why I found the news so horrible until many years later. I can't remember what rabbit hole I'd fallen down, but I ended up sitting on YouTube watching segments of the live news coverage of the 1981 assassination attempt on President Reagan. Reagan was shot in the side and later recovered without complications, but his Press Secretary, James Brady, was struck in the head and sustained considerable neurological damage. Brady, together with his wife Sarah, later went on to be a noted advocate for gun control, but at the time was reported to have died on the scene. 

I wound up watching a lot of one of the news desks -- ABC, I think. It started out like all the others, until the anchor tripped up a couple of times and referred to Press Secretary Brady as "Jim", and I realized: He knows these people. Personally. He's a member of the White House Press Corps, or a friend of the Bradys, or both. I'm watching a journalist reporting on a moment of historical significance to the American people, and a human being who has to tell the entire nation about someone's personal tragedy. His investment did not make him any less professional or informative than any of the others, but it did make his coverage feel very grounded in reality in a way that most news, then and now, does not.

The older I get, the more disquieting I find it to have a talking head behind a shiny desk read me a list of horrible things that have happened today without any apparent reaction. It makes it seem like these things are a randomized representative sample of the cruelty of the universe, rather than what they are, which is a list of things so unusually terrible they made the news. I realize that this is part of an effort to remain impartial so that the viewer can decide how they feel about events, but it's also disturbingly normative. Yes, everything is on fire, everything is always on fire, this is nothing new. 

I can't say I'm any more enamored of the opposite, either, the more recent style where the news anchor's entire job is to tell you that entirety of human existence is awful and here's what you should prioritize being afraid of this week. Everything around you is on fire, the fire is racing right at you, and here's whose fault the fire is.

A lot of Americans, especially younger ones, have taken to getting their news mostly from political satire because-- well, one, because for about the past twenty years, our comedians have been better at fact-checking than our actual newsrooms. You can thank Jon Stewart for getting a bee in his bonnet over that. But also because their coverage of major issues takes neither of those paths. The Daily Show alumni write up stories like they actually live on the planet they're reporting from. You're on fire? They're on fire too! Holy shit, let's all find some water! 

The conceit behind the comedy of The Daily Show and the Colbert Report and Full Frontal and Last Week Tonight and now the monologues on The Late Show is not that this is a normal amount of fire for everything to be on so it's fine, nor establishing that someone has set you on fire on purpose and here's who should be punished for it. It's bewilderment and frustration at the way we somehow keep catching on fire over and over again. Yeah, they crack jokes, because it's their job, but all the jokes are predicated on the idea that this is, above all, just very, very, inexplicably stupid. We can, and we should, be better than this. And the hosts stubbornly refuse to just give up and internalize as immutable all the reasons why we aren't.

You wouldn't know it to look at him, but Jon Stewart has accumulated "fuck you" money from his time on The Daily Show, among other things. I really hope the rest of them are doing the same. Because we need some figureheads who are able to say "fuck you" to a lot of authority figures right now without having to worry about how their family is going to survive the next month. John Oliver has HBO backing and I'm pretty sure Last Week Tonight has roughly equal budgets set aside for handling lawsuits and shoveling money at charity. Stephen Colbert has been insulting Donald Trump as hard as he possibly can since day one, and he just re-upped until 2023. Samantha Bee has her husband holding the camera to shoot her monologues out in the woods. 

They've all figured out how to produce their show over the internet, so at least we have something to watch in the After Times.

I really hope the neighbors run out of fireworks soon. Aside from not wanting the neighborhood to be literally on fire at any point, one of my housemates has a dog, and the dog has epilepsy, so this has been an interesting evening. Sorry about the fireworks, sorry about the camera, sorry about the country, sorry about the state of the world. Imma go find my Xanax. G'night.

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#IFTTT #Blogger #Unsolicited Advice

[lightningbugqueen]

The Adventures of Macho Bunny

Hello my good people! In fifth grade I wrote this horrible, super weird story about a superhero rabbit, so I thought, hey, why not post it here. So, here ya go.

Bobo, Chapter One

Once upon a time in a faraway land called Bunnytopia, there was a bunny named Bobo. Unlike all the other bunnies who liked carrots and celery, he liked chicken nuggets. He was shunned by all the other bunnies because of it. One day a loud ‘CRASH, BANG, BAM!’ startled the bunnies from their homes. They rushed outside to see what all the commotion was about and saw a large squash sitting in the middle of the carrot patch. The squash started to shake! Then outburst a….. chipmunk? The bunnies were all very confused by this discovery and started to get annoyed because they thought it would be something much cooler, like a carrot monster. Finally, all the other bunnies left, and Bobo was left alone with the chipmunk. That was when the chipmunk revealed what she really was, a magical squirrel called Finnaloopa. Finnaloopa explained that she had come to gave the bunnies a magical chicken nugget that gave you amazing powers if you ate it. One of the other bunnies was walking past and heard this, so she called all her buddies. But all the bunnies who liked carrots and celery didn’t eat the chicken nugget because they were………….VEGETARIAN!!!! But Bobo, sweet, little, Bobo, went up and ate that chicken nugget. All the other bunnies were horrified that Bobo had eaten it because of all the rules like don’t take food from strangers and chicken nuggets are bad for you, but suddenly Bobo went through an amazing transformation! His eyes popped out, his feet grew to an enormous size, and muscles poked through his fur. He had become………...MACHO BUNNY!!! Suddenly a hidden terror leaped through the bushes! Macho Bunny had no time to admire himself, he had to save to save the bunnies from……..MR. FOX!!!!

Bobo, Chapter Two

Mr. Fox ran in for the attack, but Macho Bunny was ready. He jumped over Mr. Fox’s head, bit him in the ear, and shot him with his extra accuracy, newly updated, chicken nugget shooter 2000! Mr. Fox coward and ran into the forest. All the bunnies cheered, but soon they left, which made Bobo sad. He had expected a much bigger celebration. He went to bed disappointed, even though had beaten Mr. Fox. Macho Bunny may have won that fight, but there were many more to come. That night, Bobo discovered that after every battle he turned back into that chubby little bunny he’d been before. But then, as he was laying down to sleep, he realized that underneath his bed, deep down in his rabbit hole, he had an unending supply of magical chicken nuggets. That night he fell asleep with the feeling that everything was going to be okay, or not…………..

Bobo, Chapter Three

The next morning Bobo awoke to the peaceful sound of silence, he had defeated Mr.Fox just one day earlier and the bunnies lived in harmony once more. Only one thing was different when he hopped out of his rabbit hole instead of getting the turned backs and hateful glances he was used to, there were balloons, cakes, and posters of Macho Bunny everywhere! When they saw him all the bunnies yelled “HOORAY!” “MACHO BUNNY!” “OUR SAVIOR!” Bobo was so surprised by the party that he looked behind him thinking they were applauding someone else. Before long he had been lifted onto the other bunnies’ shoulders, praised, found out that he was the new king, and much to the old king’s dismay, told that the bunnies of Bunnytopia would only be eating chicken nuggets from now on. Soon though, the party was cut short. The fox alarm started going off! Bobo ran toward his rabbit hole. The other bunnies thought he was abandoning them, but he was really going to eat one of his magical chicken nuggets! Once he finally got back out Bunnytopia was pure chaos. Bunnies were running around screaming, Mr.Fox’s army was dropping bombs in all the rabbit holes, and only Mr. Fox himself took notice of Macho Bunny. They both knew this wouldn’t be the final battle, but they could still hope. They began to circle each other. Even with his enlarged size, Macho Bunny was still much smaller than Mr. Fox. The bunny superhero took the first move. He leaped on Mr. Fox’s back, but the villain was ready for him. He flipped over and rolled around, squashing Macho Bunny to the ground. They fought for what felt like forever until Macho Bunny was exhausted. It was time to use his strongest weapon. He got face to face with Mr. Fox, took a deep breath and let it out. After only ever eating chicken nuggets and never, ever brushing his teeth, his breath reeked. Mr. Fox whimpered and ran away into the woods. His army followed. After a long day of fighting, the bunnies had won. They all decided to celebrate tomorrow and went to bed, but if they had known what was coming the next day, they wouldn’t have slept half as well………….

Bobo, Chapter Four

The Bunnies awoke to some surprising news. Overnight a new bunny had appeared in their village. There had only ever been those fifty or sixty bunnies in their village, so they were very confused about where she had come from. She was so scared that the only thing they could get out of her was that her name was Fufu, and she really liked “chez its”, whatever those were. Bobo decided that he just had to meet her. When he got there the new bunny offered him strange squares that looked like oddly shaped carrots. He soon learned that they were called chez its and that they were even better than chicken nuggets. Bobo didn’t believe her and decidedly refused to eat one. Finally, Fufu got to the point. She told them that an evil monster was going to kill them all! “ I know,” explained Bobo, “Mr. Fox already tried.” “Oh I’m not talking about him, I’m talking about something much worse.” She then told them something so scary that half the bunnies fainted, “ They’re the horrible creatures, they ride around in these huge things with wheels, and only have two feet!” “ You don’t mean……..HUMANS!?” exclaimed Bobo. Humans were a myth that all the bunnies had heard. They were enormous creatures that wore weird soft things on their bodies. They made the strangest contraptions ever, and killed things for sport! They were the only myth that scared every single one of the bunnies. “ Oh, that’s what they’re called”, said Fufu,” I thought they were called Chunans.” The rest of the bunnies took no notice of her, they were all running around screaming things like, “ Prepare for Battle!” or “ We’re all dead!” or “ Get out of here while you still can!” The new king had to stop all the insanity. “SILENCE!”, he yelled, stopping everyone in their tracks. “ Nobody, I repeat, nobody is going to die.” He announced. “ We will all prepare for battle and fight for our village!” After his amazing speech, all the bunnies felt calm and courageous. They had prepared for an emergency like this, they were ready. Bobo told all the bunnies - newest arrival included - to go to the carrot fields, dig up their hidden supplies, and prepare for battle. He, on the other hand, went down his rabbit hole and ate one of his magical chicken nuggets. He underwent the same transformation that had happened the first two times.  The bunnies were ready for the fight to come. Although it took several hours, the enemy finally arrived. Instead of being armed with swords and axes like the bunnies, they had big mechanical things and weird objects that looked like big, bulky, serrated swords. They spoke in a very weird language, they actually made sounds. They were very surprised to see the bunnies, it was as if they weren’t even expecting a fight. Macho Bunny yelled, “ATTACK!” All the bunnies ran at the humans and the humans…………...started to laugh? “What is this?” they all wondered, “weren’t they intimidated?” They hesitated for a second, then kept going. Soon, the humans weren’t laughing anymore. The bunnies slashed at them with their swords, bit them with their big teeth, and drove them back. The humans ran away, probably looking for another village to attack. The bunnies had won. Even though they knew there were many more battles to come, they celebrated this one.

Bobo, Chapter Five

During the big party celebrating the bunnies’ victory over the humans, Fufu was finally able to track down the guest of honor. “Thank you.”, said the new king, “If not for you we would have lost that battle.” “Toats fine dude,” said Fufu, and promptly threw chez its in the air. Bobo got up on the stage and made an announcement, “Today is a day of celebration, We have defeated the humans and saved Bunnitopia once more!” As all the bunnies were very excited they yelled “Yay! Praise the Chicken Nugget king!”, and the festivities continued. That night as Bobo and Fufu were taking a walk the savior delivered some sad news, “Chez its, Chez its, Chez its.” She said. “You have to leave!?” asked the king. “Yup,” answered Fufu. “We will all miss you so much.” The king called out as Fufu hopped out into the darkness. Then the fox alarm went off.

Bobo, Chapter Six

As Bobo ran to find his chicken nuggets he spied Mr. Fox stalking into the village. “I thought we were done with him,” the king muttered under his breath as he scampered down his rabbit hole. Soon, he had reappeared as Macho Bunny. At the back of his mind, he knew that this would be the last fight, one way or another. He saw that his subjects were managing well enough on their own, so he went to seek out the enemy’s leader. He found Mr. Fox freaking out the youngest bunny, Mima, and immediately called his war cry, “ACHICHIMUNGA!” The second Mr. Fox heard it he came running. It appeared that he had learned something from their last battle, as he wore a face mask and goggles. They slowly circled each other, and it seemed that they both knew that this would be the end of their battles. Bobo knew something that Mr. Fox didn’t though. Fufu had left right before the alarm went off which meant she must have heard it too, and was most likely coming back. Macho Bunny slowly herded Mr. Fox right where the chez its lover had exited. They fought for minutes, hours, days, Macho Bunny didn’t know how long. Finally, he heard the thumping of feet and the crunching of crackers coming from the forest. Mr. Fox apparently heard it too. Just as he turned around, the leader -and only member- of the chez it fan club came barreling out of the forest and knocked Mr. Fox out cold. The bunnies decided to give him the ultimate punishment, banishment to the human world. All the bunnies lived happily ever after……. for the next few years anyway.

The End

#Bobo #Macho Bunny #weird #fifth grade #story #Sorry #Here ya go deano

[doodlelolly0910]

Close Encounters of the Spiritual Kind

Summary: Emma Nolan spent a lot of time alone, and that was fine by her. Because one is never truly alone. She should know. She can talk to dead people. What she didn’t expect was one of these spiritual encounters to hang around, taking her down a rabbit hole of missing women, revenge, and, least expected, love. Can she save the day and Killian Jones? Is there even another choice?

Read it from the beginning on AO3 and FFN!

A/N: Sorry this is updating so late in the evening! I've had a super busy day! I'm not going to say much about this chapter, just that it's another turning point :P As always, thank you to @kmomof4 for her fabulous beta skills and for generally being an awesome person, and to @courtorderedcake for making the AMAZING artwork for this fic. Also thanks to you, lovely readers! I appreciate and adore you all! Hope you like the new chapter!

Chapter 15

Water sluiced over Emma's body in hot rivulets, working the weariness from her muscles and bones. The water had finally stopped pooling a brownish red at her feet as it washed away the blood on her skin and hair, now running clear. Milah's presence had died down after the discussion earlier. It must have been exhausting to remain at that level of contact for so long. Most encounters didn't even last a fraction of that time. And frankly, Emma was quite ready for a break. It was nice to have some privacy, especially since she wasn't even safe from Milah inside her head, although it seemed she only picked up on thoughts that she intended to speak but didn't.

Emma wasn't sure how long she'd been standing under the stream of seemingly unending hot water, but she was fully intent on taking advantage of the moment before she had to dive headfirst back into the craziness that had become her life.

