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riverdamien · 2 years

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Lives of Chains

Lives of Chains!

"It was fitting to celebrate and rejoice, for this your brother was dead and is alive; he was lost and now is found. Luke 15:32.

Last night I watched Lifetime's movie: "House of Chains," a graphic movie about child abuse. A leader of a religious cult has a family and keeps his kids chained to their beds, teaching them the world is evil. Once they were rescued it became apparent from the ending that regardless of how much therapy these five young adults would be given, they were wounded for life.

I did not sleep, my own demons haunted me during the night. For I hang and love youth from severely abused homes all the time. I hang out and love adults on the street victims of sexual and emotional abuse as young kids. I can think of at least thirty who have shared that their lives in their "houses of chains" in the last month.

They run away, turn to drugs, and get hooked up in abusive relationships, each seeking escape from the pain, and the wounds of their first abuse.

The sad reality is the majority will never adjust to what we call a "healthy", "normal life" if there is such a thing. I spent an hour with a thirty you old "Jim" on Thursday. His history is that of being sexually abused by both his mother and father from the age of 4 as well as physically abused. He ran away at 13. "Jim" is so torn up emotionally he will never lead what we call a "normal life."

"Jimmy" lives in an old bus with an abusive girlfriend, has psychotic dreams, and explosive anger, and stays high on pot and LSD all the time. During his early years "Jimmy" was a prostitute, and now sells weed, and steals.

Rather than providing support--places to live, with a harm reduction approach, we housed people for the most part turn our heads. Our lawmakers propose stricter drug laws without seeing the person. There is more stealing in our stores resulting from people not having money for food.

Kaiser publishes patients' medical and mental health history online, which I love to read, and at times become depressed, but overall it is interesting. One of my diagnoses is "Severe PTSD".

In my memory, I return to my childhood. When I was four my mother remarried, and had my dad, sign the adoption papers, with the promise of never seeing me again. It was only five years ago I received a photo of him from probably a cousin (who failed to put their return address on the envelope), the first time I had ever seen his face.

According to a mental health worker many years later I suffer from an attachment disorder, (I love of how these diagnoses are always permanent) which makes it difficult to attach to other people.

The fact is my adoptive father was my dad, he loved me with all of his heart. I could not have had a better childhood. I was able to obtain the best education, four degrees. I had the best of health care, vacations, and most of all non-judging love.

I became a minister in a church that tells us that "homosexuality is an intrinsic evil," and when I began to come out was sent to therapists who reinforced that--one said, "straight, and only sex with the man on top is the true way" (LOL). Then came the years of prostitution. And from there my healing journey began.

Through the years in San Francisco, I have witnessed killings, deaths in all sorts of horrible circumstances, and much recently one zoon death firsthand. I see violence nearly every other day, sometimes seven days a week. I can not retreat into Oakland Hills or to San Carlos every night. Violence is real, very real.

The reality is I have always had health insurance, access to good medical care, and mental health treatment. I will always suffer PTSD in one form or another, it is one of the scars of the cross I carry. But I have access to care. I survive and have been able to function well. I have not lived a life in chains, but one growing and caring. Even at my worst, I need no one feeling sorry for me or their sympathy. I have had and continue to have a good and very privileged life unlike too many to count have had.

There is an old Native American saying: "Never judge another person until you have walked a mile in their moccasins," you see for all our lofty ruminations about God, for all the symphonies and theologies and liturgies for the divine. I have yet to find a more profound expression of God's nature than the one that begins, "once upon a time, there was a shepherd and a lost sheep."

God With Us is a marvelous storyteller, for he tells us we are his children and that maybe one percent of the time we get it right, and the other ninety-nine percent God is pure love! Deo Gratias! Thanks be to God!

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Fr. River Damien Sims, sfw, D.Min., D.S.T.

P.O. Box 642656

San Francisco, CA 94164

www.temenos.org

415-305-2124

Deo Gratias! Thanks be to God!"

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goldentournesol · 4 years

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The Receptionist and The Profiler (Three)

Chapter Three: Minimal Loss

(Spencer Reid x f!Reader)

Series Masterlist

General Masterlist

A/N: as a heads up, a large part of this chapter is a flashback, separated by ~~~. angst of minimal loss, buckle up y’all it’s getting serious!

Some cases don’t require the whole team to go investigate. Sometimes a few members go out to consult on something and come right back. Apparently, a 911 call had been received from a 15 year old girl saying that a man was sexually assaulting her and other girls her age. The call came from inside a cult’s base and now Spencer and Emily were sent to the ranch to investigate the leader, Benjamin Cyrus. Y/N selfishly wanted to tell Hotch to send someone else in place of him, but she knew Spencer was the least intimidating of the bunch and so it made sense for him to go undercover as a child victim interview expert alongside Emily.

Y/N watched as JJ zoomed straight past her desk and stood behind Derek’s desk, “Morgan.” she said, flicking the volume button of the TV across the room, panic fighting its way through her voice.

Morgan and Y/N’s attention went straight to the news reporter on the TV, “--what is reportedly being called a routine questions and answers meeting by Colorado child services has turned into a violent and deadly standoff between Colorado authorities and a French religious group known as Separtatian sect. The raid--”

“JJ, that’s not the ranch Prentiss and Reid--” Morgan said, standing from his desk.

“They’re still inside.” JJ informed.

“HOTCH!” Morgan yelled across from the bullpen, sending panic and goosebumps to every nerve ending in Y/N’s body. All she could think was, not again, please, God, not again.

Suddenly, all the phones of the bullpen began ringing. Y/N was absolutely frozen in her seat, not even aware of the phone on her desk ringing its wire off. It was like the air was heavy and she couldn’t breathe. She was vaguely aware of JJ’s outline as she approached her and placed her hands on her shoulders.

“Y/N. Y/N!” JJ called out as if she’d been calling her name for hours already, for all she knew, she had. Y/N unexpectedly felt a salty bead of water enter her mouth through her lips, she was crying.

“JJ...not again, JJ.” She practically whimpered, shaking her head in disbelief. The blonde’s heart wrenched in her chest as she thought back to the events of Georgia.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. We’re on our way to him right now. We’re going to do our best to get them out. I need you to stay strong for me now, alright? The phone’s going to be ringing a lot, we need you here.” JJ attempted to comfort her and Y/N was quick to compose herself, nodding.

“Yes, yes, I know. I’ve got it.” She sniffled, rubbing her cheeks. JJ pulled her into a quick tight hug, well, as tight as she could with her growing belly between them. Y/N squeezed her tight, “You get him back to me safely, JJ.” She whispered and the blonde nodded before taking off with the rest of the team.

“Is she okay?” Morgan muttered to JJ as they speed walked out of the building, secretly wondering if that’s how friends should react to hostage situations.

“I’m not sure.” JJ answered honestly and the two shared a pointed look.

It was no secret that there was something going on between Y/N and Reid, they knew they held intense feelings for each other, however the team decided to stay out of it...for the most part. Derek, on the other hand, was very good at not missing opportunities to mess with Reid and tease the hell out of him.

It took Spencer a while to get back on his feet, especially after Gideon had departed, but Y/N helped him every step of the way. She drove him to NA meetings whenever she could. She helped him take his mind of things when he was having cravings. She finally, finally agreed to learn how to play chess, even though she was positive she was destined to lose. She’ll never forget how excited he got when she’d offered.

~~~

“Wait--what?” Spencer stopped mid-sip from his morning coffee. The team hadn’t filed in yet, but he was hanging around her desk like he usually did when she told him.

“Yup, you heard me. I’ll let you finally teach me how to play.” Her eyes twinkled with playfulness and he could have sworn his heart swelled twice its size. He was aware that he was gaping at her, but for some reason he couldn’t stop. The thought of sitting across from her so closely and for so long as he tried to teach her the moves was enough to make him forget his words.

“Hello? Earth to Spencer?” She laughed, waving a hand in front of his face. He snapped out of it, blushing.

“Yes! Yes, I’ll teach you! We’re going to have so much fun!” He exclaimed, his face practically splitting in half from his grin. She was about to make a comment about how it wouldn’t be so fun to lose to him (the whole point of not wanting to learn it in the first place), but she decided the genuine excitement on his face was worth more than winning ever would be.

~~~

She also remembered him practically fangirling to her over David Rossi’s books. He was so excited when the other founder of the BAU joined the team in place of Gideon. Of course, Spencer had read all his books and was more than ready to recite them to her if she wanted him to but she preferred to keep the crime and the gore at a minimum, preferring to hear about Victorian love stories and obscure children’s stories that are told in African villages she’d never heard of before. Rossi was a fairly nice man, much warmer than Gideon but was still somewhat cagey upon joining the team. She didn’t really blame him, he’d left the job only to come back to it years later and find a bunch of younger hotshot agents in the unit he created. At least Rossi took the time to learn her name and smile at her in the mornings.

Sometimes he’d sit and watch the two interact from his office. He’d assumed they were together when he’d first joined the team, almost a year ago now. Seeing how they leaned into each other when they spoke and maintained such intense eye contact, it just made sense to him. That and the fact that he’d noticed the way Reid was so much more comfortable around her than he was with his team mates. He’d note the not-so-subtle lingering hand touches on arms and the way they chose not to move their knees away from each other if they bumped. But, most of all, what he thought was a dead giveaway, was the way they smiled at each other; they smiled with their whole faces. Spencer’s mood seemed to brighten around her and even though he hadn’t known the young genius for long, he knew that that was a good sign. If he hadn’t seen Y/N and Anderson getting in the same car together, he’d never have guessed that they were together, much less engaged. You don’t need to be a profiler to know what the longing glances across the bullpen meant, though. Or the sad eyes she gave him every time he left for a case. Or the hug she gave that was obviously tighter than anyone else’s when they came back.