Jefferson had heard about the explosion and connected the dots. He had been furious, demanding that Emma return to base, threatening to call Regina and pull the plug, but she had begged a week out of him. A week with Hook, working the angle they'd come up with. He was adamant that this was the worst idea she'd ever come up with, especially since Emma refused to provide him with Hook's identity (in the poorly concealed guise that she simply did not know it), but at least she didn't have to hide her new alliance from him.

Well, she may not have told him that her cover was blown where Hook was concerned, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. This was about Gold. Taking him down, once and for all. Both of them understood what calling off this op meant.

This was their Hail Mary.

She cranked the water off when her legs grew tired of standing, drying herself with a scratchy terry cloth towel, and moving to stand in front of the sink. There was a dingy mirror there and she wiped the steam from it to survey her appearance. She looked like shit.

Bruises mottled her skin, concentrated especially where she had collided full force with the earth on her hip and shoulder. Her head still felt like her heart was pounding directly inside it, but at least the nausea and blurred vision had died down. The ringing in her ears remained, though, a result of being so close to the explosion. Dark circles ringed her eyes, betraying exactly how much sleep she'd gotten in the last two weeks since this all started.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“Swan?” Killian's voice asked gently through the thin particle board. “I have some clothes for you.”

Emma wrapped the towel around her, covering herself, and cracked the door. Hook's grin immediately widened at the sight of her, his eyes unabashedly raking over her barely concealed form and she rolled her eyes, snatching the bundle of fabric from his arm and slamming the door in his face again.

“No need for hostility, love,” his muffled voice teased. “Just appreciating the view.”

“You're about to appreciate my foot right up your ass,” she shot back, dropping the towel and aggressively yanking on the over large sweats he had given her, her muscles protesting the movement, and rolled them at the waist as they were about two sizes too big for her. She put her bra back on and pulled the (also too big) gray t-shirt over her head, hearing him chuckle on the other side of the thin barrier between them.

“If you say so, Swan,” he patronized, sounding slightly further away than before. Emma bristled at that, gathering her ruined clothes and flinging the door open with force, making it rattle on its hinges. She stomped her way into the small bedroom like room until she was standing in front of where he'd moved next to the queen sized bed.

“Let's get one thing straight, buddy,” she said, pointing a vicious finger in his amused face. “I'm here to do a job. Nothing else. So you can keep on looking, but this,” she motioned between them with her finger, “not gonna happen. Okay?”

Hook's expression didn't waver for a moment, holding her gaze so she could see the laughter dancing within the blue depths of his eyes.

“You're rather fetching when you're angry, has anyone ever told you that?”

Emma let out a noise that was half growl, half screech in exasperation and pushed past him, dropping her clothes with the rest of her things. She glanced at her gun and wondered briefly exactly how terrible it would be if it accidentally went off in the direction of his foot before retrieving the comb he'd set out for her and gingerly pulling the snarls from her towel dried hair. She braided her hair and tied it off with a rubber band she'd found sitting on the table next to the bed and sat on the mattress with a bounce, Killian's eyes on her the whole time.

“Okay, when I said you could keep looking, I didn't expect you to take it literally,” she said, not even turning to look at him.

“I'm a very literal person, Swan,” he replied lightly, moving towards her. “Are you almost ready to go? We'll stop by a shop I know and get you some clothes that fit, not that it doesn't speak to the primal male in me to see you in mine, and then we will get some supplies together.”

Emma stiffened and fought the urge to tilt her chin down to sniff the fabric covering her body to see if it smelled like him. Of course it would. She was in his damn clothes. He did this on purpose. She just knew he did.

“Yup,” she said, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word. “Let's go.”

Emma was grateful that either Will or Killian had had the foresight to drive her car back to the compound. She needed to be the one that drove, needed to feel a little more in control. Less than an hour later, they were in a consignment shop in a quaint little part of the city that Emma had rarely been to. Of course it would be a second hand shop. Two spirits on the regular weren't enough to deal with.

“Time to make it a party, I guess,” Emma muttered under her breath and got out of the car. Killian was already waiting for her on the curb, his blue eyes watching her as she struggled not to wince getting out of her seat. She adjusted her oversized clothing and made her way towards him. She really needed to tell him what to expect in a place like this.

“Ready, Swan?” His voice interrupted her nervous thoughts and she blinked up at him, fighting the urge to chew on her nail.

“Uh, in just a minute. Before we go in there, this is a second hand shop, right?” she asked.

“Aye,” he replied, his brow furrowing as he tried to follow her train of thought. Emma bobbed her head once and looked down to her feet.

“Do you remember how I said Milah found me?”

“Something about a shirt? Wasn't it?”

“Ah, yes. Yep. See, I kinda have a thing about places like this. Sometimes the clothes that are donated belonged to people… well, people only I can talk to anymore…” she trailed off.

“Oh,” Killian replied, slightly surprised as he put the pieces of the puzzle together. “And these things are like a… trigger? When you're near them?”

Emma shook her head. “It isn't usually enough to be near them. I have to touch it. And suddenly I can see and hear things that no one else can. It's a little unsettling. And I've never experienced it with someone who, uh, knows about it.”

Hook seemed to weigh her words in his head, as if he were plotting the best course of action here. A slow, easy smile slipped onto his lips and he reached for her hand, tucking it into the crook of his bad arm and taking Emma completely by surprise.

“Well, I'll just have to touch the clothes first until you find something you like. We are shopping for knickers, aye?”

Emma snatched her arm back and slapped his shoulder, although it didn't come off nearly as aggressive as she wanted it to. She knew he was teasing and the thought of him handling her underwear… well, it was time to change the subject.

She marched past him, chin tilted up, and swung the door to the shop open. She gestured inside, allowing him to enter first with a mocking bow, mimicking his previous gesture from the compound.

Clothes shopping was a lot more fun with Hook than it was with Ruby, she found. He had made some genuinely helpful selections for her perusal, making it so she didn't even need to touch anything until she was sure she liked it. She didn't know how much she appreciated the gesture until it was actually happening.

It was a little strange how quickly Hook had flipped from staunch skeptic to making adjustments in his own behavior to accommodate for her “gift”, but it touched her in a way that no one else had been able to. She watched him as he jokingly held up items against his own chest on hangers, his tongue poking teasingly out of the corner of his mouth and laughed along with his jokes (even if her laughter was accompanied by a patented eye roll). She felt an overwhelming sense of comfort as they shopped and she was surprised to find the walls she had carefully constructed around her heart over the years slipping just the slightest bit. Killian Jones was unlike any man she had ever met, and, at least in this moment, she was glad to have him with her.

In the end, Emma ended up picking out two tank tops, a t-shirt, a sweater, and a pair of jeans and leggings, none of which (thankfully) sparked an encounter. Much to Killian's dismay, she did not get any underwear, but then she reminded him that they were in a second hand shop and, while they only accepted new in package items on that front, it was just a little much for her to consider.

“Does this mean you'll be going commando, then, Swan?” he murmured in her ear as they approached the cash register, his hand finding the small of her back with ease.

“Wouldn't you like to know,” she said with a bat of her eyelashes and she smirked as Killian's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat.

“Perhaps I would.” She heard him murmur as she approached the smiling red headed girl behind the counter. She flushed, her steady gait faltering for a moment, but she recovered herself quickly and smiled back at the cashier, loading her items on the counter.

“That'll be $38.57,” she said, packing the items into a bag for her. Emma dug in the pocket of her borrowed sweats for the money she had put there, extending the cash over the counter. The clerk's fingers swept over Emma's, the silver ring on her middle finger swiping over the flesh of her palm and Emma knew it was coming before it even happened.

Suddenly, she smelled fresh gingerbread and heard a voice she didn't recognize humming a song.

I love you, Addie, the voice said and Emma froze, her eyes blowing wide and she fought back the sudden shaking in her palm as she reached for her change.

“Have a good day!” the girl chirped, completely clueless to the inner turmoil Emma was having. Emma gave her a tight smile and said nothing, snatching the bag off the counter and bolting for the door as quickly as she could without looking completely mental.

She burst from the door and the encounter had all but faded away, the last remnants of baked goods still lingering in her sinuses, but she knew it, too, would be gone soon. She took several deep, calming breaths in the fresh air and let her heart rate return to normal.

“Swan?”

Killian. Shit.

She'd forgotten he was with her for a moment in her panic and she felt her heartbeat kick back up at the thought of having to explain her behavior to him.

Best to get it over with.

“Yeah?” she asked, turning to face him, her hands balled into fists at her side, making the plastic of the bag in her left hand crinkle.

“Are you alright, love? Did one of your… er… moments happen?” His voice was truly concerned and, instead of calming her, it only freaked her out more.

She nodded sharply, not meeting his eyes. “I think it was the clerk's grandmother maybe? I touched her ring,” she explained.

“That's…” here it comes, Emma thought, “amazing, love. Why didn't you tell her?”

If Emma's jaw could physically touch the pavement, she was positive it would have been scraping the concrete right about then. Killian was looking at her with such curiosity and fascination that it sent a thread of panic straight through her.

“Why didn't I tell her? Are you serious right now? What happened to ‘not this bit again’?” she snapped. Hook sighed.

“Look, Swan, I know I haven't been the most supportive of your… talents, and I won't deny that it is quite a shock to hear that someone you loved very much is still trying to reach you from the other side, but I…” he tapered off, stepping slightly closer to her and Emma held her breath. “If I can start to believe, anyone can. You can't expect people to believe you if you never tell anyone. You should tell her.” His eyes blazed into hers, willing her to take a leap of faith in herself, as he was with her.

Emma was sure she was going mad. Or he was. Maybe both of them.

"I am not a walking freak show! I'm not Sylvia fucking Browne, I'm not some foofy bullshit psychic bitch, and I just want to be left alone,” she ranted, flapping her arms at her sides. “I never asked to be this person. I just want to live my life! You have no idea what it’s like to feel crazy day in and day out, never knowing who you can trust enough to tell and I-"

Emma's mouth was still trying to move, spill over with reasons why, but it was hard to do with Killian's lips sealed against hers. She was shocked still, arms suspended mid air, interrupted in their wild gesturing, her mind overwhelmed with the thought of how perfect, how right this felt, and that was absolutely besides the point because Killian fucking Jones was kissing her. Her body finally caught up with what was happening and she pulled back, but his hooked arm had looped itself around her waist and held her fast to him.

"Please, darling, do shut up," he murmured only mere centimeters from her lips before her stunned psyche could formulate a response to the kiss at all. She felt anger boil in the pit of her stomach as she registered what he'd said, the sensation mixing with the fear and attraction already simmering there.

"You shut up," she growled, then fisted her hand in his shirt and slammed her lips back into his.

Kissing Killian Jones was unlike any other experience she had ever had in her life. His lips were softer than she expected, moving with expert precision over hers, his hand wrapping around the nape of her neck as his thumb stroked over her jawline. He nipped at her bottom lip and she opened for him on instinct, gasping at the first touch of his tongue to hers. He let out a soft little sound in the back of his throat that she might have missed, had they not been pressed so tightly together, and he tilted her head with a firm but gentle press of his fingers at her neck to kiss her more deeply. He kissed her like he would never get enough, stealing the very breath from her lungs until she felt like they were going to burst.

She pulled back when the need for oxygen became too much, still clinging to his collar like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Based on the slight sway in her balance when she broke away, it probably was. They stayed in each other's space in silence, save for the sound of their panting breaths intermingling in the air.

"That was..." Killian began, sounding completely wrecked. Emma released his collar and stepped back, blinking up at him and hopefully clearing some of the haze from her eyes. He looked just as wrecked as he sounded, his hooded eyes simmering with a dark heat, and she was sure she wasn't hiding her reaction all that well either. She needed to shut this down.

"Me shutting you up,” she filled in for him. He appeared confused for a moment and then a look of understanding swept over his features that made her heart clench tighter than it already was. “Let's get back."

She turned and began a stiff walk back to her car before she heard his soft murmur towards her retreating form.

“As you wish, Swan.”

#captain swan #cs ff au #cs ff #csff #cssns #close encounters of the spiritual kind #emma swan #captain hook #captain swan supernatural summer #killian jones #monday update #captain swan ff #chapter 15

[agent-hood]

Five Parallels

1.) Ivar Mayhew’s first reaction to Parker Jensen was something akin to a starving wolf seeing a very small rabbit. An instinctual knowledge that what little she had would fill the wanting void inside him. That isn’t to say he was starving for love or anything like that, but there was definitely something missing, and now he knew what shape it took. Then he saw her own void, recognized the far seeing look in her eyes whenever she inched too close to the edge of, so close to falling in and being lost. So he offered out his hand. giving her an anchor point to hold onto so she didn’t lose herself and, gloriously, she took it. She saw the looming darkness that would consume her, and she fought back. Every time he saw her, she pushed herself, rebuilt herself piece by piece. Like a dandelion pushing through concrete- she blossomed. His first impression of her was wrong. He was not a wolf to be fed, he was a man seeing the first sunrise after years spent imprisoned.

1.) Parker Jensen’s initial reaction to Ivar Mayhew was something similar to experiencing a sunrise after years of missing it, only being seeing the dark chill of midnight and the blinding sear of a midday sun. His personality was warm and patient despite her many issues; not only seeing the looming maw threatening to swallow her whole, but acknowledging all it took for her to just be able to exist with it. And he stood there with her, refusing to let her fall prey to it or to deal with it alone. It was a steady nourishment that she didn’t realize she was lacking. She had been wrong about what she first thought of him. He was more than a comforting sunrise, he was a meal. A rabbit, made of fat and sinew, perfect for sustaining the hungry wolf that was her heart. And she was starving for more.

2.) it wasn’t often Ivar found himself having one of his ‘bad nights’, but this one was just about the worst. A change in the weather made his spine ache and given that said change was an uncharacteristic warm front did nothing to help his comfort levels. He tried everything- pacing and stretching out the muscles surrounding his ‘problem’ nerves, alternating heat and cold, a dose of his ‘as needed’ prescription, but nothing helped. When the tell-tale tingle of his legs numbing began, he resigned himself to a night in his chair, feeling sickly hot and sorry for himself. His bad luck continued when Parker texted to ask if he wanted to get together later, and as much as he wanted to see her he knew he was in no shape to be good company. He shot off the quick explanation and apology, and settled himself in front of his television for a self-pitying marathon of... whatever was on. He fell asleep within ten minutes. His sleep was troubled, influenced by what he was hearing subconsciously and unable to wake up due to the medication he took earlier. It was a garbled mash of bad memories, war movies, and horrors that could have happened on missions. He was in the hallways of Borley, only they were filled with an unending forest, and he was on a mission- the mission. Only before he could even move, the wild hunt was on him, only instead of being gored and impaled on their horns, he was in their teeth. Unending knives chewing into him, setting his legs on agonizing fire. A voice called out to him, from deep within the maw of pain. It was comforting and unintelligible, and he instinctively swam towards it, through the infinite needles and thorns and all manner of things that bit through his skin. He awoke with a start, hands immediately shooting out in an attempt to protect himself from whatever assault was sure to befall him. All that awaited him though was a warm hand caressing his face, while the other laid gently over his own- which he found tightly fisted in Parker’s hair. He released her as quickly as if she burned him, and his eyes darted around to confirm that he was safe and in his apartment- that thus wasn’t some cruel new form his nightmare took. “Parker,” he breathed in relief, subconsciously leaning into her touch. “Wha’ ‘re y’ doing here?” She removed her hand to turn off the television that was still going, and he whimpered at its absence. “You said you were having a ‘bad night’, so I thought I’d come over to make you some soup in case you were sick. I only just put it to simmer and you started having a nightmare, are you ok?” He was thrown for even more of a loop at that; It had felt like the nightmare had lasted years instead of only seconds. He felt certainly felt like it had, like he had just been hit by a truck and it dragged him along for a week straight. he felt the oncoming breakdown that was about to occur, and as much as he appreciated her presence, he needed her to not see him at his lowest even more. “Parker,” he ground out, fisting his hands so tightly on his knees that his knuckles turned white. “‘M about t’ break down- ‘nd I love y’, but I need y’ t’ leave f’r this. I cannae have y’ see m’ like this.” In response, she silently let go of him, convincing him she complied to his wishes for only a moment, before she took him by surprise by tugging his tightly folded form out of his chair and into her lap on the couch. She gently tucked his face into the crook of her neck, and soothingly rubbed small circles on his back. “I’m not leaving you alone during this. But when I’m holding you like this, I can’t see your face, so you don’t need to feel weird about it. It’s ok- you can let go.” At her words, he broke. Frustrated tears and muffled sobs wrenched themselves free from his chest, wracking his body so hard he shook. He wasn’t even totally sure of why he was crying, but logically knew that it happened sometimes. Some days you hurt, nothing went right, and you grew frustrated- culminating in a massive release of tears. But- You can know the ins and outs of something, and still be surprised by its occurrence. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, with him upending his slew of emotion, and her murmuring soothing words of comfort into his hair, trying to even out his breathing levels. Hours seemed to pass like nothing, until he slowly regained himself- now feeling worn out and small. “...feeling any better?” Parker asked, tentatively, still taking a gentle approach out of consideration for him. He was overcome with fondness and gratitude towards her and the care she bestowed upon him. Still feeling weak and embarrassed at himself, he could only respond with a small nod. “Ok then,” she kissed his head and made to stand up. “I’m gonna draw you a bath and after if you’re hungry, I’ll get you whatever you want.” He kissed her palm as she walked away, stretching and shaking his body to wake it up. He had a full charge on his legs, but they were almost completely numb. After a small debate he decided to not bother with the chair- it was only to the bathroom after all. He walked, slowly and carefully, and found that Parker had drawn him the most simple, yet enticing, bath- scalding water with just a few drops of lavender oil (the kind she wore on her wrists when she was feeling fancy). Sinking into it felt like heaven. Actual bliss came a few moments later as she silently slipped in next to him, fitting herself perfectly to his side. He smiled and absentmindedly ran his knuckles over her skin- forging a path from her jaw to her hip. Blissfully, the previous hours were now miles away, unforgotten but irrelevant. And as the water cooled around them, a comfort settled in his chest. which fully blossomed into contentment as he drifted away to a light slumber, assured in the fact that this was a good day- because Parker was there.

2.) It had been months since Parker’s ‘incident’ and at this point she was well-acquainted with ‘bad’ days. What she was not used to, not lately anyways, was being sick. She knew the morning she woke up after a routine mission. The pressure on her chest, the throbbing in her head, the slight run to her nose that made her feel like she was visibly repulsive to every person that saw her- she had the beginnings of a cold. ‘This is fine.’ She told herself as she sluggishly got ready and took Hampton out for a slower than normal walk. ‘I just need to make it through today and then I’ll crack into my stash of ‘the good shit’ and sleep it off.’ Only, once she got to her desk, her stash of ‘the good shit’ (or unregulated Nyquil from Eastern Europe that still had Russian writing on it) was missing. And in its place a quickly scribbled note from one of the technical officers saying how it was an ‘emergency’ and they’d replace it as soon as they could. Fuck. She figured she still had time to get rid of it before it got too bad, and scrambled back to her room to hole herself up in recovery. Once home, she dug her humidifier out of the depths of her closest, filled a small cooler full of water bottles and ice packs, and strategically placed electric blankets in her bed. “...wha’ ‘re y’ doing?” Came a tentative question from the doorway, where Ivar stood looking at her as if she was wearing something ridiculous; which she absolutely wasn’t- she was just bundled up in her thickest sweats and robe she had even though the weather outside was at a sweltering 90. “Oh! Hey Roo’, I’m just uh...” she scrambled, the sudden embarrassment not helping her sluggish thoughts any. “I’m starting to get a bit sick so I’m trying to sweat it out before it gets too bad.” “Y’r gonna give y’rself heat stroke is wha’.” He said fondly as he began undoing all her handiwork. “N’w take y’r clothes off an’ get in bed.” Normally Parker melted at those words, but in this context she could only pout as she began removing her layers of micro fleece and wool-rayon blend. As it usually did, it quickly grew a lot worse. A fever crawled across her body, leaving her dripping with sweat, but too exhausted to wipe any of it off. Her nose became clogged and her chest cracked with every breath that now took effort. Ivar came back in the room carrying a tray full of crackers and ginger ale, and was shocked to see just how far her illness had progressed in the minutes he was gone. “I w’s gone f’r only five min, th’ fuck happened!” He exclaimed, clearly shocked by the change in her state. “Told you it was gonna get bad.” Parker sniffed, feeling unfairly impetuous and difficult. Her body rattled with a coughing fit and he firmly guided her to bed. As soon as she was tucked in he immediately set about to checking her temperature and getting her medicine and feeding her and just generally fretting about her like a worried mother hen. When she told him as much he only nodded in total agreement. “M’ aware ‘f how much y’ hate bein’ cared f’r, bu’ I also know tha’ y’ hate missing work more. So ‘f y’ let me fret about y’ as much as I wan’, then I promise y’ll get back t’ work faster.” As much as it bugged her, she conceded the point to him. “Agreed. Now get your ass under these blankets- I’m freezing and need to steal your excessive body heat.” A wide, enthusiastic grin was her only warning before she was tackled to the bed with his embrace. 3.) Ivar knew that Parker had an ‘ex’. The whole reason why she was so hesitant in the first place to start a relationship (barring the ‘three months of dying’ factor), was because she had just gotten out of a relationship. She didn’t want to make a mistake because she needed to ‘rebound’. He appreciated the reasoning behind it, and left it at that. Which he was now immensely regretting as he saw her idly talking to a blonde archivist; who’s impossibly tall 6’4 frame loomed over hers like a shadow. ‘Oh,’ he realized. ‘He’s not an ex, he’s an ‘ex’.’ And before he knew it he was interrupting... whatever it was they were doing, with a protective possessive arm around Parker’s shoulders and a quick kiss to her temple. “Hey.” He nodded in greeting to the other man, before turning completely to her. “Break f’r lunch?” “Oop, Than this is Ivar, my boyfriend, Iv’ this is Thanarak, he’s one of Cthylla’s familiars and an archivist here.” She said, introducing them both as they made to clasp hands. His grip was a good one, steady and firm, with slight pressure, whether to establish a challenge he couldn’t be sure. But he was prevented from responding by her reply. “And I Can’t, sorry. I’m trying to find an obscure passage from an Edda that purportedly no longer exists, and then I have to translate it.” She sighed, gesturing to the piles of leather bound books that surrounded her on the table. He smiled warmly at her, unable to find her work habits anything but charming, and produced a chilled ‘meal replacement’ smoothie from his back pocket. “Wha’ am I always tellin’ ye? N’ matter how hard y’ work, y’ still need t’ eat.” “This’ll still be here if you go.” A voice broke through, reminding Ivar that they were not alone. “Can’t.” She said definitively, chugging half the bottle without breaking eye contact with the book in front of her. “I’m on a roll. If I stop now I’ll have to start over from the beginning.” “Why don’ I lend m’self t’ help th’n? Dinnae see why Than her’ can’ tell me what y’re looking for.” At her bright agreement (with a satisfying smooch of gratitude), she shooed them away so they could tackle a separate section. “I didn’t take you for the studious type.” The other man said. It was innocuous enough, but Ivar knew when someone belittled his intelligence. “What can I say?” He smiled, making sure his canines were prominently displayed (in a friendly manner of course). “‘M a man ‘f many talents. A keen eye does well watchin’ th’ gate.” “Though, I understand you’ve been out in the field recently. Is that advisable given your situation?” Ivar felt his muscles tense in defense, and fought back the urge to cover the node on his back. “M’ ‘situation’, as y’ put it, is completely manageable. ‘Sides, I only go a’field in support ‘f Parker. ‘M sure I dinnae need t’ tell y’ how unnecessary tha’ is.” Ivar tried not to feel too pleased at the slight frustrated blush that earned, proving his suspicion that Than rarely, if ever, did field work (and certainly never with Parker). “...Thank you, by the way.” The other man’s voice was so hushed, that it was a struggle for Ivar’s heightened hearing to catch it. “F’r what?” “It’s... not my place to say but, even without our past, Parker is well loved here in the archives. And we’ve been noticing her improvement. I can confidently say that you’ve been a major factor in that, so thank you.” Ivar assesses the man before him; non-aggressive body language, honest facial cues, and a scent about him that was somehow both open and unknowable. Ivar smiled(genuinely this time) and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Y’ act like I have a say ‘n anythin’ when I’ comes t’ her. Now c’mon! Wh’ever finds this f’ckin’ tome firs’ buys t’other’s tab f’r t’night.” They were both sorely disappointed when Parker came bounding around the corner an hour later, book in hand and babbling about how Scribe had it, and had already translated it, the entire time.

3.) Parker knew about Ivar’s past at Borley (and the ex), but didn’t realize just how... grand scale everything was until she was walking briskly down it’s marble hallways, trying desperately to keep up pace and listen to the mission debriefing at the same time. Ivar though took to the intensity like a duck to water, as if he never left. The mission itself was fairly benign, a local werewolf pack had been stirring up some trouble, so they asked Ivar to come set them straight since he knew them personally. He initially didn’t want to, having planned to spend the rest of his life sans his old organization, but Parker had thought it a wonderful opportunity. She could finally meet his family, he could catch up with old friends, and finally get closure to his abrupt departure. Only she hadn’t realized that his ex was the reason he left. They had originally been partners and kept their relationship (and short engagement) to themselves as much as they could- but during a mission to contain and redirect the wild hunt he had been gored in an effort to save some civilians. Thankfully everyone survived, but his main sciatic nerve had been severed. He thought it was the right thing to do (especially when the Borley techs gave him a way to walk again), she did not. All throughout the mission she had made comments about ‘how impressive his performance was considering his condition’, and it royally pissed Parker off. Ivar though just shrugged it all off, completely unbothered. He further explained that she probably meant well, but had a bad habit of coming across the worst way possible. Seeing his carefree laugh as he talked about her, like he barely gave it any thought, released a balloon of pressure Parker wasn’t aware she had been holding onto their entire visit. She had been making a big deal over nothing; she wasn’t an ex, she was just an ex. “Maybe so,” Parker agreed as she tucked herself to Ivar’s side. “But if she ‘means well’ again I’m still going to deck her, nobody talks about you with that tone while I’m around.” He just chuckled and kissed the top of her head in agreement.

4.) A common misconception was that Ivar met Parker first, before her twin. While the two meetings were within an hour of each other, Carter definitely made himself known first. He had been sitting, reading the file on the mission he was being assigned to, when a hand clamped over his mouth and (with great effort) managed to drag him into a secluded broom closet. “You Rook?” The strange (that descriptor would remain for as long as the two knew each other, but evolve to something friendlier), man asked, utilizing the extra two inches of height he had over him to loom as threateningly as possible. “Yes, now who t’e fuck ar’ you!” He shouted, getting into a defensive stance as soon as he was released. “Relax relax, look I’m Agent Thorn ok? The twin of the Agent you’re being assigned to? I just needed a word in private.” He lowered his guard, but not by much, assessing that if this man truly wanted to start something, he would’ve by now. “How’d y’ get tha’ information? I’s classified.” “...I snooped duh.” He said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s not important right now! What is important is that you’re meeting with my sister in about 30, and I needed to make sure you’d actually help her.” “Y’ mean do m’ job? Ye’ was plannin’ on i’ thanks.” “Don’t be a dick you know what I mean.” “No I don’! Am I goin’ mad or is this th’ most fucked ‘shovel speech’ ‘ver given?” “Not really- kinda? I don’t know, all I know is that, Parker, that’s her name-”

“I can read y’ dick.”

“Parker is going to try so hard to not need help, and I just need to make sure you won’t fall for it.” He explained, body language telling Ivar that he was clearly near the point of begging. Ivar debating between messing with him, telling him what he wanted to hear so he could get away quicker, or just being completely honest. He was clearly upset and willing to do anything (including kidnapping) for his sister, but as Ivar was about to speak and assuage his fears, his legs gave out the warning beep that they were out of charge. A combination of things happened then: the strange man shrieked and flailed about, smacking Ivar accidentally which threw his head back into the wall just as his legs gave out. The next thing he knew He was waking up in chair, alone. He would later find out that Carter had dragged his body back to where he found him, where his wheelchair sat in wait, leaving him for someone else to find and deal with. Agent Succubus had opened the closet door, only to see the predicament and that it was Carter involved, and promptly closed the door to leave. Their second (and officially first) meeting went a lot better.

4.) Parker has been nervous to meet Ivar’s family, but after spending the past few days with them, her anxiety turned into a comfortable ease- sure that she had made a good impression and developed enough of a rapport to carry on any conversation over dinner. That had been a mistake. Turns out they, his sisters, Siobhan and Olivia, had been patiently biding their time until the night before her departure. It was around midnight when they decided to steal Parker away (complete with ropes), and take her to the middle of the nearby farmlands.