Hopefully, he’ll come back this time.

Y/N was practically a mess at her desk after they all left. She was glad that Anderson was currently not around, then she remembered she should be wanting his presence. That is...assuming he brought her comfort. He didn’t. She took calls to try and distract herself from her panic but she found herself freaking out in between them. Her eyes traveled to the far corner of her desk where the book she was currently reading sat. She smiled as she saw the tassel fall from in between the pages of the book. The book felt heavy as she opened it, she slipped the bookmark from in between the pages, and pushed the book aside. The raised letters of her favorite poem felt familiar as her fingertips touched them. She touched the words as if they could seep into her bloodstream and finally calm her. She remembered the day he gave her the bookmark.

~~~

After years and years of participating in the office Secret Santa, Spencer finally got Y/N. He was overjoyed, in fact, he couldn’t wait to give her her gift. He had it meticulously planned out. He was ready. He poured out his heart and soul in a letter first (this took the longest). Turns out, confessing your undying love for someone wasn’t as easy as it looked on screen. With all the letters he’d written in his lifetime, he was positive this one would be no different. But, man, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Then, he made the bookmark. Store bought would never impress her. He struggled with finding the right kind of paper and the right kind of string for the tassel, but thankfully Garcia had his back. She even helped him laminate it so it could last, for years and years. The way he wanted to last with her. He printed the words of her favorite poem. One that he’d never forget, and not even because of his eidetic memory. He chose a shiny gold string to represent the strings of fate. He had told her once the ancient Greek myth of the Moirai, the three women responsible for fate. Although he’d gone in way too great of detail, she hung onto every word. He knew she’d remember the story whenever she saw the gold string. He hoped she might pick up on what he was trying to say.

That fate would always bring them together.

That he knew that she was it for him, but if he wasn’t it for her, that’d be okay, too.

She’d also complained all too often about the nasty coffee at work, claiming that she wished she never tasted the “vile bean juice”. It was enough to shift her off of coffee completely, unless it was from the coffee shop on the corner of Spencer’s street (he took her there a lot and he liked to bring her her favorite drink in the mornings when he wasn’t rushing in). But she’d recently gotten into teas, and was annoyed at her teapot at home because she said it just tasted weird. So of course, he researched the best kind of teapot possible and hunted every single kitchenware store in DC down until he found it. She’s gonna love it.

To top it all off, he decided to get her a necklace. While looking for the teapot, a small silver necklace caught his eye in one of the shops. A small birthstone hung by two chains, he recognized it as her own, and it was perfect.

He placed the gifts and the letter inside the teapot carefully and placed two pieces of tape to ensure the top doesn’t come off in the box before making his way to Garcia’s apartment. It was really no surprise she decided to host the Christmas party, considering her love of all things Christmas. He was buzzing with nervous energy as he set the gift box under the tree. He was the first to arrive, which meant he had to endure Garcia’s endless questions about the finished gift. She pried it all out of him, even the letter. Garcia was practically jumping up and down as he told her about the contents of the letter. He didn’t know he and Y/N were such a hot topic around the office. A few minutes later, the team flowed in, one by one. Y/N and Anderson were the last to arrive.

But something felt different as they entered the apartment. Her smile was brighter than usual and she seemed extra comfortable around her fiance. He thought maybe he was reading into it too much, but then even Emily noticed.

“Woah, Y/N! You look literally radiant, what’s going on?” She asked as the couple struggled to find places to sit. Anderson found a seat on the couch and offered her his lap. Spencer watched as she blushed and pursed her lips shyly, leaning into her fiancé as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Spencer practically had a nervous ugly green creature growing inside of him. He’s decided to name him Carl. Might as well name him, you know, since he seemed to be around a lot lately. He shifted in his seat a little, which made Morgan glance over at him.

“Well, we were going to wait until later to tell everyone, but I guess that’s the downside to being friends with profilers.” She laughed and shared a look with Anderson, whose hand was grasped tightly in hers.

Spencer noticed her change in vocabulary, she said ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. He grew more and more nervous as the pause lengthened. He had to physically put his hands on his knees to keep them from bouncing.

“We finally set the date! Next August!” She exclaimed and Spencer’s heart absolutely combusted in the same exact moment.

He immediately drowned out the cheers of congratulations and kisses on cheeks. The sinking feeling in his chest seemed to strive for more. More destruction.

He was vaguely aware of Morgan grabbing his shoulder and giving him a pointed look, reminding him of his silence. Morgan felt bad for the kid, but didn’t want to embarrass Y/N. Spencer snapped out of his trance and swallowed heavily.

“Congratulations, guys.” He mustered a smile and she beamed at him.

“Thanks, Spence!” He barely registered it.

It was finally happening.

The wedding.

And he’d have to go.

And see her.

And smile at her like his heart hadn’t been ripped from his chest and placed at the altar for everyone to see as it beat for absolutely no reason.

Seriously, what was the point of his heart beating if it wasn’t beating for her?

Except, he knew it’ll always beat for her, even if she didn’t want it.

He’d have to watch her marry another man.

Watch as she walked away from him rather than toward him.

Everyone pretended not to look at Spencer but he could feel the glances anyway.

Oh no.

The letter.

The letter that was in the teapot under the tree!

Spencer didn’t know his heart was capable of beating as fast as it was. He sent a panicked look to Penelope, hoping she’d get the message, but she was too busy coming up with wedding ideas. Spencer could feel panic oozing out of the pores of his skin. Morgan took him aside and into the kitchen.

“Kid, you alright?” Morgan asked, watching as his younger teammate squirmed in the kitchen.

“This is bad, Morgan. This is bad.” Spencer paced around the kitchen, hands in his hair.

“I know, kid, I know. But you need to calm down.” Morgan tried to reason with him.

“No, Morgan! You don’t understand!” Spencer whisper-yelled as he gripped his shoulders and Morgan saw his wild eyes, “You don’t understand! The letter!”

Morgan steadied Spencer, “Reid, breathe. What letter?”

“I’m her secret Santa. I wrote her a letter, Morgan. I wrote her a letter, a letter which contains very sensitive information that she cannot read right now--o-or ever!” Spencer’s hands flew to his hair again and Morgan had to think quickly.

“Okay, okay. I’ll help you, we need to think of a way to get the letter out of the box.”

“Morgan, it’s inside the teapot-- which is taped shut by the way-- inside the box, under the tree!” He flailed around nervously.

“Damn, man. Okay, just follow my lead. When she opens her gift, I’ll distract her and Anderson and you have to get that letter out.”

Spencer nodded and when they joined the rest of them outside, people were already opening their gifts, one by one. Spencer waited anxiously as she began to unwrap her gift.

“Oooh, I’m excited!” She said, carefully unwrapping the wrapping paper and opening the box, still seated on Anderson’s lap. She gasped, “It’s a teapot!”

Spencer grimaced as he watched Morgan fake a trip and spill his drink all over Anderson’s shirt, getting some on Y/N’s back.

“Shit, man! I’m so sorry!” Morgan glanced at Spencer and Spencer jumped into action as the couple were distracted by the spilled drink. He quickly unstuck the tape on the teapot and lifted the lid enough to squeeze his hand through to remove the letter. He stashed it away in the pocket of his cardigan. In fact, he planned on burning it when he got home. He successfully restored the gift to how it was before they returned from the bathroom.

“No one says a word.” Reid warned the rest of the group, who were watching the whole debacle like it was a spectacle. They all undoubtedly figured out what was written in that letter, therefore they understood and nodded.

“Not a peep.” Garcia said, locking her lips with an imaginary key.

“Anyway! Now that that’s all sorted out. Back to the teapot.” Y/N came back to her gift and her seating arrangement.

“Um, you should...you should look inside. There’s um, bonus gifts.” Spencer was absolutely beet-red in the face.

But Y/N knew the gift was from Spencer the second she saw the wrapping paper, which was full of adorable snowmen dressed in Christmas clothing. She grinned, remembering the argument between them which started by her telling him how cute she thought snowmen wearing clothes was and him getting frustrated trying to explain to her how snowmen wouldn’t need protection from the cold. She opened up the teapot and pulled out the bookmark. Spencer watched her eyes soften as they roamed over the words of her favorite poem. She toyed with the gold string of the bookmark as she reached into the pot again and pulled out the small pouch that contained the necklace. She pulled it out and gasped.

“Oh, Spencer, it’s all so perfect. Thank you.” She moved the gifts aside and wrapped him in a hug. Spencer stopped listening to the persistent ache in his chest as he hugged her back. He let all his senses be consumed by her, just temporarily. He found peace in that moment and he tried his hardest to hold onto that peace as he watched her fiancé clip the necklace onto her neck.

Oh, what he’d give to be in Anderson’s place.

~~~

She smiled at the memory the bookmark brought. She found her fingers weaving themselves through the gold strings gingerly. That seemed to calm her nerves enough for now. Garcia had convinced her to go home finally after promising to call her and let her know if anything changed.

2 days.

It was 2 days before she heard any news. She had been cooped up with Garcia in her batcave for emotional support. Also she wanted to know about any advancements as soon as possible. Garcia and Y/N were currently watching a live feed from some news channel.

“Damn, how did he know there were FBI agents in there? Word travels--” Garcia began but the explosion on screen cut her off. Y/N stood up from her seat abruptly.

“What was that?! Garcia, was that the ranch?!” Y/N all but screamed with panic, “Penelope! Answer me!” Garcia’s stunned face was paired with teary eyes as she turned to look at Y/N. Garcia frantically called Hotch and Rossi, but no one answered.