“Sorry f’r the theatrics.” The eldest said genuinely, voice even and warm. “But tradition is tradition.”

“Welcome t’ th’ family.” Olivia grinned, a trustworthy mischief promised with the baring of her teeth.

“So!” Siobhan clapped, shifting focus to… whatever they were about to do to her. “We all like t’ go running as a pack, but since we’re sort of ‘initiating’ you, as it were, we thought you’d be more comfortable if it were just us girls.”

“What do you mean?” Parker asked slowly, mind racing with a fresh wave of anxiety for the unknown. Olivia just grinned again in response and began shucking off her clothes. Parker hastily looked away, only peeking when her form changed from that of the young woman, to that of a sleek tawny wolf.

“You mean you want me to streak? Out in the open? At the coldest part of the day?” Siobhan just gave her an open gesture in return, confirming her suspicions. Rolling her eyes Parker quickly threw off her clothes, finding it a bit childish but overall glad that they weren’t asking her to do something worse or less traditional than streaking.

“You’v’ got a min’ head start.” The other woman called after her as Parker began her mad sprint, already missing the warmth of her flannel.

She was quickly joined by the transformed Olivia, with Siobhan catching up soon after, and Parker allowed herself to enjoy the silly freedom of it all. Running, howling, and laughing into the night- she felt heady and alive, and most importantly, fully embraced and accepted by the family of the man she loved.

 5.) Ivar and Parker came to the same conclusion at the exact moment.

They had just gotten through with a week that had separated them with missions, diplomatic visits, and a two-day stint in the med bay. They were exhausted, but both had agreed into doing a ‘date night’; Nothing special, dinner at home, but something where they could just be alone together for a while.

Parker had tackled the actual food portion, while Ivar had scrambled around working on the living room because ‘atmosphere’s important dammit’, and she had to admit that the candles and music really added a sense of romance to the fact that they were just eating spaghetti on her couch.

The silence that stretched between them was comfortable, both parties too tired to do much more than enjoy the other being there, and it was only really broken when Ivar turned up the soft music and took her hand to dance. They swayed lethargically to Lou Reed’s cover of ‘This Magic Moment’ and Parker could feel his contented sigh as she rested her head on his chest.

She only looked up when he placed a knuckle tenderly under her chin, guiding her lips up to meet his in a sweet kiss. She looked into his eyes and something within her snapped. Unknowingly, her hold on his shoulders tightened as she blurted out “I need to marry you.”

A genuine look of shock crossed both of their faces, and Parker’s eyes traveled to his hand that wasn’t on her. She let out a choked laugh to see that he had already been pulling out a ring during her sudden outburst.

“Did y’ really jus’ cut off my proposal wi’ y’r own?” He laughed, feeling ridiculous and giddy.

“Yeah.” She smiled, burying her face as far into his chest as she could.

“Does this mean y’r sayin’ yes?”

“Well it depends.”

“On wha?!” He practically howled, both of them slowly doubling over in attempt to contain their laughter and mirth.

“If you’re saying ‘yes’ to mine.” Ivar took a deep breath and up righted himself, suddenly serious.

“I cannae say ‘no’ t’ y’ Cariad, so please say ‘yes’ an’ marry me.”

“…Y’know, I could say ‘yes’ to you a thousand times Roo, and it still wouldn’t be enough to let convey just how much I want that. Or how much I love you.”

“’M sure I can get an idea ‘f it.” He slipped the ring on her finger, and once secure, swept her off her feet so that she was being carried in his arms.

“Let’s get t’ work on those ‘thousand yes’s.” He said, voice filled with tempting promise, as he took them to her bed- fully intent on properly celebrating their date night.

#Agent Hood #Technical Officer Rook #Safety Nets #(This is the longest and shmoopiest thing I've done) #(feat. Thanarak the archivist) #(and a disaster!Thorn) #(and Agent Succubus who wants none of that) #The Roanoke Society

[wellmeaningshutin]

War!

Written: 3/12/2018, by S. Sparrow

A nurse leaves the operating room to obtain a much needed item that she never found, because, when she walked out of the room, a bullet had wasted no time and created two parallel holes in her neck, which began to drain itself of blood. Trying to scream, but unable to find her voice, she slumps against the door and uses her two hands to plug the two holes, which causes blood to spill between her fingers. Weak, she is unable to keep her balance and falls into the dirt, the back of her head first, shortly followed by her back, while her legs rest there, already grounded. Lying in the dirt, she is able to use her legs to repeatedly kick the door, causing another nurse to walk out, only for the sniper to make up for his previous miss by boring a bullet into the new nurse’s skull. Writhing on the ground, the first nurse decides that the sniper is keeping her alive as a means of luring more people into his field of vision, so she decides to relax and wait for death. Coldness greets her right leg, she tries to look up, and she sees blood pooling towards her, and she vainly attempts to keep her legs out of the pool, to die with dignity.

A butcher’s boy meets a middle school math teacher in an open field, they both exchange greetings from their guns as they rush towards each other, but neither is looking down the barrel, bullets sink into dirt and wood, and both hope that the other would be intimidated and flee, so as to avoid combat. The boy is lucky enough to get a round into the teacher’s knee, dropping him, but his magazine is empty while the teacher’s still has enough rounds to celebrate a new year. His one shot, point blank, is enough to mangle the boy’s intestines, and the boy responds by mashing the side of the teacher’s head with the butt of his gun. Both dropping, they begin to crawl over each other, trying to grab each other’s knife, due to convenience. The teacher stick’s a finger into the wound of the boy who never had a chance to achieve anything more than being born into a butcher’s family, and the boy winces in pain, causing him to grab the teacher with every limb, causing the teachers arm to be stuck, his finger unable to leave the moist little hole that it had previously created by squeezing a trigger. Eventually, the boy fingers find the teacher’s knife, and uses it the way his father taught him, wildly, brutally, focused on severing, not stopping, so the teacher screams as the boy hacks an arm loose, a desperate and confused attempt to remove the finger from the wound. A mountain climber, a baker, and a coal miner stumble onto the scene, free the teacher, and send two bullets through each of the boy’s eyes.

An athlete with promise finds their hands chained to a metal bar that lies, waiting, above his head, his feet try to tap the floor, just to give his arms at least a second of relief. When a toe manages to touch, he is once again hit in the back by some flat, blunt object. It hurts like hell, and he worries that the lack of actual damage will allow them to keep beating him, but he also isn’t sure why they’re beating him, or who is beating him. Everyone speaks in what he assumes is the language of the enemy, its foreign to him, and that’s proof enough. It is unclear if they’re trying to ask him questions while they use force to make him sway, to make his cuffs jingle against the bar, to replace any natural coloring on his back with an artificial array of browns, yellows, and purples, with the occasional red. A car salesman comes into the room with a car battery and wires, and the athlete wonders if this will make him a hero.

A sculptor wonders through a forest, hoping that he can exit the forest, hoping that he’ll be able to find some sign of his people that will allow him to return to safety. Traveling at night has become the norm for him, strange men have appeared in the woods, driving their wrongly colored jeeps, better armed than he, especially since he was only armed with a 9mm pistol that was sparsely loaded, since he had to rely on it to provide him with food. The previous night involved him sinking three bullets to get one rabbit, which he ate raw, which he split open with his knife and dug into with his teeth, like a dog going at a bag of chips. Fires weren’t worth the smoke, gunfire was safe when the mortars crash around him. Sometimes he studies the road, trying to figure out if the jeeps were heading towards their own space, or are going away from their own space. Which direction had he come from? When he had first fled into the woods, when he saw the journalist get a grenade in her stomach, a perfect throw that had caused her insides to exit through her backside. He had seen the lumberjack’s brains, the severed hand of the “next Hemingway”, the crater that, only moments before, was a patch of grass where the fisherman, the salesman, and the high school class president stood. So he went into the woods, hoping to prevent a similar example being made of him. Sometimes he would fantasize about leaving the woods, only to hear that the violence was over, but he knew such fantasies were dangerous.

A delivery boy sits in the hot safety that the tank provides, fantasizing about another delivery boy, just like him, but the race of the enemy, sitting in some other tank, thinking about him.

A doctor listens to a construction worker explain his “first screw”, while waiting for his nurse to prepare the morphine. He was never one to stand around and soak in recollections of rape, but the man had a decorated chest, and he had earned the privilege of his last words being heard. “Girls back home, damn, that’s how you make women, not like here, not like here. Girls don’t fight here, no sir, they just stare at you with those doll eyes as they sink into wherever it is inside of them that they go to. I’d say that the soul leaves their body, but they don’t have souls, no way, not just cause of how strange their ways are, but because they don’t fight back. That’s what”, pausing to spit blood into a nearby dish, continuing with shining red lips and teeth, “what makes our girls so special, they fight. They’re pure as they come, and they wont let big beasts like me take them over so easily. Why, that’s how you can tell that a girl has value, if she fights or not, and it doesn’t matter if she screws, it matters if she doesn’t want to, that’s how you can evaluate purity. I remember”, a genuine, sunshine smile beaming across his face as the doctor waits, “the first girl that I had had managed to fuck up my back with a razor that she kept with her, who knows why, and I remember”, laughing that hollow, rattling laugh, “I stood up, put my hands on my back, and kicked the shit out of her. Oh boy, she was so fucked up that, by the time I finished, I was worried that I accidentally put her face down in, well she was bleeding badly, and I didn’t want her to drown, you can’t do that to those kinds of girls.” The nurse approached with a syringe in hand. A barber had to explain to the eagle scout that his last friend, a shoe salesman, had his body juiced by a collapsing building, and the one before that, a gambler, was currently dead or in some camp, so he wasn’t exactly in the market for having friends. Yet, the two of them were the only ones holding down the post, and the scout was determined to befriend the barber, since it was the only minor achievement available. After several days, the eagle scout had successfully been burned alive, had desperately tried to escape the flames that clung to him, had struggled as his lungs filled with smoke, as the post burned around him. So, then, the barber chose not to explain himself to the mall cop, who assumed that the barber was just a quiet type, making them the type of friends that didn’t need to talk to be close, whose company was enough. After a week of silence, the mall cop mentioned his idea of their relationship to the barber, who was immediately angry, causing him to stew in silence, leaving the mall cop, a week later, to still think that they were friends while the machete hacked and hacked, hoping to replace a segment of neck with air. The barber then ended up with the dry cleaner, who didn’t give a shit about the barber, who only wanted to go home. Naturally, the barber liked this cold companion, and eventually opened up to him, unsolicited and intoxicated, about his life before the violence, something he had never told his revolving cast of friends. The dry cleaner hardly listened, but when the barber stated his past profession, the companion had to ask why he became a soldier, instead of a barber, the barber could only make some vague statement about honor, one repeated enough times, to himself, for it to lose any sense of meaning.

A proud grandson finds himself strapped to a board, fabric over his face, water pouring over him for what feels like eternity, an unending lifetime of drowning. The water stops, he tries to catch his breath, but more comes, he body tries to spasm, is desperate to escape, but the restraints are good at what they do. Another breath, another pouring, another breath, and so on, until he has trouble remembering how he got there, what his life was like before the airless hell he is subjected to, and the only memory he can grab a hold of is the moment when he told his grandfather, a decorated veteran, that he had signed up to do his duty, and the way that his grandfather cackled at him.

A truck driver sits in the hot safety that the tank provides, fantasizing about another truck driver, just like him, but the race of the enemy, sitting in some other tank, thinking about him.

A historian and a street youth comb the fresh rubble of a former, thriving community. “Go through and salvage what you can, get weapons, bullets, whatever you think is valuable.” The youth digs through one spot, finds the corpse of a crossing guard, wearing the outfit of the enemy, and the historian says, “Don’t touch him, now look for something else.” When the youth scrambles away, the poet moves to the ex-person and places an IED under it. After he is commanded to move twice, the youth understands his purpose, and starts to pocket what really interests him, a burned photograph of a woman that only has her legs and slit left, an ivory comb, a small figurine that represents some folklore figure, either benevolent or a trickster, and, of course, bullets. An addict shoots that black, vinegar smelling, crap into his arm, and is able to lie back and feel good. He was worried that the violence would take away from his favored activity, especially since he was in a foreign country, but then he learned that foreigners get high too. The first time he copped, he was told that a lot of people like him usually start using to avoid their problems, to relax their consciouses, but he didn’t believe it, he was a killer with killers killing killers, what problems were there? Back home he had to worry about making it day by day, but now death is assured, so he didn’t know what there was to worry about. Death isn’t scary if you feel good when it happens, he reasoned, so he was always high. He liked to say that he had track marks for every friend that he lost, but he only said it to himself, he had nobody to say it to. He was pleased that he ended up in a beautiful country, he liked to stare at the country side. Sometimes he forgot about the violence, and that would stress him out, because it made him feel bad for being an addict.

“They got me in the stomach, didn’t they?” “Its not that bad, its fine.” “Its never fine if its the stomach, I don’t, I’m not going to make it with this one.” “We’ll be back to base soon, the doctor will-” “Oh, that fucker had his brains blown out in a whorehouse.” “What?” “The day after you left, he goes into town and gets blown twice.” “So who is the current doctor?” “What does it matter, I’m as good as-” “Fuck, okay, don’t worry, I wont drop you again.” “Fucking-” “I wont do it again, I promise.” “Look here, see this, where is it, oh, oh can you-” “Do you need me to-” “Yeah, get this button open for me, my fingers can’t get a grip, they keep slipping-” “Don’t worry, I have it-” “In the end I can’t, can’t even open a damn pocket. Okay, now reach inside, get out the photograph that’s in there.” “Here.” “No, don’t give it to me, its not for me, I want you to take it.” “Why, who is this?” “She was my steady back home, now she’s yours.” “What?” “I’m dying here, I’m going to die looking up at this fucking sky. What kind of sky is this anyways? Not like the one I grew up with, its all wrong, its too bright, its-” “You’re going to make it, we aren’t far-” “But my, fuck, my fucking, I’m ripped open, I’m cold, I need you to stop lying and listen to me. You’re a good man, I can tell that by the way that you won’t be honest to me. I know that I’m probably worse than I think I am, especially since, eh, especially since you keep looking at me that way. I can see the shock behind your eyes. Now, since your a good man, I know you’ll survive the war, and when you do I’ll need you to marry my girl. I want you to go, to, to, turn the picture over, there’s an address.” “I have to carry you, let’s just focus on getting-” “I want to say this before the pain successfully silences me, you have to listen. I need you to go to that address, explain you story, and I need you to put a good fuck into her. I need you to be her man, because I can’t guarantee that she’ll pick right. She picked me the first time and now you need to go there and fuck her brains out so that she’ll appreciate you.” “Look-” “And I’ll be watching on the other side-” “We’re almost-” “I’ll want to see you inside of her-” “I can see the gate, its-” “I just want to see her have an orgasm, I never got to see that before.” “I’m going to put you down now.” “You need to treat her right.”