“No, no, no. NO! This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening, Penelope. Are we sure Spencer and Emily were still inside?” Y/N’s voice wavered as she held her hands to her chest in disbelief. Garcia shrugged honestly and wordlessly.

“NO!” She began sobbing uncontrollably, falling to her knees, mumbling nearly incoherently, “I never got to tell him...I never got to tell him.”

Garcia fell to the floor, holding the sobbing woman as best as she could without falling apart herself. Y/N gripped her tight as she felt the walls closing in on her. Her chest felt tight and she suddenly felt as if the air was ripped from her lungs. She could hear strangled sobs, but wasn’t even registering that they were her own.

It was too late.

She’d never see his smiling hazel eyes again. She’d never hear his hearty laugh once more. She never told him. She never told him how deeply her love for him ran. What was she waiting for? She’d waited too long. How utterly stupid of her. And now there’s no chance. He’s gone...he’s pulverized into bits and pieces--

The phone rang and Garcia leapt to it ungracefully, “Sir?! Reid and Prentiss--”

“They’re okay, Garcia. They made it out in time. With Morgan.” Hotch said sternly.

“Morgan was in there?!” Garcia screamed into the phone.

“Yeah, but I’m alright, babygirl, don’t you worry ‘bout me.” Morgan’s silky voice was heard from farther away. Garcia was about to reply when Y/N snatched the phone from her.

“Spencer?! Spence, are you there? Are you okay?!” She half-sobbed into the phone, not wanting her voice to give her away completely.

“Yes, yeah, I’m here. I’m alive.” Spencer choked out, relief flooding her system as she heard his voice. He was very much still alive and breathing, albeit with difficulty. Y/N didn’t register the rest of the conversation between Hotch and Garcia. She lay back in her seat and buried her face in her hands, trying to control her breathing. Garcia hung up and rested a kind hand onto her shoulder.

“Whew, that was a close one.” She said with a small smile. Y/N took her hands off her face and met with her warm eyes, “You know you’ll have to tell him eventually.” Y/N froze in her place again. She suddenly avoided her friend’s gaze. She was really hoping she hadn’t caught onto that. “It’s okay, pumpkin, we can all see it.”

She was right, oh my God, she was right.

“No, I don’t--I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re wrong, whatever you think you know, you’re wrong.” Y/N felt bad saying those words but there was nothing else she could do to protect herself. Garcia stayed silent, but gave her a look that shook Y/N at her very core.

Later, on the jet, Morgan took a seat next to Reid and stared at him intently before speaking.

“So, a little birdie tells me your girl was pretty heartbroken…” He trailed off, but not without an obvious wiggle of his dark brows.

“Morgan, for the last time, she is not ‘my girl’, she is engaged. She is very much someone else’s girl.” Reid rolled his eyes, attention going back to his book, although he tried to ignore the way his heart fluttered at the thought. He didn’t know if his heart was fluttering because of what Morgan called her, or because she was so torn up about the thought of him dying. He knew he shouldn’t ever feel good about someone else’s pain, but what did her pain mean?

“So what? Engaged ain’t married, pretty boy.” Morgan shrugged, saying it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Spencer shook his head at his friend.

Back in the bullpen, Y/N waited for their arrival ever so anxiously by the glass doors across from the elevator. She was rolling onto the balls of her feet and bouncing with anticipation. It didn’t even matter that it was half past 3 in the morning. She had to see him.

The ding of the elevator was the most comforting noise she’d heard in about a week. There he was, way in the back of the elevator, lifting his gaze from the floor to meet with hers. They both broke into the largest grins they’ve ever seen. She practically pushed Morgan out of her speedy way as he stepped off the elevator and slammed into Spencer with enough force to knock the air out of the both of their chests. Spencer caught her gladly and spun her around, laughing.

“I thought I lost you.” Y/N whispered into the embrace.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Spencer replied softly into her hair.

The team all watched the reunion, adoration clear on their faces.

Emily was caught mumbling, “Damn, I wish I had someone to greet me like that after almost dying.” This, of course, resulted in a full blown bear hug from Garcia.

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nypmphetsbastard · 3 years

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PARADIS ISLAND

Genre: slowburn fanfiction, college!au

Pairing: yelena x fem!reader

Summary: college becomes a whirlpool of new people and emotions once you meet a woman by the name of yelena manages to weasel her way into your once perfect life and tear down everything you ever thought to be true. From religious views to friendship, she builds something new. Now, she introduces you to new world she likes to call Paradis Island.

Warnings: angst, smut, hurt/comfort, struggles with Religion, homophobic comments/people

A/N: this story is posted on ao3 {NYMPHETSBASTARD} as well as wattpad {SUGACODED} because wattpad is acting a fool and I need another place to save this story👍

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Leaving home was always a rough time for both parent and child. Anybody who grew up in a loving home tended to stick to that home like glue, not wanting to separate from it and instead choosing to go to schools and jobs closer to home, closer to family. Those without however, preferred their freedom. When the clock struck 12 and everybody went to sleep was the only time they'd have to themselves, the only time they'd ever have to feel safe and relaxed — leaving home wasn't as hard on them.

You...well you were a different story. You didn't like a lot of things, being grabbed, having things snatched out of your hands, people taking your food without permission, somebody talking to you when you're clearly trying to avoid them — the list could go on. But growing up leaving you home never seemed to cross your mind. For whatever reason you felt like things were fine at home, not perfect but not terrible either, nine year old you didn't stop to think that one day you'd have to make the decision to move away from your friends and family. The small town you were in had a lot of older people, ones that never separated from their high school popularity phase and believed that the world revolved around them and them only, the others were newly young adults seeking any way out. You hoped you'd be the ladder.

Your parents had never spoken to you about leaving the house, meaning you grew up only learning what was taught in school. World War One and two, Pearl Harbor, slavery, and other shitty thing America did and or went through throughout the course of centuries on end — all only ever learned or discussed in school. The main focus in your household was religion and religion only. It's what you grew up to be right, nothing else existed in your mind besides that.

There was nothing wrong with that. Well...until around the time high school hit. Senior year was the year stressed to you since you were a freshman, you could barley fathom the fact that you'd have to apply for colleges, work on a bunch of different essays and possibly move away when you were young and you could still barley understand it now. But it was only then, then when they had handed you that slip of paper of which colleges you were going to apply to did you realize something; you didn't want to end up in a boring old relationship with a guy from your sophomore geometry class, get married, have a couple of kids that would send you to a nursing home and never live the life you dreamed of having.

You wanted that Disney channel teenage life, teenage adventures that would give you enough memories to last a lifetime and successfully say you lived your life to the fullest. While your teenage years had been spent in a church every weekday, your nose in school books and your bedtime forever stuck at the time 8:30, you swore your adulthood would be different.

Everything would be different.

"Are you sure you're not missing anything, hun?" Your mother asked nervously watching you pack the trunk up with your suitcase and extra bags. You yawned into your hand due to the more than early hours you guys were beginning the trip in order to make it early to your destination.

"You made a list mom, I don't think there's anything I could miss." She smiled your small joke and got in the passenger seat of the car, "You know, you guys really don't have to come. It's nearly a 4 and half hour drive over there, not including the drive back." You mentioned

"We already told you we're going to stop by my mother in laws and stay for a while." Your father explained, you sighed and got into the backseat of the car.

You brought your favorite stuffy and laid your head on it against the window as you prepared yourself for the 4 hour drive from your old childhood home to a new place where new memories could be made. It felt almost nostalgic watching your entire childhood fly by from behind a window. The blue slide you loved going up and down on till you felt like throwing up. The metal pole that always terrified you trying to go down. The monkey bars you taught yourself to climb because of the lack of friends you had that could teach you. It all seemed to disappear behind flashes of trees and road as the car drifted further and further away from the place you called home.

"Morning sunshine! We're here!" Your father exclaimed, waking you out of your slumber. You groaned quietly and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, taking a moment to look out the window at the large building in front of you. Gawking at the size, you shook your head and stepped out of the car to get a closer look.

"This is much smaller than the one I went to." Mentioned your father, squinting up at the building and helping you pull your suitcase out of the trunk.

"That's because you went to community college, honey." You chuckled at your moms observation and rolled your suitcase up to the sidewalk.

"Well I'll see you guys—" you started until your words were cut off by your mother slapping her hands down on your shoulders and giving you a firm look.

"I better not come visit you in a few months and see you with a purple Mohawk, piercings and a girlfriend, you hear me?" You nodded at her dramatic remarks and felt yourself internally cringe at her words.

"Hopefully we come back to you with a kind little boyfriend and a college degree we can show off to the rest of the family." Your father said, wrapping his arm around his wife's shoulders and gave you a tight lipped smile.

"Call us when you get settled and show us your roommate."

"And if they're anything we told you to not look like or if they smoke, drink or are sexually active in public, please change roommates."

They listed off, you internally rolled your eyes but still managed to give them a nod.

"Okay, I get it. Bye." You waved them off and stayed on the sidewalk till their old beat up grey car pulled away from the university.

Sighing, you rolled your shoulders back, grabbed all your things and walked the 10 minutes all the way to your side of the dorms. Personally, you had no clue who your roommate was besides their name but you knew even if you got a wild one you wouldn't change rooms. It didn't matter to you wether or not your roommate had purple hair, while your parents and nearly everyone in life tended to stick their nose in the business of others, you had no care in the world about anybody else.

From the moment you stepped into your new room, your nostrils were immediately being wrapped in by the smell of vanilla and incense. You looked around the room and noticed that only half of it was done up while the other was plain and void of any decoration.

"Hello, who are you?" A soft voice asked politely and there in front of you stood one of the prettiest girls you'd ever seen. She was a short young woman with long, disheveled shoulder-length black hair, a Greek nose and relaxed dark eyes.

"Oh sorry! I'm your new roommate, you're Pieck Finger, right?" You greeted her, shaking her surprisingly soft hands and placing your bags down on the floor next to you.

"Sorry about the smell, I'm lighting some incense to cleanse the new room. I just got here last night."

"Mhm, are you religious?" You asked, pointing to the black leather notebook in her hand. She looked down at it but smiled and shook her head.

"Ah no, I'm Agnostic. Although my childhood friend practices Hinduism and I guess I pick up on some things." She explained, you nodded at her words and made a mental note to ask her what the hell agnostic meant at a later time. Her eyes went down to the bags in your hand and reached out to grab your suitcase.

"Here I got this, I'll put this on your side of the bed and let me know if I can help with setting anything up." She offered kindly, you nodded at her offer and the two of you immediately got to work.

As you folded your clothes into a drawer and hung them up in a closet and Pieck finished wrapping your bed in it's covers and blankets, the two of you talked. Talked as if you'd been friends since birth. Pieck felt like someone you could truly se yourself being friends with in the long run of college, she was also someone your parents would most likely accept and allow you to stay with. The two of you bonded over certain interests, Pieck had a knack for writing — poems, full books, it didn't matter; you were the artistic one. Always doodling on something or recreating famous art paintings in your room, usually religious paintings as your parents always told you that if you were going to have painting as a hobby you might as well paint something useful.

"Finally, we're done." You sighed, exhaustedly throwing yourself onto the newly made bed. Pieck chuckled and stood up, grabbing her belongings and putting them into a small book bag.

"Hey, me and my friends are meeting in the library later, would you like to come?" She asked, you mulled over the idea for a quick second and nodded your head.

The walk from your dorm and the library gave you and Pieck even more time to get to know each other. She explained how most people from her old high school had come to the nearest college, it being this one which is why she never worried about not making any friends. Your eyes nearly popped out of your eye socket as you stepped up to the large library building, it being much bigger than any library your town had to offer. Pieck held the door open for you as you stepped in and took a moment to admire the large area.

"Psst, Pieck!" Whispered a voice, you looked over to see a brown haired woman in big round glasses waving the two of you over with a wide grin on her face. Pieck waved back and walked over the round table with the two other people sitting and you following behind her.

"Hey guys, this is my new roommate. This is—"

"Hange Zoë, nice to meet you!" The glasses wearing woman exclaimed excitedly taking your hand in her and shaking it vigorously. A nearby librarian glared her way and hushed her, she smiled and apologized to the old woman.

"I'm Porco." Replied the blonde boy on the other side of the table dryly.

You waved at him awkwardly and sat down next to Pieck, yet it was only after they began pulling out their books did you realize you had nothing with you. Tapping the dark haired girl on the shoulder, you motioned towards the bookshelf's and stood up to leave once Pieck nodded her head.

You walked around aimlessly with no true destination or book in mind till you came across a bookshelf, this one different than the others and tucked away in a little corner. It was old and basic but it still had integrity. The wood was straight and it hugged the wall. On closer inspection you could see scratches, the wood a little more pale where it had been dinged. You touched the roughness, not minding one bit and looked at the books inside. The fiction section had always been your favorite growing up, your parents believed books like Harry Potter were some sort of books that demonic and plaguing words hidden within them so you only ever grew up reading them in short amounts of time in the library before they could find you.

A small gasp made its way up your throat as your eyes landed across a book titled Alice in Wonderland, one of your top favorites. The ladder that usually came along with each bookshelf was currently being occupied yet this specific bookshelf seemed to take up nearly the entire wall of the library — this might've been one of the first things you couldn't successfully grab with ease. You reached your hand up to grab the book, your fingertips only slightly touching them before the book suddenly disappeared from your grasp and a warm presence creeped up behind you, towering over your frame.

Looking up, your eyes met a pair deep dark eyes staring down at you, the book now forgotten in your mind as it was now clouded with the face of the person in front of you. It was only after a couple seconds that you blinked out of your trance and stepped back, falling straight between the bookshelf and the person. You felt...intimidated. The person in front of you was more than taller than you, a height you thought was nearly impossible. They tilted their head to the side, bent down a bit and held the book out in their hand as your eyes stayed trained on theirs.

"Do you want it?" They asked, you nearly jumped in your skin at the sound of their somewhat deep voice.

"Huh?"

"The book." You looked down and finally registered the fact that they'd picked up the book you were grabbing at and now held it out to you.

"O-oh right, thank you." You stuttered, mentally cursing yourself for acting this way. While your eyes strayed away from theirs, they went downward to the person's appearance.

They wore a dark green turtleneck sweater paired with high waisted black pants, accentuating their long legs and black lace up Oxford shoes — their entire appearance intimidated you. The center of their nose pierced through with silver piece of jewelry.

"I..." you regretted opening your mouth the second the words came out, "gotta go," the words spilled out of your mouth as you immediately walked around them and towards your table, the interaction still replaying in your head on loop. It wasn't until you rapidly sat yourself down next to Pieck that you felt like you could breath.

You weren't the most social person in the world but you also weren't the most nervous, but they...their presence, their height, the look in their eyes, it all seemed to send you into frenzy. Ignoring the slightly worried look you got from Pieck, you open the notebook given to you and tried to let the interaction seep away into your memories. Yet it didn't work. Every word on the paper seemed to fly over your head, your mind never sticking to the sentences given to you. Hell, you could barley read about Alice's shitty life without comparing it to what had just occurred. It was all too fresh. Too new. Too...interesting.

"Mornin' Pieck." Greeted a deep voice from behind you, turning around you were faced with a tall blonde haired man with small circle glasses resting on his nose.

"Good mornin, Zeke." Pieck responded kindly, the man looked around the table greeting everyone till his eyes met yours.

"I don't think I've met you before, and who must you be?" He bowed down respectfully and held out his hand, you looked at it confused for a second before sliding your hand into his and watching as he leaned his head down to plant a kiss at the back of your hand.

Before you could protest, a different hand gripped Zeke's shoulder, he pulled away and turned around to find his female companion standing above him with a blank expression on her face — one he'd gotten used to over the course of their friendship. Meanwhile your breath was caught in your throat at the sight of the intimidating person you'd met only moments before.

"Your book, Zeke." They said plainly, Zeke pulled away from you and took the textbook of their hands, thanking them and skimming through the textbook as both of your eyes never left theirs.

"Good morning, Yelena." Pieck greeted her with a smile, finally, Yelena's eyes drifted away from yours and were now on Pieck, the sides of her lips quirking up into a smirk for a second.

"Good morning, Pieck." Your eyes went back and forth between them in confusion until another person popped up behind Zeke.

"Hey guys, hey hange, Pieck." The dark haired man bun wearing boy said, leaning his arm against Zeke's shoulder despite them being the same height.

"Guess I'm just invisible then" spoke up Porco with an offended look on his face, the dark haired boy simply looked at him and blinked.

"Oh no I knew you were there, I just don't care. Anyways, are you guys coming to my big party tonight?" He asked excitedly, Zeke scoffed and pushed his glasses further up his face.

"Tch, we're not children, Eren. Why would we go to some teenage party?" Eren scoffed at the blonde mans response.

"Yeah obviously not you, old man, you're fucking ancient. I was talking to Pieck and..." he looked at you with a confused expression before shrugging and pointing at you, "and her."

"I'm not even that old—"

"Sorry, Eren but you already know my answer." She apologized, Eren pouted and groaned.

"Oh come on, please, Pieck? The last time you went everybody loved you, please?" He begged Pieck, placing his hands on her arm that was leaned against the wooden chair she sat at.

"Aw sorry, kid. I love them all too but I gotta tutoring session today." She apologized sympathetically, patting the boys head and turning to you, "what about you?"

You jumped at the sudden spotlight on you but shook your head regardless, "If Pieck's not going then neither am I." Eren groaned again and tried puppy dog eyes on the long haired woman in front of him.

"Look Pieck, you're deriving your new friend here with the experience of a fun college party." She smiled at his explanation which apparently told Eren enough that he stopped bugging her and stood up to his full height, slamming his shoulder into Zeke's as he walked away and mumbled something under his breath. Zeke almost turned around to go after him until Yelena outstretched her arm to stop him.

"He's a child." She pointed out

"He's a little shit, is what he is." Zeke complained, you looked over at Hange for information.

"They're brothers." She stated, your mouth made an o shape as you finally came to understand why the two seemed to have so much beef between them.

"Half brothers, Hange. Don't associate me with that brat." Zeke huffed, everyone chuckling at the mans clear discomfort with him and Eren being in the same room let alone sentence. "Anyways, we've gotta go, me and Yelena have business to take care of." Zeke said.

"Jeez, you make it sound like the two of you are hooking up." Porco mentioned with a disgusted look on his face,

"What if we are?" He joked playfully until he looked up to see Yelena towering over him with a straight look on her face, Zeke cleared his throat and shook his head, "Kidding, kidding."

The two of them walked out of the library and the three other people at your table continued on their reading while your mind was racked with a bunch of questions of the new characters you just met. You tried to avoid eye contact with Yelena when she was leaving but could still feel her piercing gaze stay onto you until she couldn't anymore.

"So are they?" You inquired with a whisper, leaning over Pieck's shoulder

"Are they what?"

"Zeke and Yelena. Are they..." you raised your eyebrows as the words clicked in Pieck's mind and the other two at the table began laughing into their books.

"No, sweetie, they're not sleeping together or dating." She denied

"Pfft, the day we see Yelena with a man is the day pigs fly." Chuckled Porco, you looked at them confused at their jokes.