A tailor sprints across a field, pushing his body to its limits, willing to break something if that means that he can keep running, if he can keep the jeep behind it. He ran over the hill knowing that there would be a forest on the other side, knowing that he could escape into there, where the murderers wouldn’t follow due to a lack of ammo, one that was made clear by their lack of gunfire, their resignation to using the car as a weapon. However, when he was over the hill, the tailor saw that craters had claimed land that had previously belonged to the forest, that he still had a long ways to go. He also discovered that the jeep, like him, had an easier time going downhill than uphill, and he decided, too late, to jump out of its way, into the safety of the mortar’s kiss, but his legs were ground under the tires of the jeep, which, after passing him, tried to circle around, and drive up the hill at him, but the driver was too bloodthirsty, and his recklessness caused him to crash into a crater. Jeep on its side, the tailor tried to crawl, but his legs screamed at him as he dragged them across the rocks and dirt, so he started to lie there, hoping that the other men were dead, that help would come. Out of a demolition ditch came one man, bleeding from an ear, but generally healthy, and the man, a carnival worker, walked uphill towards the tailor, who caused the car to flip by his pathetic will to live, who was now throwing stones at the carny, stones that were to weakly thrown to be a threat, stones that meekly rolled down the dirt after a seconds freedom from the surface. At least one of these stones was able to get the carnival worker’s nose to match his ear, and, in response, the carny’s knife removed any sense of humanity, lips, nose, ears, hair, teeth, tongue, eyes, skin, from the tailor’s face.

A washed up news anchor sits in the hot safety that the tank provides, fantasizing about another washed up nobody, just like him, but the race of the enemy, sitting in some other tank, thinking about him.

Two fathers share a cell, neither is from the same place, neither speaks with the same sounds. Eventually, conditions make them desperate to form a small human connection, small enough to not bring pain, so, every night, they spoon each other, not knowing that they have much more in common than a situation.

A shepherd returns to his home after several days, after the birds signal to him that all life, good or bad, is no longer present. When the wreckage is finally in his field of vision, he doesn’t cry, he is shocked by how little he feels like crying, even more so than the destruction shocks him. When he was on his own, he had pictured his home as being much worse, he had pictured blood and gore everywhere, murdered sheep, disemboweled children, babies that had been divided by bayonets, beheaded women that had blood coming out of their privates, but there was none of that, it was mostly just rubble. As he stood on top of what he assumed was the school, although it could easily be ten other buildings, due to a lack of variation in architecture, he surveyed the scene and saw nothing but rubble, ash, and dirt that had been flung around. For a minute, he wondered if he was really gone for a couple days, or if he had been gone for a lot longer, it seemed like the violence had not been around for some time, but the birds still watched as he watched, so he knew that it had to be fresh. When he was finally able to accept that, yes, this mess was in fact the place where he was born and raised, where his father lived, and his father before, and his father before, and so on. He started to think about moving on, about where he’d have to move to, but he ignored the thought, because he still had to find a way to eat, to get water, to survive, and he wasn’t sure if the violence would return, and he wasn’t sure of where the violence had already struck. Closing his eyes, he thought of himself as being in the eye of the storm. Days ago he’d been in the storm of artillery fire, gunfire, mutilation and misery, but, now, it was peaceful. Opening his eyes and looking up, he felt that the way the birds circled only cemented this imagery, felt that he as truly safe, even if only for a day or two. Hunger was finally able to move him to action, and he started to wonder around the town to find something to eat, something to fill his stomach before the next vacancy. He knew where the bakery, the grocery store, and the butcher’s store were, but not with the town like this, he didn’t know which buildings to search, they were all the same to him. Eventually, making his way over the warm stone, he saw a figure, a body. It was clear that they were dead, but he knew that he knew them, they were a neighbor, whoever they were, and he had to at least bury them, he left his town to burn, so he had to at least try to make things right. However, when he went to lift the corpse, he was suddenly blinded, deafened and knocked back. His arms were in more pain than he thought possible, and he wildly tried to rub his eyes in a desperate attempt to see, but he couldn’t feel his face at all. He tried to get up, but he could not, he just kept slipping, and when his sight returned to him, he saw his knees sliding around in blood, his blood, that was pouring from the stumps of his arms. The birds circled overhead.

#War #War Story #Fiction #Writers on Tumbler #Military

[pretentiousrecordstoreguy]

Andrew Wood - The Jesus Christ of Grunge

I worked at a record store for most of my college days. The pay was terrible, the customers had bad taste (for the most part), and the owner was always doing some untoward stuff that later resulted in his partner kicking him out of the business… but it may have been the best job I’ve ever had. Why was it the best job ever?  Because my income was supplemented by an unending supply of promo CDs, first crack at all CDs being traded in by customers, and my name always happened to make it onto the guest list of two of the three big music venues in town. Plus my co-workers were a diverse group of equally music-obsessed nerds, punk rockers, hip-hop enthusiasts and an Anglophile manager who became one of my best friends. It was pretty epic, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.


Working in a record store also gave me special insight into crazy rabbit hole of music theory conspiracies. My buddy Ryan Shaw had this theory about Andrew Wood, the lead singer of Mother Love Bone and the first major heroin casualty of the grunge era. His theory was that Andrew Wood was the prophet that rock and roll was promised, that he would be overlooked and ridiculed in his own time, and then sentenced to death for the sins of rock and roll, only to be resurrected and live eternally through his disciples and their testimony. 


In other words, Andrew Wood was the Jesus Christ of Grunge who had to die for the sins of Hair Metal so that Rock and Roll could live on. 


SIDE NOTE: My buddy Ryan was an ordained minister who later became a trial lawyer, so that gives credence to the underpinning philosophy of the theory.  

Much like B.C. and A.D., prior to Andrew Wood there was no “Alternative” but after his death we started living in the Alternative age. Grunge, Indie and Nu-Metal, Emo, and Alt-Country were all new gospels that were written in the aftermath of Andrew Wood’s passing... So if Andrew Wood was the Jesus Christ of Grunge, who were his apostles?

Stone Gossard as SIMON/PETER - The rock upon which the Temple of the Dog was built, literally. Stone Gossard is the through line for the Seattle sound and was ever present in its inception. From his time at Green River to Mother Love Bone to Temple of the Dog to Pearl Jam and then Brad, Gossard was the foundation stone. Without Stone Gossard, would there even be grunge? Stone is the rhythm (along with his brother Jeff Ament) from which the music is manifested. Gossard may never have been front and center in all of the bands he formed, but he spoke softly and carried a big axe.

Chris Cornell as JOHN - John was the disciple whom Jesus loved the most. 
Chris was Andrew’s roommate and best friend. When Andrew overdosed, Chris was on a European tour with Soundgarden striking his own Jesus Christ pose. Chris was so grief stricken with the loss that he immediately wrote two songs “Say Hello 2 Heaven” and “Reach Down” about Wood. Chris showed them to Stone and Jeff, and Temple of the Dog was formed to honor their late friend. Chris would later hit mainstream success with Soundgarden and with Audioslave (which was just okay but waaaayyy to mellow for a band composed of members of Rage Against the Machine and Soundgarden).


Jeff Ament as ANDREW (Simon/Peter’s brother) - Ament was right there with Stone in Green River, Mother Love Bone, Temple of the Dog and then Pearl Jam. He’s the bass that pulses the heartbeat of the music. Plus, his graphic design sense provided the classic look and feel of all the liner notes and album packaging for those bands (which along with flannel, long hair, and Doc Martens worn with shorts, were essential cornerstones of the era). Through Ames Bros. Design, Pearl Jam’s visual aesthetic was really set in stone and their tour posters became must-have’s for screen print enthusiasts everywhere. Music never looked so good. Eddie Vedder as JAMES, SON of ALPHAEUS - Some people say that James was literally Jesus’ little brother, while other’s interpret it metaphorically because upon dying Jesus said to James that Mary was now his mother, and James was now her son. Either way, Eddie Veddie was the younger brother of Andrew Wood who then took his mother’s hand and ushered in a new era of grunge. Eddie would tell you that he’s no fucking messiah, which is meant as a testament to the love he had for his brother.


SIDE NOTE: I almost had Eddie as Paul/Saul, not one of the original 12 apostles, but one of the most steadfast and true disciples of Jesus whose writings to the Romans and to the Corinthians would help shape Christian philosophy for many centuries to come. As the lead singer and songwriter of Pearl Jam, you could make a case that Eddie is Paul, but I don’t think he’s gentile enough for that. He’s Eddie Vedder, and that’s an entirely different essay.

Kurt Cobain as SIMON THE CANAANITE or SIMON THE ZEALOT - 
Simon the Zealot was known for strictly keeping the law of Moses (the Ten Commandments) and had great disregard for where he saw people headed. In Jesus, Simon found someone who was practicing what he preached. Simon would go on to evangelize the gospel in much of the west including throughout Egypt and into Africa. Kurt Cobain hated the mainstream and was a zealot when it came to grunge. He spread the word far and high and carried the tradition well. 
 Layne Staley as THADDEUS - Cool name. Cool band. When a jar of flies is kept for too long, the man in a box digs some dirt. Staley of Alice in Chains and Mad Season fame burned out too soon, but man was he cool.

Dave Grohl as MATTHEW/LEVI - Matthew/Levi was the tax collector who gave up his job and life to follow Jesus. He was the author of one of the gospels (Gospel of Matthew). Grohl was a drummer who later gave up that life to lead his own band, the Foo Fighters, who went on to become one of the biggest alternative bands (and David Letterman’s favorite band). 
 Kim Thyll as JAMES (brother of John) - James was John’s brother who followed him along and became an apostle. He had a moment of doubt when Jesus came back to life and doubted that it was really Jesus. Kim followed Chris Cornell into Soundgarden and preached the gospel upon a black hole sun. He later had many doubts when Chris left the band and stored to become a pop singer and then started Audioslave, which was terrible. Eventually, Soundgarden reformed and the word could go on being spread, one music hall, arena or outdoor festival at a time.

Jerry Cantrell as BARTHOLOMEW - Cool name. Cool band. Do the Bart, man! Mark Arm as PHILIP - Philip was an apostle, but he didn’t really matter. He was there at the start and probably did some stuff but you can’t really remember it. That’s kind of like Mark Arm and Mudhoney. He started Green River and recruited Stone Gossard to the band because he only wanted to sing instead of sing and play guitar. Then He formed Mudhoney. They had a moment for a slight minute but most people couldn’t tell them apart from Tad. How’s that for a Judgement Night?


Courtney Love as MARY MAGDALENE - Go listen to Hole’s second record, Live Through This, and you’ll be asking Courtney if you could wash HER feet. From start to finish, that album is all killer and no filler, regardless of wether Kurt Cobain wrote it (allegedly) or not. 


Thurston Moore as JUDAS - Sonic Youth were grunge before grunge was a thing. They ushered in the alt-rock movement and were preaching the gospel way before it was cool. In another world, Thurston Moore would have been John the Baptist, but he blew up the band by betraying Kim Gordon, which caused the inevitable break up of one of the best bands ever. So, yeah. Thurston Moore is Judas.         

Paul Westerberg as JOHN THE BAPTIST - He came first and helped lay the groundwork for the alternative movement. This could have easily gone to Michael Stipe of R.E.M., but The Replacements were much better and spawned a legion of followers. The Mats work in the 80s at Twin Tone and in Minneapolis would help to set up the dynamic that would take place in Seattle with Sub Pop. Westerberg couldn’t hardly wait…

With Pearl Jam having recently been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, now more than ever, we should give thanks and praise to the great Andrew Wood, the Captain Hi-Top, Love Commander (it is right to give him thanks and praise). For he so loved rock and roll and that he was forced to suffer, die and was buried for its sins so that rock could be reborn again. May he rest in peace today, knowing that his words still resonate with the masses.

So come bite the apple, my fellow star dog champions.      

Hide your mom. Control your sister.  Yeah.

Can I get a Hallelujah?

A reading from the Book of Stone

EDITOR’S NOTE: This post has been updated to correct two errors found within the text.

#andrew wood #mother love bone #stone gossard #chris cornell #jeff ament #pearl jam #temple of the dog #stardog champion #grunge #music #alternative #hair metal #green river #seattle #seattle sound #sub pop #courntey love #kurt cobain #captain hi-top #love commander #book of stone

[rironomind]

Aflutter (Commission)

Rating: G

Pairing: Saitama/Genos

Summary: Genos is a fire demon with a purpose and he wants Saitama’s heart

A/N: Commissioned piece by @thecruixe

Genos looked out upon the darkened plain. Beyond the ring of charred dirt he had left was long stretches of fallow ground. He frowned and got up. He had barely scorched the ground when he landed, a clear sign that the old man’s heart wouldn’t last much longer.

Plip! Plop!

He hissed in pain and looked up, realising that the dimming light was not because it was nearly nighttime, but rather the shadows of the large mass of clouds overhead. He was already too weak from his travels and from his failing heart. He wouldn’t last through a downpour, much less another attack. He needed to find shelter and fast.

Saitama yawned. The books here were dull, the pages too thin and had barely any pictures. The weather wasn’t helping his fatigue. He wondered how long he would be trapped in this world with no manga or television, just the flickering fireplace to entertain him.

His thoughts were interrupted by a pounding at the door.

He put down his book and looked out the window. Way off in the distance, a small shower was pulling in. Good, he wouldn’t have to water the fields for a while.

Again, the knocking came, this time accompanied by shouting, “Human! Open up! I know you’re in there!” There was a glow coming from underneath the door. He checked his wards were still in place, then he opened the door enough to peek out.

As expected, there was a fire demon standing on his doorstep. His eyes blazed, his fist still raised to knock. He was sheathed in fire, the flames licking harmlessly at his body, at his golden hair. He would have looked more impressive, if he didn’t wince every time a raindrop fell on him.

“What’s the big idea knocking and shouting,” Saitama growled. “What do you want?”

“It’s not my fault you’ve got those accursed wards around your house.”

“What do you want?” Saitama repeated.

“Let me in!” The demon demanded, the flames at his feet flared up indignantly. “Can’t you see it’s raining?” The rain was getting heavier by the second.

“Not my business,” Saitama said and pulled back to close the door.

“Wait! I’m, I have no more energy. I would not beg if I didn’t have a reason.” The demon gritted his teeth. “I have a purpose I must fulfill!”

A demon with a purpose? Saitama thought. “What’s that, killing people?” This was new. Usually demons were heartless creatures who led selfish lives. He looked the fire demon up and down, he had the selfish part down for sure.

“No!” He flared up. “I must destroy an evil creature who many years ago-” him flames that had been growing steadily weaker in the rain flickered dangerously, his eyes went dim and he fell forward onto the door jamb.

Saitama reached out in alarm, “Hey! Are you okay?” He cursed, quickly dissolving the wards and dragging the demon into his house. Laid out on the couch, Saitama could see that the demon looked pale, his edges becoming blurrier as his fire began to die. Saitama cast about for fuel.

“Lessee…” he picked out the book he’d been reading about the history of the nearby town. He’d gotten it cheap, and for good reason.

But before he could toss it onto the demon without really knowing if it would help, the demon stirred. He sounded stunned but groggy, “You, you actually let me in.”

“Well, yeah,” Saitama said. “I figured you’re pretty weak right now, and if you do get any ideas, well I’m pretty strong.” Before he could reply, the ceiling came crashing in and several large demons jumped into the house, crowing about how the wards had finally been broken. “Strong enough to defeat them?” The demon asked dryly as he struggled to sit up, he clutched his chest, and it started to glow momentarily brighter. “Stand back, human, they’re after me. I’ll-”

“Pay for my ceiling!” Saitama yelled, and destroyed them in one punch. Then Saitama nodded to himself and turned to the dumbstruck demon, “You’re gonna fix that.”

Genos was still halfway to getting up, one hand stretched out in front of him. He felt like a loon but he was no idiot. He had intended to steal the human’s heart but he couldn’t possibly fight this man. He wouldn’t go down easily, not like the old doctor. He thought quickly, “Please tell me your name!”

Saitama, still picking up the debris, said, “It’s Saitama.”

Did he just give me his real name? Genos shook his head to clear his thoughts, that wasn’t important! “Form a contract with me!”

“Sure.” Saitama started to turn away, then he stopped. “Wait what? A contract? What kind of contract?”

“Well,” Genos floundered, usually humans wanted more power, but this man… “You give me your heart, and I, I give you-”

“Oh, is that all,” Saitama said. “I don’t mind. You can just take it.”

Genos stared as Saitama continued to clean up. “It doesn’t work like that,” he protested. “I have to give you something in return. It’s the rules.”

Saitama frowned uncertainly, “I don’t need more power.” He had enough of it, so much so that fighting had become boring.

“WIthout your heart, you will not age, you will live forever,” Genos said earnestly. Surely all humans wished for eternal life, he knew he himself had, before he had attained it. “And I will, will give you my unending servitude.” Genos had no real desire to become a servant but perhaps when the time came, this man might be of use. “Ehh, can you give me back my hair?”

“Your…hair?”

“Yeah. Oh, and take this,” Saitama chucked a piece of wood towards Genos who caught it deftly. He turned it around in his hands wondering what he should do with it.

“If you’re young again, your hair will grow back,” Genos said, shoving the wood to one side.

Saitama thought for a moment, then he nodded decisively, “Okay, let’s do this.”

“That’s-” surprisingly easy, Genos thought. Was this man insane? Or a fool?

“What’s wrong?”

“You show no hesitation,” Genos blabbed. Shut up, he told himself. Shut up! But he went on, “Does being bald trouble you that much? Surely it’s no compensation for a heart.” He was right within your grasp, Genos cursed himself. His own foolishness had caused him to question Saitama’s casual acceptance. Now he would change his mind. You had him tricked! It must be the remnants of that old man’s kindness working against you!

Saitama shrugged. “I don’t really care. I’ve never really needed this heart anyway. Aren’t you going to use that?” He pointed to the piece of wood that Genos had discarded.

Genos snapped his mouth shut, “What would I need a piece of wood for?”

“Aren’t you a fire demon? Eat it and get better.”

The man must just be an idiot after all, Genos decided.

They made the contract by the light of the hearth. The rain pouring in from the hole in the roof made Genos nervous but Saitama set out a tin tub to catch the water.

The tub was full by the time they finished the contract.

Genos flexed his hands, power flared from his fingertips. Saitama was truly a strong man and so was his heart, Genos could feel it in the waves of magic coursing through him. It would only increase as the days passed, along with his humanity (an unfortunate side effect of having a heart). But he had one now, along with a master.

He gathered up his pride and bowed, “If it pleases you, master, I can reside in the hearth.”

“What?” Saitama choked, hands dropping from his head where he was happily celebrating the return of his hair. “No, no, you can’t fit, you’ll wreck it! I have a spare room upstairs. Just don’t burn it down. Also, don’t bow, that’s weird.” Genos was stunned, he had formed a contract with a very strange master.

“Alright, well,” Saitama said, yawning. “You can start by patching the roof, and emptying the tub uh, what was your name again?”

“…Genos.” A strange, idiot master.

Genos aided Saitama in his daily tasks. He tended to the crops and other household chores and was in charge of supplying the house with magic to power its amenities. He was not allowed to leave the property unless he was accompanying Saitama out on hunting trips.

His new master was an enigma. At home he dressed strangely, wearing what he called “a hoodie” which was too thick to be a tunic and too short to be a coat. It was what he was wearing when he was transported from the other land he came from, or ‘world’ as Saitama corrected. They had strange practises there, like taking off their shoes at the door and giving thanks before a meal. They also had complicated machinery run on ‘electricity’ instead of magic.

Occasionally he would get a missive from the town hall and set out with nothing but the clothes on his back and return with the carcass of a monster or ten. They could range from the size of rabbits to towering dragons.

After a season had passed, Genos asked him, “Why don’t you have any visitors?”

Saitama waded through the mud on the riverbank, staring jealously as Genos floated above it. “Dunno.” He scratched his head and complained, “Ahh, having hair actually is kind of a pain isn’t it? It’s so hot in the summer!” The forest was definitely muggier and warmer than the spring when they had met. Luckily it rained less, although that didn’t stop the rivers from flowing.

“Do you regret having hair?

“No way! Having hair is great!” Saitama said. “Come to think of it, maybe that’s why the villagers avoided me. No that can’t be it, I have hair now. Besides, the blacksmith’s bald…maybe only blacksmiths can be bald.” He was lost in thought, shaking out the mud that had splattered onto his hand, and didn’t notice the sudden shift of magic in the air until the monster was almost upon him.

“Master, look out!” Genos could not reach Saitama in time and could only watch as the large bear-like creature with horns leapt towards him.

“Huh?” Saitama shook out his hand and it hit the monster right on the snout, launching it backwards where it fell down dead. “Oh, hey, look Genos, it’s the monster we were hunting.”

Once again, Genos was bowled over by his master’s raw destructive power. “You save the villagers all the time, from all kinds of beasts and magical creatures and yet they don’t respect you?”

“I guess they- Woah! Hey! Wait! You’re going to start a forest fire!”

Genos had a temper he wasn’t proud of. He would get carried away by his emotions and would flare up, accidentally wrecking objects in his vicinity like furniture and sometimes, part of the farm. Saitama, though annoyed by his habit, was kind about it. He would tell Genos to replace or fix whatever he burned or scorched but he would never tell him to leave.

Genos told him about how he used to be human before a fire demon destroyed his village and how Genos performed the ritual to become one demon himself. He told Saitama that the fire demon would eventually find him, wherever he might be, as he was connected to the child he failed to destroy by ancient magic. He would return one day to finish the deed. But Genos swore he would destroy the demon first. In return, Saitama spoke about his old life in the other world. How he had trained to become strong and lost all his hair in the process.

As the days passed, however, their conversations grew shorter, Saitama’s replies became more curt. A tale that would have once amused him barely drew a smile out of him. It seemed that the more Genos warmed up to him, the colder Saitama grew. It must have been the effects of losing his heart but Genos didn’t form the connection between the two until it was too late.

“Master, why don’t you find yourself a wife,” Genos asked. They were harvesting the pumpkins to store before the winter’s chill settled in. The leaves were already beginning to turn brown, the first brush of death over the land.

It had reached Saitama’s eyes too. Where they once sparkled like morning dew, now were dull as stones. They only grew duller each time Genos tried to discuss the future with him. “People weren’t interested in my old world, and they’re not interested here,” Saitama replied with a shrug. He scuffed the dirt with his shoe and clipped off the stem of a pumpkin, hoisting it into the wheelbarrow. “Hmm, I wish I could plant cabbages here, Genos what do you think?”

Genos was about to argue otherwise, was about to say he would definitely be interested in someone like Saitama but he stopped himself. It was only harvest season and Genos realised he was in over his head. “Besides,” Saitama went on. “I don’t really need that anymore.” His gaze lingered like a breeze, and stole the words from Genos’ mouth.

No, Genos thought, snapping out of his daze. You should find love. I want you to be happy. He felt strangely at peace with this desire. The days he passed with Saitama were peaceful and fun. Beyond his monstrous strength and his kindness, Genos realised he was someone he had come to care about and he wanted his master to be able to love.

–

Autumn was almost over, the crops had been harvested and stockpiled, there was not much left to do so Genos decided it was time. He had finished powering the hearth and stood back as Saitama walked into the sitting room, back from doing the dishes.

“I want to give you your heart back,” he said.

“Oh,” Saitama didn’t sound surprised. He dried his hands on his apron and folded it up. “So, you don’t want it either.” And it was his choice of words that caused Genos’, no, Saitama’s, heart to throb. But before he could ask Saitama to clarify, he went on, “Does that mean you’re leaving?”

Genos had no answer.

“I don’t mind.” Saitama shrugged. “I get my heart back, don’t I? You didn’t wrinkle it or anything did you? Punch a few holes in it?”

“No, I-” Genos cleared his throat. “I took very good care of it.”

But Saitama wasn’t listening. “Plus I’ll have more space and, and! It’ll be less hot all the time. Yeah, I can’t wait for you to go.”

Genos reined in the flames that threatened to flare up. He knew that even if Saitama didn’t mean it, he wouldn’t be happy if he scorched the ceiling. His words tore him apart but Saitama would be able to feel again, he’d be able to enjoy life again and his eyes would alight with emotion once again.

Undoing the contract was more tricky and took a longer time. Saitama felt his heart pour back into him. It was warmer than he remembered and it filled in the empty spaces within him.

As Saitama’s heart returned to him, he saw that the edges of Genos had begun to fade, his flames slowly dying down. “Genos! What’s happening to you?”

“I require a heart to live. When we first met, I had another heart, I stole it from someone, an old man. It did not last long. But yours would, did.”

“Then why are you giving it back?”

“I don’t want it anymore,” Genos said. “I want you to have it.”

It sounded like “I don’t need you anymore” to Saitama and the parts of his heart that had returned ached. “But you’re dying! Take it back! Take it back, I don’t need it! What about your purpose?”

Genos shook his head, “I don’t need that anymore!”

Saitama planted his hands on Genos’ shoulder and began to push, the chain of magic that stretched between their chests wavered. “W-What are you doing?”

“Just, shut up! Stupid demon!” Saitama was powerful, but even physical strength shouldn’t be enough to break magic. Nevertheless that seemed to be what was happening as Saitama pushed and pushed, until finally the chain between them snapped. They were both thrown back by the force, sent sprawling across the stone floor Saitama always complained was too cold until Genos heated it.

Genos sat up, disoriented, his chest felt lighter but it was definitely still occupied. He still had one half of a heart and Saitama-

He saw him near the sooty fireplace, just beginning to stir. He rushed over, then hesitated, “Master, your hair-!”

Saitama reached up to feel that his head was indeed smooth once again, “Hah, great. At least we’re both alive.” He looked up at Genos, “So now what?” The demon was no longer a pale sickly pink, now he burned a brilliant crimson, but he wavered uncertainly. Saitama’s grin faded, “Right, you’re not contractually obliged to stay here anymore. Contractually,” he snorted, grimacing at the term. “I guess I can’t give it away again, huh?”

Saitama got up and brushed himself off. He stuck his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and walked over to the door. “A heart, really is too much trouble to handle,” he muttered.

When he turned back, Genos was still standing by the hearth, looking as pathetic as the time he burned a hole in the fence on the far side of the field. “Well?” Saitama snapped, feeling the edges of hysteria at the corners of his consciousness. “Aren’t you going to go?”

Please, please say no, Saitama’s heart begged traitorously. But Genos only let his chin drop to his chest, giving Saitama a short, quick nod.

He left, and Saitama was alone once again.

The shadows of the house stretched over the walls and floor, engulfing the room now that the fire demon was not there to chase them away. The house felt larger for sure, maybe too large. Feeling very cold all of a sudden, Saitama walked over to the fireplace to wait out the night.

He had barely sat down when he heard an incessant knocking at the door. A sheepish looking fire demon was standing on his doorstep.

“Genos? Weren’t you going to go?”

Genos shuffled nervously. “…it’s raining.” Sure enough, the last autumn rain was falling from the sky in a quick pitter-patter.

“You don’t like the rain,” Saitama said slowly.

“No, I don’t,” Genos confirmed. “But I like you.”

Saitama’s head was spinning. “Then why did you give my heart back?” Saitama demanded.

Genos’ words seared the air, “So you could love like I love you.”

Saitama wasn’t going to cry. He didn’t even feel the sting of tears. But months worth of emotions were rolling into him, radiating from his chest, flooding his body. His face twisted up, brows pinched tight together. He opened his mouth to call Genos an idiot, and instead choked on a sob. Genos touched Saitama’s cheek, as soft as candle but it didn’t burn, only warmed. “Can I come in?” he asked softly.

“I have to warn you, it’s not much better inside, it’s just as wet as outside.”

“How can it not be better inside?” Genos asked, stepping over the threshold. “You’re here.”

#saigenos #genosai #commission

[thought-trail-blog1]

A MERE MORTAL CALLED ME.