"Yelena's a lesbian, babe." Pieck finished your thought and your eyes slightly widened at her response, not expecting it. Embarrassment silently creeped into your mind as you groaned and tucked your head into your arms.

"Well now I feel stupid." The three of them laughed and Pieck rubbed your back.

For some reason, those words felt like a small weight lifted off your shoulders. You couldn't understand why you felt so...happy that she wasn't with Zeke in that way. Maybe you just wanted to her friend. Yeah....that had to be it....her friend.

#yelena #yelena aot #attack on titan #pieck x y/n #pieck finger #pieck x yelena #hange zoë #porco x reader #snk season 4 #eren yeager #zeke yeager

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merakimousumi · 3 years

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The Great Blackhole - My own Eulogy

I found it fascinating a decade ago. I read a book where the author asked to write one's own eulogy. It is a piece which is seen from the last point of your life. Even my current teacher says " Make your end vision the start point of your life and conduct your life with that view"

"यथा दृष्टि तथा सृष्टि" so here I am reviewing my life by writing my own eulogy. What I share here is a small trailer and not the complete story.

The afterlife has been a subject of great interest whosoever have ever been born on earth. The continuous intruding curiosity on the subject can be drawn parallel to that of the blackhole in the Universe. The logical scientific world has been trying to break this down for a century now. Science requires evidence of the theory, seeing(physically) is only believing. Since 1915 Einstein mentioned this space ( remember there was no great telescope or any modern gadgets technology that was present in those days) he shared the theory of Black Hole. He mentioned everything gets drawn to that space never returns back, the gravitational pull is so strong. In 2021 , the evolved Science is still grappling to get more details what happens after it enters that space, where does it go , does it enter another dimension , innumerous questions !! The scientist studying the sound captured the vibrations of the star just before it was entering the blackhole, it sounded like a drum of dance and after a moment there was a complete silence. This image of the blackhole was the first real image by a group of scientists who took a decade of preparation and another year to assimilate the images captured across the world at the same time from different angles. When I looked at it , I thought it was a Sufi who is Swirling engrossed in Love of what he would perceive as GOD or Universe. In spiritual and religious teaching this space is called "SHUNYA", described thousands of years ago. This makes me wonder about the level of consciousness of the great Sages and teachers. I was neither a sage nor a great master , being simple I understood that space through a simple lifecycle of a dragonfly.( That is a story for another day)

What gets revealed is the one seen in presence of light and what is Unseen is the eternity ,it is not dark it is just the absence of light. The great mystery and let it be a mystery only !!

As a lover of Science and of Spirituality I am named by Eulogy as " The Great Blackhole". The swirls that my life did before entering this space which I call " SHIVA".

EULOGY - Seeing from the light :

Finally , I am heading Home. The great journey on Earth just got concluded . As I review the life I hear a music - " What a fantastic journey, intertwined by so many stories, lived so many life in one life". I am leaving filled myself with joyfulness and love the only things I came with. The dream of dreams in the dream.

Instead of giving the complete details of the eulogy, let me give you the trailers of my life on only two aspects - Relationships and Wealth.

Seeing the Relationships aspect - The birth of the dreams in the eyes died very early because I dreamt very small. I was meant to dream big, bigger than I could imagine. I believed that love is filled by others and I compliment them. My love was for small circle because I never knew the world. As I opened myself my own love dried like desert water. This was the beginning of breaking the illusions of my life. I kept digging deep within till I found my own fountain and slowly filled myself with the water of love, over the period it became a big flowing lake, pristine in colour as clear as crystals . My love was so fresh and pure it attracted everyone( all beings including the invisible one) from all walks of life , few sat for a while, few stayed forever and few flowed away and came again and again. I was meant to give and receive love from multiple beings this life when I thought my love is for only very few !! Ahhh!! , thank God my dream of childhood did not come true. My teacher in the lifetime would always quote " If it happens as you wished it is good, if it does not happen it is just a master stroke of miracle".

Indeed !! I nod my head.

Seeing the truth behind the Vitamin M - Oh money or Oh Money , appears to be the center of the Universe of mankind. Human being was born with one monkey which was the mind and soon we dropped the "K" thinking we have evolved and thus came the money !!! I use to call it Vitamin M. Vitamin is taken in small quantity , it acts as catalyst in our body to function better and fulfill the deficiencies if any , it does not have an independent function on its own. When taken without limit, it becomes poison. This exactly was my situation. The secret is to keep that Vitamin M as catalyst and focus on the Grand Overall Design of life. Thinking about Money does not make money. Plus , beyond money is something called wealth and money is only an aspect in it. Since I took zillions of photographs( there is a great website of my best photo shoots collection) I can share, we miss the picture when we we focus only on one object, everything becomes blurs around !!

After the realization (shared by my teachers in the lifetime, I did not get it many times) , I started looking into the walls that I had built within me which actually stopped the creator's creation to enter. I became RIGPA , the open space where there is nothing that can obstruct the wealth.

I created so much wealth in every form possible in my lifetime that not once I had to look or think for an iota of seconds before writing a cheque for a cause which was close to my heart. The flow of income and wealth came from sources I never knew it was available. I do not quantify my Vit M with labels of millionaire or billionaire or zillionaire, I always had enough and more. I had the access to the fountain of creation which was endless, creating from the point of Love. I leave this information also as legacy to you all.

I am now about to ring the grand bell of the door of my Home, I could hear the excitement inside already , ready to celebrate my home coming, I am leaving you all with my trademark big smile and twinkling eyes saying - Thank you, I love you . We shall meet again.

- Mousumi

#poeticstories #writeundertheinfluence #write your feelings #excerpt from a story i'll never write #eulogy #lifeisbeautiful #life hacks #meeta ahluwalia #writer on tumblr #spiritualawareness #spiritual journey #tumblr writing community #mindfulness #new to tumblr

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lassieposting · 3 years

Text

bad guy brigade backstory headcanons

dead men version here. this is just mevolent and vile because it got Long so serpine and vengeous will have to be in another post

MEVOLENT

- Mevolent was originally born into a wealthy sorcerer family in the Middle Ages, somewhere around 1000AD. His grandparents met a few hundred years earlier, around the time the Vikings came to Ireland, so he's got some Norwegian in him through his grandfather, who converted to the Church of the Faceless to be able to marry his grandmother.

- His parents were both ardent Faceless Ones worshippers, so young Mevolent's early years were very strict and revolved around religion - his parents' duties to the church, his own religious education, attending prayers, etc. He didn't have many friends and was quite a lonely child.

- As a little boy, he wanted to be a knight, and his parents had the sway and the money to make that happen, so he was sent away at age 7 to be a page for Arthur Dagan's grandfather, which was a very high-status apprenticeship indeed. During this time he went to live in Grandpa Dagan's castle at the other end of the country, with instructions to make the gods and the family proud.

- He spent a few years as a page, which is where the Unnamed spotted him. The Unnamed was an acquaintance/ally of Grandpa Dagan's, and a regular visitor to the castle.

- Mevolent's parents died in a "tragic accident" shortly before Mevolent's 10th birthday. For a long time he believed the story he was told - that their carriage had been run off the road and attacked by bandits - but as he got older he started to suspect that actually, the whole thing was arranged by the Unnamed.

- With both his parents dead and no relatives left to take care of him, babby Mevolent stayed Grandpa Dagan's ward for a time, but losing the gold Mevolent's parents had been paying for his upkeep significantly decreased the old man's willingness to house, feed, clothe and train him. The Unnamed stepped in and offered to take Mevolent in as part of his own household, and Grandpa Dagan was happy to wash his hands of a loose end. So Mevolent became the Unnamed's ward instead.

- The Unnamed kept multiple residences all across the world, but Mevolent spent the majority of his youth at his new master's court in France, which had a lasting impact on him. He was exposed to a freer, less restrictive form of religion, new kinds of magic, new people - ambitious social climbers with aspirations to grandeur, mostly. He developed aspirations of his own. He developed a love of art and music and culture and the opulence that was the norm at the French court at the time. During the war, he targets the Marseilles Sanctuary first because he's intending to establish his base of operations there; he wants to go home.

- Also in language shenanigans, Mev's first language is Middle Irish, which died out around 1200AD. He doesn't speak Gaeilge - modern Irish - very well, so his "first language" that's still in use is French. He has a faint accent on some words in English, and the reason he speaks the way he does - slow and flat - is because he's a third-language or fourth-language or whatever speaker, so he has to think through what he says very carefully before he says it. He's a lot more animated in a language he's more comfortable with.

VILE

- Vile is, essentially, a very early neoteric.

- So during Skulduggery's parents' lifetimes, the Necromancer Order started to isolate itself even more from the outside world and brought in the practice of taking young Necromancers from their families to raise them in-house and limiting their contact with the outside world, to maximise loyalty to the Order; this netted them a reputation for snatching and brainwashing kids.

- Some parents would be ashamed of having a child with a talent for Necromancy, but the majority would go to great lengths to hide their kid from the Order. Skug's parents hired a ridiculously expensive Elemental tutor, punished him for using Necromancy around others, taught him to never mention his talent to anyone. As a result, Skug only ever used Necromancy when he was alone, which meant he never received any formal training in Temple methods and his Necromancy wove in and around his instincts, attached itself to his emotions.

- So by the time Vile joins the Necromancer Temple, he's already inclined to be a problem. Young Necromancers are taught the basic tenets of their faith from a young age. They're taught Temple hierarchy, they're taught basic rules of Necromancy. They're taught these things so young that it never occurs to them to do it differently. But Vile was never taught any of those things.

- So there's Tenebrae, teaching, and he says that Necromancy must be used through a channelling object. In fact, it's possible to use death magic without a channelling object, but it's dangerous - so dangerous the Order banned the practice, so it's what's considered "illegal Necromancy". The other students accept this as something they've been taught since childhood. But Vile doesn't. He thinks for himself, doesn't accept the standard way of doing things without a damn good reason. He corrects or disproves teachings in class, he takes "we can't do X" as a challenge, he's disrespectful of authority. He sows disobedience and controversy and is generally a pain in the Order's ass.

(Some of them listen to him, though. Solomon Wreath owes a lot of his cavalier attitude towards Temple rules to watching Vile buck the system and not getting any major consequences from it.)

- So? He knows they're not telling him the whole truth from the start, and he doesn't like it. Then they tell him he's their Death Bringer, but they won't tell him what that means or what they want him to do, and Vile is an ornery bastard by nature so every refusal to enlighten him just makes him more stubborn. He gets harder to control. Starts developing his own magic his own way, ignoring what Tenebrae's teaching him. He learns the death bubble, and starts using it on other students to give himself a high. Tenebrae is shitting himself by this point, basically, because he's being pressured to Deal With their out-of-control Death Bringer and sooner or later, he's going to have to challenge Vile, and he knows he won't win.

- And then he disappears. Just up and vanishes in the middle of the night. And Tenebrae isn't sure whether he's disappointed or relieved.

- So Vile goes off to join Mevolent. And he's not subtle about it. He shows up in the middle of a battle, and he has no idea which side is which or what either side's plan is, so he just starts indiscriminately killing anyone he can get his shadows on. He catches the attention of Mevolent's officers. And when it's all done, they take him to their leader because they're not sure what the hell this asshole's game is or what side he's on. Vile tosses the decapitated head of the enemy general at Mevolent's feet and essentially asks so do you want me on your side or theirs?

- Mevolent is, reluctantly, impressed by both the "gift" and the sheer fucking nerve of this kid. And he's old enough and smart enough by this point to know a good thing when he sees it. Serpine is creative and wily, but he's useless in a fight. Vengeous is a great soldier, but he's really only good at doing what he's told. Vile is terrifying on the battlefield and capable of coming up with and executing his own plans. Mev could use someone like that.

#skulduggery pleasant #sp headcanons #the bad boy brigade #mevolent #lord vile

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daysofrainyearsofsnow · 3 years

Text

My first contribution to the Far cry 5 fandom. Been loitering here for a while.

I am a simp for Joseph so here’s a reader / Joseph fic

Warning M.

Unfinished and a bit shaky but my first reader fic so enjoy.

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You always knew, or always liked to think you knew of the Father’s feelings towards you. Even remembering the very first time you met, when you sat in amongst his congregation. The scribbled walls of his church a big talking point of all who resided in Hope County.

You remembered feeling wary of the rumours; but it didn’t stop you. Everyone was so quiet, so still, when a tall imposing figure came out of the shadows and stood at the pulpit. He spoke with such passion, such power, that you felt compelled to listen

“Hello, little lamb,” He said.

Blue eyes, shone through sun coloured glasses and fixed on you. They lingered for what seemed like a lifetime, staying still under their gaze, you could hardly catch your breath, for when they moved away, you could only sigh in relief but remembered slight jealousy as to who they might land on next.

As for the next few weeks, they went like a whirlwind. You would find yourself compelled to go to each service, even though you weren’t practically religious, it filled you with great curiosity. You found yourself week upon week dressing in your best clothes in the hopes that those lemon tinted eyes stared down at you once more, and they always did. the word ‘LUST’ lit upon his bare chest, like a revelation, like a sign and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was meant for you.

It wasn’t until one day, a few months later, that he finally laid a hand on your shoulder, so softly, that even before turning to face him, you knew who it was. A voice that had been so loud only moments before, so passionate in his teachings, that it was something of a shock to hear him speak so gently.

Breathless you stood, caught in his gaze. You found yourself struggling for words, he had just been a fantasy; Suddenly he was very real.

“..Hello”

From then on, the warnings that friends and family gave you were ignored, Joseph’s church had become like a second home and you read the book of Joseph almost religiously. You took walks along the riverside with him, you held hands in the long wheat fields and talked for hours on end. Any bad mood or unease would lift as soon as you saw him standing at the entrance of the church. Greeting you with a hug as he always did. Genuine love and gratitude in his eyes whenever you looked upon him. You wondered how you ever felt happiness before joining Eden’s gate, before meeting The Father.

is all you could muster. Barely looking into his eyes, a small smile escaped your lips. You found yourself looking to the floor for some relief, then to his tattoo. “LUST” You found yourself spelling out the letters slowly in your head “L” “U-“ as he began his normal pleasantries, He asked your name, You answered.

“Well, I welcome you, to the project at Eden’s Gate” He smiled, His voice still so gentle, just like his hand on your shoulder.

It wasn’t until he placed a chaste kiss upon your lips, one fateful night, that you fully understood your true feelings. You had called him ‘The father’ but it always felt wrong. The love he exuded always bordered parental but you couldn’t help but feel like it was something more. ‘The Father’ was a guise for something you didn’t want to admit, nothing you’d ever dare speak out loud and from that moment on he became Joseph.

You couldn’t help but feel guilt at the growing feeling of lust, after all, that’s what Joseph’s sermons had been about, sin. The temptation was too much, and with every stolen kiss and touch away from prying eyes, that when the opportunity arose it was something you couldn’t walk away from.

Away from the other members of Eden’s gate, you were alone. Such passion on his lips this particular evening that the lust became unbearable. His hands were entangled in your hair, as he kissed your forehead and said your name so sweetly between breaths. He placed a hand underneath your chin and brought your lips to his. He had kissed you many times before, but never like this, it was hungry, ravenous even. His body pushed up against yours so no space remained between you. Joseph’s hands slowly snaked down from your hair and down to your shoulder where they tried so hard to rest but couldn’t. you felt them go further to your waist, pulling you yet closer to him. You didn’t resist, though a small part of you wanted to. Thoughts of sin were quickly washed away when he brazenly moved his hand up through the fabric of your top, now onto bare flesh. A strangled noise escaped your mouth between kisses and with that, it shook Joseph back into reality. He quickly jumped back.

“I – I’m sorry” He panted, Looking sheepish.

It was the first time you had ever seen Joseph so flustered, so human. He bought a concerned hand to your face and brushed the stray hairs away. He apologised again, although you quickly dismissed it and in your haste and to Joseph’s surprise you pulled him back in for another kiss, unable to hide your desire, it was more forceful than you’d intended but he didn’t pull away.

This time, there was no stopping. Knowing that his advances were welcomed, Joseph took the invitation gladly. His hands were shaky at first, unsure of his or your boundaries, very slowly they grazed over bare flesh. He started at your waist, caressing the curves of your skin, until it took him to your hips. The fabric of your clothes, a barrier, for both of you.

You began unbuttoning his shirt, though you had seen him topless many times before, it was even better knowing that it was all for you. The etchings on his skin more visible than ever, Lust, in particular, catching your eye, calling to you once again. Not resisting the temptation, you bought a timid finger to it, tracing the letters slowly, teasingly. Joseph’s breathing became more ragged, you could feel its warmth on your ear, though it was short-lived, evidently Joseph didn’t enjoy being teased. He quickly grabbed your hand and lead you to a small room with a bed in the corner.

Not too forcefully, he pushed you downwards and hovered over you. His eyes scanned your body, though still clothed he stared with such intensity you already felt naked in his presence. He placed a small kiss on your lips before tugging at your clothes and just as impatiently you pulled at his.

Now naked together, he positioned himself on top of you, feeling the hardness between his legs, you couldn’t help but arch your back to meet it, impatience getting the best of you. Joseph shushed and cooed you, rubbing a calming hand through your hair.

“Patience” He soothed. Placing a kiss on your lips. He slowly moved, licking and nibbling a wet trail down your neck. You moaned gratefully as his hands began to roam your body again.

#joseph seed #farcry5 #far cry 5 #fc5 #ReaderxJosephseed #reader / joseph seed

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nametags · 4 years

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But her emails...

I aim to be a woman of integrity. I’ve sat on the content I’m about to share for almost 6 years in part because it originally was a private conversation between me and a friend. A friend who happens to be a lead singer of a band, but a friend none the less. However the way people have been speaking about him and what’s been going on in the world lately, I couldn’t let this stay hidden anymore.

I’m tired of people claiming that because Patrick no longer uses social media (and hasn’t for damn near five years at this point) that somehow he doesn’t “care” or isn’t doing anything right now to help the Black Lives Matter movement. I’m also incredibly tired of people ignoring/belittling the fact that Pete Wentz is a biracial/black man in America. You really do not want the social media person in charge of Patrick’s account tweeting things out. It would be hollow and fake.

Below is both a transcript of the conversation I had with Patrick on 12/06/2014, a follow up message he sent to me 08/25/2015, and the accompanying screenshots. Unfortunately I do not have the tweet(s) that prompted me to contact him in the first place nor can I find screenshots of them to provide that context. An image of me and my younger brother Jacob when we met the band at Boys of Zummer will also be attached to demonstrate one of the people I was concerned about in my original email.

The only redactions made were my personal email address and the name of a friend I referenced. Patrick deleted his email account at some point between late 2016 and early 2017. It’s only left in these screenshots as proof for those who knew the address before to see these were legitimate messages. I hope the content reveals not only where his heart lies not only then but where it is now.