God is real. I’ve always wondered how I could prove this to someone who had no understanding of spiritual things and till today I’m not sure how. Apart from explaining the creation story and the fall and redemption of man, I don’t know where else to start. In my own life I am convinced and confident, not just that God is real but that He is a good God. I like to say it this way. God is only God because He is the epitome of all things good and righteous. If he lacked even an iota of anything, he wouldn’t be God. Think of the height of music, art, love, kindness, goodness anything at all and you will find God. He is all in all. The beautiful creator.

I am humbled that an incredible and indescribable being could love a mere mortal called me. And not only spare me by sacrificing his own special and only son in my place but he gives me the same honour that is due his son. That honour and authority that only belongs to Gods.

I’m beginning to sound like a marvel movie. Let me bring it down a notch. Ever since I’ve known me, I only saw myself as an outsider. I never quite felt like I belonged to anything. Like the new born African child who was considered a visitor till the eighth day, I felt like I was just an observer of the running’s of this world we call life. Instead of the standard eight days, I have lived as one sentenced to a life of solitary confinement. I was a fox, I owned a keen nose for spotting the difference between me and others, right from my own family, to people in the streets, to other kids in school.

When I was little, I never quite felt like a girl and when I looked over at the male section, boy was I different. That pan was genius! As I was saying, nothing could quite make me feel at home. This detachment created in me a hunger for connection and a yearning for common cause. The need to be understood, to understand others and my surroundings were stronger than anything else. From friendships to romantic relationships, I found myself depending on others perspectives and views and in the process compromising some of my own views and values because of my lack of boundaries. In my very lowest moments, I even felt like I didn’t have what it took to successfully live this life.

When you constantly absorb the views and perspectives of others, you lose the knowledge of who you are. Till you can tell whether what you’re doing is actually something you like and truly believe, and not something you’re doing because it is what is expected of you, anything at all can sweep you along its path. It would cause you lose touch with your sense of self which is your grounding. I think society is the way it is for a reason. It makes sense of our environment and interprets it for us but I also believe society has to be adaptable to new information that streams in in order to continue being relevant. I tried to build my life around rules and norms and ideals and never allowing myself to develop opinions of my own. Unfortunately, these standards are not always based on truth.

I grew up in a Christian home of very high standards. The kind that upheld the ideals and had the expectation of highest conduct possible as it always turns out to be as no one can truly attain these standards. Living as a female at home was a source of grief to me. I started noticing the double standards, the privileges accorded my brother that were never extended to us (the girls). We were the ones who labored and served and had no right as my father would one day say. I quickly learned that being a woman was a horrible thing. A punishment I did not deserve. I wasn’t the average girl and I knew it. I enjoyed going to the farm with my dad. Digging up mounds to plant yam and holding the cutlass. I enjoyed doing those activities with my father and he liked to take me. The knowledge that before I was born, my father was adamant that I was going to be a boy made me want to please him, maybe I wouldn’t remain a disappointment to him. In my teen years I tried more and more to not be associated with the things regular girls did.

Self-acceptance is one of the most beautiful gifts you can give yourself. To put effort into learning to see where you end and where others begin; learning to honour, acknowledge and ultimately accept the not so glamorous parts of yourself. We were created by a self-sufficient being who in a sense split himself into various fragments so that the representation of his being could only be conceptualized and appreciated when these fragments are juxtaposed with one another. God is unending. I believe his ability to create unique human souls is as infinite as his unending personality, so that he can reveal new perspectives of himself through the images he brings to life. He can only have love for us because he himself is the definition of what love is. He is the highest embodiment of everything we call love. Every single one of us in this world is a reflection of a unique part of this mysterious being we call God.

What fascinates me most is that through the reconciliation we have with him through Christ, we are brought into a personal connection with him where he begins to show us who he is. Not just that, he peels back all the parts of us that are not originally him. Reshaping and restructuring us to look like him again. If this God loves us and calls us his children, even though we look nothing like him and accepts us as we are ,how much more should we love ourselves and one another and be willing to forgive ourselves for our shortcomings? This realization is a process and it takes time. My path to this understanding was a messy and painful one but God being who he0 is has and continues to be a gracious father and restorer of all things.

I kissed a woman for the first time when I was twenty years old. After that I accepted that I was gay. I had been in my first relationship with a young man a little prior to this but my same sex encounter felt more right to me. The confusion that emerged from this discovery in myself was one I wasn’t ready for. My parent’s separation couldn’t have coincided with the worst possible thing. I went down a rabbit hole of guilt that seemed to encase me in its unyielding mould. The guilt gradually turned into self-loathing, ”Why couldn’t I be just like everyone else?!”. Then I started having moments when thoughts would flood and clog up my brain. In these moments of panic, I would cut myself in an attempt to ease the pressure on my mind. My health deteriorated with every thought that challenged what this meant for my eternity and I began to entertain thoughts of suicide.

I survived those moments and determined to put myself right again. I got baptized yet again and made peace with the fact that I would never marry. Little did I know that that was a set up for failure. The more I tried, the worse it got. Till I came to God withered from my exasperation and threw in the towel. There was nothing good about this surrender. I was done. I told him I couldn’t stop myself from feeling this way so I was going to accept my fate and go to hell. I gave up!

God does not expect perfection from us, he expects surrender. When creation fell, we lost our right to life. Mankind had no way to save itself. We were doomed! But the love of God would not sit by and watch us be destroyed. On the other hand, his holiness had to allow the consequence of man’s choice. God being wisdom allowed judgement to come but instead of it coming upon us, it came on Jesus who paid the full price so that we have nothing more to pay. Today if you align yourself with what Jesus did by accepting him as your Lord and savior his sacrifice covers you forever.

I didn’t know that, so I tried to fix myself and when I couldn’t, I walked away. I couldn’t stay away for long. I came back with all the baggage. Trying to please God on one hand and trying to please my girlfriend the next moment. My guilt grew and flourished, my suicide attempts became real and I became really sick. I lost my self-worth and self-respect along with my weight. It was till I understood this truth that my life started falling back into place and healing came back into my life.

[massmurdera]

Favorite Podcasts 2016

I have a data entry job in a lab processing bodily fluids. I hate the monotonous job, but one perk of the job is I get to listen to podcasts 40 hours/week,  time flies by, and I feel somewhat productive.

PERSONAL OPINIONS… -podcasts are best done between 2 people, preferably comedian friends. Sometimes, there can be too many cooks in the kitchen (Filmdrunk Frotcast, for instance, runs into this) -it’s usually best in person: you can sense that in some podcasts where they do it via Skype or on the phone -I avoid local sports talk radio like the plague—so you don’t get blowhards with hot takes/talking points where they have to have controversy to get ratings. Generally, everybody on podcasts gets along, it’s natural, funnier, and doesn’t fill hours. -while I don’t think some of these podcast comedians will ever become household names, they are doing some of the best work out there that’s ever been done comedically. It’s like Howard Stern and what Chris Rock said and I’m going to fuck this up: he might be the funniest person of all time if you compile what he did into a single hour. I feel like you could do these with a LOT of people. But they never will. -you listen long enough, it should feel like a friendship you are a part of. You know the people, get the inside jokes, and enjoy the banter. -best episodes tend to run 60 minutes or less—otherwise, it can get real bloated.

BEST EPISODES -End of World Election Night (Joe Rogan)—Bill Burr steals the live show from Stanhope, Rogan, Kreischer, etc—tour de force that came out the night of the Election while shit was going down. Burr is going for pure humor and some guests come on who have an issue with how he views things in a blunt, fair way where everything gets shit on and everything sucks: but, at the end of the day, his life is not going to be ruined. What I like about Burr is this: he will say awful things that you don’t agree with...but by the end you are on his side and laughing with him. -600 Dollar Podcast-‘Voyeur Motel’—Halpern reads out Gay Talese’s story of a guy who ran a hotel and had a secret viewing station set up above every guest’s bed and he would watch people have sex. It’s creepy, but here? Funny as hell. The ‘Back to the Future’ joke Halpern quickly gives almost made me crash on the Mass. Pike -Dollop/My Favorite Murder crossover-‘Otto in the Attic’ -Dollop does a murder w/ My Favorite Murder as guests. It is wild. -Dollop-‘Bundy 2: Oregon Takeover’ –one of the first Dollops was about Cliven Bundy, the anti-government rancher. This time, his kids took over Oregon—and, most recently, they went unpunished despite a takeover with guns. Just unreal. -Pardon My Take-‘Cat Killer Michael Rappaport’ (first part interview goes for 15 minutes or so) -Justin Halpern’s Papa Roach story on Frotcast—I was in tears at work listening to this. It helps to have been of age when Papa Roach was a thing in the late 90′s/early 2000s (Filmdrunk Frotcast; 3:30 mark on the ‘Best of 2016’: 90 second story basically)

BILL BURR’s Monday Morning Podcast (funniest comic alive mostly does a 1-man rant by himself) 2 episodes a week—1 of which is half throwback episodes

I don’t get how Burr does it: it should be impossible for Burr to carry a podcast each week by himself for an hour, but he does. He rambles for an hour, takes listener e-mail. He is THE only person I listen to advertisement readings for: he somehow makes that funny, shits on the ads who sometime remove them. But it’s like listening to a guy workshop some material and improve himself in small ways as a comic.

I will say this though: when somebody else enters the podcast, it becomes funnier. His wife, Nia. He can play ball with and you can sense him having an audience and naturally be funnier. 600 Dollar Podcast: a comedy podcast between 3 comedians/writers who talk about marriage & raising kids—but it’s totally not that at all and always goes AWOL 1 episode per week—but hasn’t been one in months Horrible title for a show—started off as ‘Wild’n’Out Without Nick Cannon’ but they got a cease and desist from Cannon’s lawyer.

Justin Halpern (Shit My Dad Says), Tommy Jonaghan (breakout guy of the show and a stand-up) and Patrick Monaghan (another TV writer)

This podcast has come the closest since Walking the Room to genuinely making me laugh out loud each week. Consistently. Great and funny stories of failure. Fucked up in the best way and goes FAR down the rabbit hole of topics.

BEST EPISODES…. #7-‘Voyeur Motel’ (Halpern’s Back to the Future joke) #11-‘It’s Called a Vagina’ (when Halpern loses his shit at the 10:15 mark) Dollop (two comedians: American history read to a friend who has no idea what the topic is about. Point is, you realize America has NEVER been great and it’s supremely and endlessly fucked up) Walking the Room is my favorite podcast ever. Laugh-out loud funny friendship and THE best and funniest take on unending failure and, like Patton Oswalt said, being a shit-magnet for people/things. They do live reunion ones once a year—and they generally suck and aren’t the same but I’ll take what I can get. Anyways, that podcast is over—and the Dollop, a history, took over as Dave Anthony’s main thing (He’ll do conversations with Wil Anderson on TOFOP/FOFOP that are fun and closest to Walking the Room, but it’s not the same: he’s much more relaxed/normal whereas Dave was putting on a face as someone who hated his goofy friend, Greg, part of the time and was angrier than he was—and if you follow him on Twitter, he is comically angry and outspoken)

Sometimes, the Dollop can be hit-or-miss and I tune out a bit. Within first couple minutes, I can tell if it’s going to be amazing. Gareth can improv too much at times—but when it’s on, it’s on. They’re incredibly quick and it never tires how incredulous Gareth can get to the stories to Dave’s sarcastic, nonchalant storytelling while EVERYTHING that is happening is fucked up.

I think if they could make a lot of these Dollops into movies, they would be amazing. Some Mel Brooks-ian shit. I would rather see the Dollop’s version of Hugh Glass than Leonardo DiCaprio’s version in ‘the Revenant’. The show got a nod of the head in the ‘Tickled’ documentary.

But my jaw drops at American history I didn’t know about—or to its extent—and then laugh hard. Some of it is minimal characters/events that are just funny—others are wildly serious or show parallels to today.

BEST EPISODES… -‘Otto in the Attic’ (crossover live w/ My Favorite Murder) -‘Bundy 2: Oregon Takeover’ (anything involving Cliven Bundy’s family and their anti-government militia) -Black Panther Fred Hampton’ (not a funny one—but a guy I never heard of who should have been up there with MLK/Malcolm X had he not been assassinated by the FBI/American government) -‘Girl Watchers’ -‘Domino’s Pizza Story’ -‘Philadelphia Mayor Frank Rizzo’ (pre-Trump guy) -‘Boston Busing ’74 & ’75 PT 1 & 2’

All-Time? ‘the Rube’ is the best in a runaway or me. ‘Purity Ring’, Tickled, Hugh Glass, some of the earlier ones are great.

IF YOU LIKE THIS: history’; Drunk History comedy…My Favorite Murder My Favorite Murder (true crime—one comic and her affable friend read 1 true crime murder to each other) 1 episode per week; 90 minutes-ish

True crime is all the rage—so it makes sense as to why this podcast has become insanely popular. It might be easy to shit on, in a morbid way, to go over murders in a ‘fan’ way: but it’s the same way movies/TV shows/news each night centers around murders. The show might glorify people—but there’s a common bent/theme around certain killers and their upbringings—or possible life-saving life mottos (‘fuck politeness’). I can see the show doing more positive things, giving $ to rape kits being tested (how the fuck was that NOT a thing?!?!)

I was aware of Karen Kilgarif because Dave Anthony dated her and she was a guest on Walking the Room. But it’s AMAZING when people you are vaguely aware of find their own avenue. And become stars in their own right—and people you look forward to hearing each week.

Her friend, Georgina, is just as easily likable. DEFINITELY comes across like a gossiping girly-girl (I heard that criticism), but she’s so damn cool, genuinely funny, and cute (even before I saw how pretty she was—there’s no way to describe it and you can sense it with how Karen adores/views her). It could be a really dour show OR droning in the wrong hands, but they make the topic rightfully serious but fun simultaneously in the best way. It is respectful to the victims.

But yeah, they read Wikipedia entries to each other and bring in a heavily-informed obsession to the podcast. But it’s the humor and chemistry that helps saves the show in tone. It’s not as heavily-researched as the Dollop or formatted in a natural storytelling bent, but it’s successful.

KEY EPISODES…. -Live from LA Podfest (crossover with Dave Anthony of the Dollop) -Chicago Podfest (changing point for the show: you realize that they are massive in this episode in ways they didn’t expect—with a rabid fanbase) IF YOU LIKE THIS: you’ll like the Dollop

PARDON MY TAKE (sports podcasts) 3 episodes per week; 60 minutes each I want to slap myself in the face listening to this—because these are the two best young, likable stars in comedy/sports. IT IS HARD TO DO SPORTS COMEDY DONE SUCCESSFULLY BECAUSE PEOPLE TAKE IT TO SERIOUSLY! Big Cat comes across like Jimmy Kimmel; PFTCommenter, however, steals the show—and he’s incomparable (maybe Stephen Colbert for being able to stay in character?): basically he’s born out of ‘hot-take’ culture and mocking it. There’s a format to the show, some interviews, segments.