Allison White: So I caught the insanity way late, but it's a tricky spot to be in with what's going on. For most of my life, I didn't even identify with half of my race. I was raised with my mom's side of the family and it just didn't click for me. It really hasn't been until teen years and onward that I've opened my eyes to it all. And with that, I began to grow wary of authority in a way. Like I still believe that people go into law enforcement for the right reasons. The few times I have dealt with police officers personally I haven't been concerned, but I have noticed in the past few years that when I spot a police car on the road or an officer just out in public somewhere is if I look "white enough" or do I actually look like an adult who belongs in whatever space I am in. I know Trayvon Martin was murdered by a vigilante and not an actual officer of the law, but that was when I first started to fear for my little brothers. I knew both of them were the sort of young men that could get targeted and most likely justice would not be found for them. And then there comes this summer. With both the Mike Brown and Eric Garner cases coming back with no indictment, it makes it feel as if it's just open season for black people to be hunted by cops. Which is hurtful for the cops who are actually in it to protect and serve, and every citizen who now has to wonder if they are next. I hope that your cousin is doing alright. I hope that people aren't making his job harder right now. Just I know for me right now with all that's going on I am definitely on the side of the protesters.

Patrick Stump: Brief for now; I'm sorry in all that you didn't notice that I'm squarely on the side of the protestors too. That's a failure of my wording

PS: The problem is that I so poorly expressed myself, people thought I was balancing the empathy to be spread across the black community and cops. That's a mistake on my part. I'm angry.

I'm angry that Mike Brown's case didn't yield enough evidence to indict. But that case was a very complicated one...Brown had just (allegedly) committed a violent crime and information was murky. As sure as I was that Wilson straight up murdered the Brown, I understood the limitations of the american Justice system given how little evidence there was. That's the unfortunate reality of justice is that it needs to be just. It needs to be 100%. We can't go in with "I know in my heart." And so that case pissed me off, but I understood it.

With Eric Garner however, this just feels so flagrant. By no accounts was he violent, wasn't he doing anything that could even be misconstrued as life-threatening enough to even imagine defending the usage of deadly force. He was cooperating and they choked him to death on camera. That's fucked up. I'm pissed. I tried to be polite and sit back and not say anything, but I'm pissed.

However, my reason for discussing the side of the police as well is that human beings are complicated. When we boil people down to simplistic stereotypes, when we create a narrative of "Us VS them," we lose sight of the humanity of it all. You can't reason with a "Them." You can only reason with a person and it works better when you remember they're people.

I don't believe in enemies. I'm not religious but I love the way Jesus preached "Love thy enemy." That's hugely influential to me. Hugely important. That's the empathy I mean.

The other night I was holding my son and I thought to myself about a black girl I used to date. And how, we could have had a kid together. Maybe a little boy. And how, that boy could (by no action of his own) be killed just for the color of his skin. Like, I've heard and read words like that before, but to actually connect with it (on as small a scale as that) was horrifying. Gutting. For a little moment I thought, all this joy and all this beauty and somewhere, someone's having a black baby boy, loving him and feeling all the same things I feel for my son. But I wondered if in between their tired diaper changes and their burpings, if they were saying a silent prayer "I hope you don't get killed by a cop." If they say it constantly because they know how possible it is. Or even if he lives to be a 100, what black man won't have an unjust run in with the law? Not to make it exclusively a male issue but seriously, how many black men are in prison right now in America? That's a disgusting thing. The young parent of a young black boy probably considers that and that's maybe the most depressing thing I've ever tried to understood. That's a horrifying thing. There really still is a racial divide in this country, and to not be black is to not say those little prayers. We live in a supposedly free country. What about the pursuit of happiness? Who's defending the right of that little black baby boy born somewhere in America to just be an adorable little baby without any pretense? And when that baby grows up, who's defending his right to walk down a residential sidewalk and not expect to get pulled over and frisked? Maybe worse?

So I'm angry. Just plain angry. But I didn't want to offend anyone so I expressed my anger in the lightest way I could think of.

I'm not sorry for having an opinion, I'm sorry I explained it so poorly that you didn't know what it was.

AW: All of this is hard, and there is so much anger. You shouldn't ever be sorry for your opinions, and I am pretty sure you yourself have told people only be sorry for how you express your opinions. I wasn't upset with you or what you said, I just felt compelled to share that for me there's a knee jerk reaction to the image/idea of police and why. This whole situation has been tough and it's been inspiring watching people across this country let their anger show and demonstrate in the streets against it. It makes me wish I was brave enough to take part in it out in the streets and not just online.

I hope this collective anger and protest leads to real change. That in 2014 we are able to do the things they were aiming for in 1964. I mean recently the full letter the FBI sent to MLK to urge him into suicide was released and it just highlights the divide between how much has and has not changed. There's a lot of value in what religion is supposed to teach. Love thy enemy, love thy neighbor. True love and care for those around you is a great thing and certainly something I'd hope people identified with.

The past nearly seven years there has been this push for hope and change. Maybe the country is finally reaching a point to make it happen?

PS: I have a funny feeling this is civil rights part 2. I'm proud of the protests. I'm so grateful our generation is angry about something it should be angry about for a change.

AW: An argument can be made that our generation (or just post baby boomer generations in general) have been taught and fed nonsense to keep us compliant, but that veers into a territory that I am not completely sure or comfortable with. Overall I do think that this is heading a direction that the powers that be are not ready for in the slightest.

PS: Where did I go wrong? What do people think I said? They're so mad at me, and none of the people have said anything I didn't mean. I'm not getting angry right-wing stuff, people are just calling me a racist. What did I say that was racist? What do I think that's racist?

AW: There's a strong immediate reaction right now of if you sound slightly in favor of the officers that did wrong that you are racist. The swift reaction and need to dogpile on is kind of crazy. I think people took the initial comment to mean "not all cops!!!!" In the same vein as "not all men!!!" and that's where the rage is coming from.

AW: Just to be clear, those who matter know you're not racist. You have shown both in your words and actions where your beliefs lie. I don't know how to calm the masses right now because at least for the time being its not going to get through :(

AW: You could try a blog entry on tumblr?

PS: Nah, I think I've done enough damage for one lifetime. I think I'll keep it to myself but I appreciate your talking it through with me.

AW: No problem. I am always willing to be a sounding board for that stuff if you need it.

PS: I re-read my stuff; "I support our police," is the worst things said. I meant "I support the idea of police and the need for a police force we can trust on a national level," not "I support the police in NYC who are killing people and attacking protestors." That sucks.

AW: If you wanna try to clarify now you can. At least in your Google alert it only had one mention of he mess and it was a tumblr user supporting/defending you.

PS: There's no fixing it. The Internet is unforgiving I think and the reality is, I said that. I didn't mean it in the way that it so obviously sounds, but I said that. So I deserve everything I get.

AW: It will most likely go easier if you let it ride out instead of trying to go out and fight it. That just gives the "he doth protest too much" air about it. Hopefully the energy behind letting you know you said something like that will dissipate sooner rather than later. And that it won't get big enough for someone to write a story about it.

PS: Yeah. It'll sound like back-pedaling and glad-handing. Anyway, thanks for talking it through!

AW: You're very welcome! Thank you for hearing out my side of it this morning.

PS: I never would've ignored your side.

AW: Which is very much appreciated

AW: I say that because in the past two weeks I have lost a handful of friends because of all of what's going on and them being unable to understand how and why their words hurt me.

PS: Well that's awful and unfair

AW: It was but they were all from the "when I look at you I don't see black, I just see Ally" camp and then would go on to say things about stereotypes and "thugs"

PS: Yeah. Thug. "Oh that's so ghetto." Bullshit.

AW: When someone says "thug" it's always clear they wanna say the n word

PS: Or even if they're the kind of "Well meaning," person who knows enough not to say that word, they mean the same thing

PS: "Not like you. You're good"

PS: White America just needs to know what it doesn't know

PS: Or rather, understand that there are things they (we) will never understand. Not from a first person perspective.

AW: It always makes me want to scream. The erasure of identity so then the people known to them stay safe. It reminds me of something I witnessed the other day. My friend [REDACTED] from junior high is now an established lawyer. Needless to say he has been keeping up very much with the recent events. He made a post about it and one of his friends commented with "I wish you would go back to being my friend [REDACTED] and not my black friend [REDACTED]." Mind you there's no denying [REDACTED] is a black man. He can't pass in the slightest so the comment shocked and saddened me. Thankfully [REDACTED] handled it with poise and grace.

PS: If you have to say you have a "black friend," then you probably don't. That's fucked. I guess I just genuinely didn't imagine how pervasive this stuff really is. Like, Pete and Joe and I have been talking a lot today. I was under the misapprehension that we grew up in a decently inclusive area. Just come to find out, nobody used those words around me. The whole time they were heckling kids like Joe and Pete. I thought racism was this thing that doesn't happen here. It's scary how much it's come out post Obama's election. Elected officials sending out mass e-mails of pictures of watermelons. I just didn't get it. Ignorance is bliss.

AW: It knows how to hide in plain sight, which is a lot of the problem. People are taught "don't be racist!!!!" Without being told exactly what racism is. People (myself included at times) aren't aware of words/phrases/ideas have nefarious ties until too late.

PS: I think we get too caught up on words and not enough on what they imply. "Thug," means a prepackaged idea of a black male. It instantly limits his perceived intelligence, his perceived trustworthiness, his perceived value to society, and his perceived prospects in life. That's so fucked. We expect black men to go to prison. Not be doctors and lawyers. When a black man is a doctor or lawyer, we treat him like such a cool novelty. When a black woman asserts herself, she's so "Sassy." "You go girl."

These little words and phrases feel harmless. They never were

AW: Those are the positives. Usually assertive black women are angry, mean. It's so fucked all around.