Yes, it’s part of the Barstool Sports empire—run by douchebags (a friend of mine is cousins with Portnoy—tried getting an autograph for her boyfriend who loved Barstool Sports, he refused), but forget that.

LAUGH OUT LOUD… -Stingray Steve calls the fall of the Berlin Wall (a southern college football fan—they get him to announce each week’s big plays; when they FINALLY get him to call a key moment in history, I lost my shit at work) -Jimbo of the Week (mailbag fails from readers) -Monday Mornings after NFL games where they mimic Chris Berman’s recaps of the games

BEST EPISODE… -Catkiller Michael Rapaport (Rapaport is an actor/personality easy to shit on—but he comes across great as a podcast guest on Bill Simmons, Bill Burr, Pardon My Take: he’s game)—September 6th -Marlins Man/Foul Ball Fan (July 6th) -Martin Shkreli –when they shit on him; it’s interesting to hear them be affable/likable/funny with people they clearly hate. Marlins Man & this episode are pretty great interviews to hear how naturally funny they are, easy to get along with, even while still getting jokes in at people they hate. It’s not easy.

TOFOP & FOFOP (Australian comedian and funny actor friend poke at mostly American pop culture) -Charlie Clausen is the co-host on TOFOP -FOFOP gets its name from the show ‘Fringe’: it’s ‘Faux-TOFOP’, typically with American comedians. Dave Anthony is the best guest for FOFOP.

Wil Anderson is an Australian comic—he’s ridiculously affable, charming, and naturally funny. This is my closest substitute for Walking the Room, in a way, with its chemistry between two comics. It doesn’t come close, but that’s fine. I don’t get all the Australian references (rugby, pop culture, politics), but I don’t need to as an American—because America dominates just about every episode.

Clausen, on TOFOP, is damn likable. I can’t say enough about how naturally great Anderson/Clausen are on podcasts. It’s not just the accents that do it.

BEST EPISODES… -#263-‘Should I Go Home?’ : post-election w/ Dave Anthony I don’t think that’s right, but I’ve laughed out loud with pop culture breakdowns like Game of Thrones, Westworld, or shitting on Zach Snyder Batman/Superman movies in the funniest way I’ve heard (miles funnier than Filmdrunk-but no real format to the show) Inactives: NFL talk, fantasy football…and some parenting

In a just world, Matt Ufford should be a mammoth sports media star alongside Katie Nolan. He’s likable, outspoken, funny—plus he’s a military veteran/Captain in the Iraq War (though he does not come across as that).

So yeah, an NFL podcast with Ufford (Seahawks fan) and Nick Stevens (Pats/Star Wars fan and stand-up comedian). Stevens should be easy to hate as a stereotype of a Boston sports fan—but he’s naturally funny and likable, quick with jokes/takes on a spot.

The first episodes of 2015 are great for Matt’s all-time depressing Wal-Mart riff and Stevens’ reaction or Stevens bringing up the Butt Fumble that made me cry laughing—and Ufford lost his shit.

Also, I’ve NEVER done fantasy sports, but I still enjoy the show—most NFL show (NFL Ringer; Simmons; Barnwell) aren’t funny, have chemistry, and maybe too nerdy—this is wildly funny, enjoyable.

YOU’LL LIKE THIS: football, comedy, Star Wars

Filmdrunk Frotcast: Pop Culture, Movies, Comedy As I said, sometimes this show can have too many cooks in the kitchen. There can be 4-6 people on the show sometimes—some of whom aren’t funny or interesting like Laremy, Lindy West. Matt Lieb grew on me heavily. I found him unfunny and someone who comes across as funnier than they think and the other people on the show let him do his thing, don’t cut him off, laugh too hard, or know what to do. But he’s become a centerpiece of the show and now I don’t mind it. I dig Brendan, Joe Sincilito, and some other dude that’s been on more of late But Lieb does not really have an equal comedically to play with him, so he feels very much like an excited dog who just wants to play but could use another dog to play with. Horrible analogy, but feels right.

The show—and Uproxx, in general—hits on topics I am VERY familiar with and want to hear discussed. I hardly tend to agree with Vince Mancini’s tastes and sometimes opinions—he’s more of a critic than a comic. Lieb mostly looks for pure comedic bents and can derail the podcast, in a good way.

KEY GUESTS: Justin Halpern, PFTCommenter, Matt Ufford, Joe Sincilito SONG: Matt Lieb’s ‘Corporate Birthday’

BEST EPISODE: ‘Best of 2016’ (as an entry point, it does a good job capturing what the show does—love it or leave it. So lots of Lieb improv and made-up songs on the spot inbetween conversations)

REVISIONIST HISTORY: MALCOLM GLADWELL 10 episodes total (on hiatus)

Heavily organized and produced. I avoid boring This American Life podcasts like the plague, but Gladwell does that a bit—but better here. It’s interesting.

Best episodes: ‘Satire Paradox’; ‘Lady Vanishes’..the 3-part college episodes is an obsession and interesting political/social axe that Gladwell has to grind.

RECOMMENDED: if you like Malcolm Gladwell’s books even a little—this is otherworldly as an investigative podcast piece. It should NOT be this damn good. BILL SIMMONS (mostly sports) 2 episodes/week; 60-80 minutes each He gets shit on fairly—and sometimes over-the-top unfairly. He has a tired schtick and thoughts, a HORRIBLE voice (the opening segments on his TV show were due to be a disaster), unfunny. I don’t know how to say it: someone like Justin Halpern has a HORRIBLE voice—but he transcends that because he’s so goddamn funny. With that said, he’s talented, inspired/broke the door open for a lot of people, is a good podcast host, easy/affable enough to listen to, and has good taste. I don’t think his friends are funny or worthwhile  (House; Cousin Sal) but I enjoy Jack-O. Mike Lombardi is painfully bad—but I have to sit through it as a die-hard Pats fan since he was in the Pats organization until just a couple months ago. But he gets damn good guests every now and then.

BEST GUESTS/EPISODES: Michael Rapaport, Gladwell, Wesley Morris, Al Michaels, Robert Smigel, Jay Glazer; Key & Peele, Chris Sacca, etc, etc COMMON SENSE w/ DAN CARLIN (a historian rants about politics in a focused way) Carlin is like Burr—he does a podcast by himself for an hour and rambles a bit. Difference is, there is not a single funny bone to Carlin’s body. I agree with Filmdrunk: Carlin comes across like a Right Wing radio host in how he talks—but he’s utterly brilliant. He’s the best guy to break down history in today’s terms. I subscribe more to his thinking as a leftist political-minded person.

I still need to check out ‘Hardcore History’: I hear that’s the shit, but I don’t have time for 12-16 hour anthology pieces. I started listening to ‘Wrath of Khan’ and it’s insane, thorough, well-researched and great storytelling. It’s daunting though.

RECOMMENDED: History/political buffs—with leftist-minded thinking and rambling HOUND TALL: Educational live comedy show where an expert  talks about something and comics engage in it in a panel Basically, an expert comes in (a pimp; a woman who was in a harem; Science; Religion; etc) and a panel of comedians riff on that in a loose way. Moshe is brilliant as a host and he has good comedic guests (Pete Holmes; Joe DeRosa; John Mulaney; Natasha Legerro, etc)

SUGGEST IF YOU LIKE: education, in a weird way HANNIBAL BURRESS: HANDSOME RAMBLER Podcast is in early stages. Mainly it’s just Hannibal and his DJ chilling while Hannibal fucks around with autotune at times. He’s been having more conversations with guests lately (Chance the Rapper, for one)

Episode 2—Hannibal’s experience with Air B’n’B’s JOE ROGAN 3 episodes per week—3-4 hours each The podcast simply goes on for FAR too long (3-4 hours) and the topics meander far down the rabbit hole. But, if you’re like me and have the time, you don’t mind having to listen to a 3-4 hour conversation.

Rogan is a far-out dude, gets shit on for his opinions, lifestyle (Hunting & MMA most likely), and politically correct people (it’s overblown). But he’s an open and fair-minded dude, even if I don’t agree with him.

He’s kind of similar to Pete Holmes: long conversations, deep person—except Pete’s is maybe more focused with questions that come up in every podcast (it’s a funnier version of WTF with Marc Maron) and Holmes is just plain goofier and naturally funny. Rogan is mostly an intense dude—who has more life experience, hobbies, and skills.

BEST EPISODE: End of the World election night podcast Bill Burr steals the show from everybody, including Doug Stanhope. It’s unreal.

OTHER GUESTS: Bill Burr, Dan Carlin, Hannibal Burress, Neal Brennan

Pete Holmes: You Made it Weird (funnier, goofier, deeper Marc Maron conversations) Burr is the funniest comic alive—but Pete is probably the most insanely likable; they both should be massive. Burr does the best panel work on a night show: he’s an angry, loveable, opinionated dude, pushes buttons in a playful way. Holmes is a DEEP-thinking guy—who just is universally likable. Even his face, it’s goofy and instantly funny.

BEST GUESTS… Moshe Kasher (recent); Garry Shandling (month before he died)

SUGGEST IF YOU LIKE THIS: WTF w/ Marc Maron—if Maron was funny/looser/goofier in his interviews

WTF W/ Marc Maron Hardly interviews comics anymore since he’s nearly interviewed them all. I don’t bother to check out as much. He hasn’t had as much good interviews this year. I’ve seen him live, I think, 6 times (and 2 podcast tapings that were in Boston: first one was the best by far)

But reason why his podcast is great is that Marc isn’t a whole person, he’s finding himself—and you can sense he’s trying to make himself better and find himself with the people he’s interviewing. He’s looking for grace, understanding, and just being a better person.

Also, everybody skips the openings to all his podcasts—and just cut to the interview.

BEST INTERVIEWS… Robert Kelly (underrated: might be one of the funniest people I’ve seen live—his own podcast has great moments: him w/ Burr, DeRosa, Kreischer on Bertcast was amazing) Louis CK; Jeff Goldblum

CHAPO TRAP HOUSE Caught this only in the last week.

The Ben Shapiro takedown in the last episode of the year was great (they read passages from his awful book of the extreme conservative writer. Helps to know who he is in a way)

SUGGESTED EPISODE… -Post-Election breakdown ‘We Live in the Zone Now’: My thoughts exactly as a lefty on the election & state of politics

OPIE RADIO Anytime they release a Patrice O’Neal, Bill Burr, Louis CK, or Robert Kelly oldies, it’s special. Some of the most brutal and funny comedy ever was done on Opie & Anthony. A show as PACKED with people as, say, Filmdrunk Frotcast could use is actual comedians who are mostly all on the same level ‘funny’ as each other. Except the main thing with this show is that they bust balls in the cruelest way. Endlessly. With that said, you can easily hate the fans of the show and hate Anthony Cumia’s politics and how far-right/distant he has become (got fired from the show)—and still recognize how brilliant he was as a host. There’s a treasure trove of amazing material on Opie that you can put up with the best comedy ever. It’s the original podcast and when they re-release old shit, it’s a goldmine.

-We’ll See You in Hell w/ Joe Derosa (2 friends talk movies and shit on each other for liking or not liking certain movies: it’s Roger & Ebert basically) Derosa has a mostly HORRIBLE taste in movies.

I don’t think I could recommend this podcast to anybody unless you’ve heard him on a podcast with Pete Holmes, Bill Burr, Hound Tall, or Opie. Pete Holmes would 100% be the best (Pete’s podcast to hear Pete’s impression of Joe, Hound Tall) and Burr would be great to see how easily Burr shits on him. Otherwise, you’d just view him as an unlikable asshole.

Derosa has a couple albums out and they’re worthwhile. But there is one that he recorded that went AWOL and the crowd absolutely was drunk and derailed his special, so Joe went with, trashed his special, and just went off on the audience trashing them. It’s amazing. It’s “You Will Die” and it’s the second part of the special that was recorded and meant to be the special.

COULD GIVE UP ON AND BE COOL -Bill Barnwell (NFL podcast) -NFL Ringer -the Watch (TV/movies)

Only because I’m a big football/TV/movie fan—the hosts aren’t very good, funny, interesting or standout. I think they are good, straight-forward writers though (all formerly of Grantland). I listen to these episodes at 2x speed to make them go by faster. OVERRATED PODCASTS -Keeping It 1600 Politics podcasts from people who worked for Obama as policy advisor & speechwriter. They get insider guests/journalists. Sure, it’s mildly interesting to hear them go over current events—but it’s ultimately forgettable. Kind of smug. Jokes aren’t funny. They are inoffensive dudes and centrists. It’s a podcast for water-carrying establishment Democrats generally and I think they are blind to see at how limp and ineffectual their party is and why that is so. I guess the podcast that came after the election is interesting to listen to—and how shocked they were. They never thought it would happen—and they never thought Hillary was a horrible candidate.

I’d say the Ringer podcasts (the Watch; Simmons) the people who host the podcasts are NOT funny people at all. There’s laughter going on, but it’s never made by funny people. I like Simmons, but I can’t defend him being naturally funny the way he would like to be.

SUGGESTION: listen to Wil Anderson, an Australian comic, alongside Dave Anthony cover politics on FOFOP. I started listening to Chapo Trap House-that’s better than Keeping it 1600 and what I wanted in a politics podcast MOST DISAPPOINTING PODCASTS -Serial season 2—checked out after a couple episodes. It tried something new and failed miserably. -Deadcast –Drew Magary is the funniest online writer for a decade now, but he comes across as obnoxious and loud on podcasts. Tim Marchman? A boring contrarian killjoy. They go over topics I enjoy hearing about though, but I gave up. Also, they do it via Skype, so it misses some chemistry of podcasts that do it in person.

DON’T LISTEN TO ENOUGH BUT THINK ARE GOOD -Chelsea Peretti (Bill Burr episode is great—but that podcast has like 3 episodes a year) -Guys We Fucked -My Brother My Brother & Me (3 brothers, comedy—and I heard their Dungeons & Dragons podcast Adventure Zone is great—but I’m not into that game) -Sklarbro Country (Sports + comedy) -Todd Glass (Patton Oswalt as a guest was amazing a year or so ago)

PODCASTS I PLAN ON CHECKING OUT MORE IN 2017 -Chapo’s Trap House -Dan Carlin’s Hardcore History