AW: I really owe Pete for helping me be informed on Ferguson. He tweeted the hashtag the night the protests started in August and it helped me dive in. I am sure tumblr would have got me to it eventually, but seeing it from day one was a definite help.

PS: You know part of my problem? I'm just not brave enough to say what I think. I'm just scared of offending people. Pete's not. He doesn't care. That's powerful

AW: It takes a lot to just put it out there. I am not sure if I had the amount of eyes on me that you do that I would be so "fuck you I will do/say what I want" as I am. Hell I become such a shadow of myself when at work with how quiet and polite I am. I mean I am still pierced and tatted with short hair so visually I say a lot, but then I watch my speech to make us for it.

(Follow up on 8/25/2015)

Patrick Stump: That is amazing and I'm very flattered. By the way; Been thinking about our conversation from a year ago a lot. The takeaway is this: Saying "All lives matter," and "Not all cops," while literally true are contextually horrendous. Really awful. In retrospect I feel pretty awful about saying both. Specifically because "All lives matter," can carry a lot of implications. Who's lives? I meant by it that Latinos and Muslims are also unreasonably targeted/mistreated/murdered by cops. But is it as systematic or blatant as it is with darker skinned Americans? Not remotely. Furthermore, as a white man, I just need to remember how fucking easy I have it. It's easy for me to preach peace and unflinching patience when I've NEVER been a victim of the War On Drugs or the aftermath of straight up slavery. So there's a lot to think about in terms of what I, a white guy, have to say and do about the situation. But not a lot I have to say about the way it feels to be oppressed to the point of feeling like less than a citizen of this country. I shouldn't have spoken about it because I don't/can't know. Well-meaning white folks get to talk about policy changes and do everything we can to help, otherwise we should get the fuck out of the way. I'm sorry, really REALLY sorry to the world that I ever said either of those things. It's more than "Fuck the police." It's "Fuck this whole system." And as aware as I'd been, I hadn't realized how complacent in it I was. Anyway, disgusted I said what I said. Sorry to the whole world for being part of the problem

#text #fall out boy #patrick stump #black lives matter

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pamphletstoinspire · 3 years

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Saint Anthony, The Miracle Worker

June 13th - Today is the Feast Day of Saint Anthony of Padua. Ora pro nobis. (Pray for us)

He is one of the most famous saints of the Church, known universally as the super-competent manager of the celestial “Lost and Found” department. (“Tony, Tony, come around; something’s lost and can’t be found” is a prayer whispered by millions.)

For those of us accustomed to this familiar relationship, however, it may come as a shock to learn who Saint Anthony of Padua, O.F.M. actually was. For though he only lived 35 years, Anthony was renowned during his lifetime for his forceful preaching and expert knowledge of scripture – and for his miracles.

So well regarded was he, in fact, that in all of the 2000-year history of the Church, Anthony was to become the second-most-quickly canonized saint, after Peter of Verona. Anthony was canonized by Pope Gregory IX on 30 May 1232, at Spoleto, Italy, less than one year after his death.

Fernando’s Life Plans, Changed

Fernando Martins de Bulhões was born in 1195 to an aristocratic Lisbon family and initially joined the Augustinians at the age of fifteen. He was the guest master for their abbey containing the famous library at Coimbra, when his whole world suddenly changed.

Franciscan friars had settled at a small hermitage nearby; their Order had been founded only eleven years before. News soon arrived that five Franciscans had been beheaded in Morocco; the King ransomed their bodies to be returned and buried as martyrs in the Abbey.

Inspired by their example and strongly attracted to their simple, evangelical lifestyle, Fernando obtained permission to join the new Order, upon his admission adopting the name ‘Anthony.’ He then set out for Morocco; however, he fell seriously ill and on the return voyage his ship was blown off course and landed in Sicily. When he found his way to northern Italy, Anthony was finally assigned to a rural Franciscan hermitage, due to his poor health. There he lived in a cell in a nearby cave, where he spent much time in private prayer and study.

ANTHONY THE HOMILIST: One Sunday in 1222 a number of Dominican friars visited for an ordination and a misunderstanding arose as to who should preach. The Dominicans were renowned for their preaching, but had come unprepared, thinking that a Franciscan would be the homilist. Anthony was entreated him to speak whatever the Holy Spirit should inspire him with; his homily that day created a deep impression and began his career as a speaker. By 1224, St Francis of Assisi, founder of the Order, entrusted Anthony with the theological preparation for his priests.

Anthony focused on the grandeur of Christianity in his homilies and when a few years later he was sent as the envoy from the Franciscans to Pope Gregory IX, the Pope commissioned his collection, Sermons for Feast Days (Sermones in Festivitates). Gregory IX himself described him as the “Ark of the Testament.”

ANTHONY THE MIRACLE WORKER: The stories of Anthony’s 13th century miracles make fascinating reading for today’s Catholic. Despite their obvious folkloric tone, it is the miracles’ utter originality that impresses most. One comes away thinking that such astonishing occurrences can only be fairy tales — or the special kind of reality that seems to envelope the saints. As there are far too many miracles to recount here, we’ll focus on three of the most famous:

THE KNEELING MULE: The teaching of the Real Presence was disparaged in northern Italy during the 1200s, as the gnostic heresy of the Albigensians had spread from France. One day, Anthony was publically challenged. “The heretic stood up and said: ‘I’ll keep my beast of burden locked up for three days and I will starve him. After three days, in the presence of other people, I’ll let him out and I’ll show him some prepared fodder. You, on the other hand will show him what you believe to be the body of Christ. If the starving animal, ignoring the fodder, rushes to adore his God, I will sincerely believe in the faith of the Church.’

“The saint agreed straight away. God’s servant entered a nearby chapel, to perform the rites of the Mass with great devotion. Once finished, he exited where the people were waiting, carrying reverently the body of the Lord. The hungry mule was led out of the stall, and shown appetizing food. The man of God said to the animal with great faith: “In the name of virtue and the Creator, who I, although unworthy, am carrying in my hands, I ask you, o beast, and I order to come closer quickly and with humility and to show just veneration, so that the malevolent heretics will learn from this gesture that every creature is subject to the Lord, as held in the hands with priestly dignity on the altar”.

God’s servant had hardly finished speaking, when the animal, ignoring the fodder, knelt down and lowered his head to the floor, thus genuflecting before the living sacrament of the body of Christ.”

THE LISTENING FISH: The story takes place in Rimini, a port on the Adriatic near Padua. On a Sunday morning, the Saint found the fishermen there not at Mass. He began to preach to them and met only with ridicule. Anthony then stood at the edge of the water, looked in the distance, and proclaimed so that everyone would hear:

“’From the moment in which you proved yourselves to be unworthy of the Word of the Lord, look, I turn to the fish, to further confound your disbelief.’

“And filled with the Lord’s spirit, he began to preach to the fish, elaborating on their gifts given by God: how God had created them, how He was responsible for the purity of the water and how much freedom He had given them, and how they were able to eat without working.

“The fish began to gather together to listen to this speech, lifting their heads above the water and looking at him attentively, with their mouths open. As long as it pleased the Saint to talk to them, they stayed there listening attentively, as if they could reason. Nor did they leave their place, until they had received his blessing.

ANTHONY & THE BABY JESUS: Anthony was welcomed by a local resident in an Italian town where he was to preach. His host gave him a room set apart, so that he could study and contemplate undisturbed. Soon, however, his curiosity about his famous guest overcame him and his host peeped through Anthony’s window. What he saw there has been immortalized in almost every Catholic Church in the world. “A beautiful joyful baby appear in blessed Anthony’s arms. The Saint hugged and kissed him, contemplating the face with unceasing attention. The landlord was awed and enraptured by the child’s beauty, and shocked when, after a long time spent in prayer, the vision disappeared; the Saint called the landlord, and he forbade him from telling anyone what he had seen. After the Saint passed away, the man told the tale crying, swearing on the Bible that he was telling the truth.”

SOMETHING’S LOST AND CAN’T BE FOUND: An incident in the university city of Bologna is the origin of the Saint’s fame as a finder of lost items, people and spiritual goods. Anthony possessed a book of psalms with valuable notes and comments for use in teaching his students. A novice who had decided to leave the Order stole the prized psalter. Anthony prayed his psalter would be found or returned. The thief was moved to restore the book to Anthony and return to the Order. The stolen book is said to be preserved in the Franciscan friary in Bologna.

THE FAME OF ST. ANTHONY SPREAD GLOBALLY with the former Portuguese Empire and with the diaspora of 19th and 20th century Italian emigrants. Stories of the Saint’s interventions are reported, therefore, from the four corners of the earth:

In Siolim, a village in the Indian state of Goa, St. Anthony is always shown holding a serpent on a stick . This is a depiction of the incident which occurred during the construction of the church wherein a snake was disrupting construction work. The people turned to St. Anthony for help, and placed his statue at the construction site. The next morning, the snake was found caught in the cord placed in the statue’s hand.

THE GRAVE OF SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA: Anthony was proclaimed a Doctor of the Church on 16 January 1946, and his Basilica in Padua contains his mortal remains.

By Fr. Francis Xavier Weninger, 1877

St. Anthony, who derived his surname from the city of Padua, in Italy, because he spent many years there in preaching the Gospel, was a native of Lisbon, in Portugal. He received, in holy baptism, the name of Ferdinand, and was very piously educated by his parents. No sooner had he become acquainted with the dangers of the world, than he, in the fifteenth year of his age, to be safe from temptation, went into the cloister of the regular Canons, which is not far from Lisbon, where he also made his religious vows. As, however, he was disturbed too much there by the visits of his friends, he went, with the permission of his superiors, to Coimbra, into the monastery of the Holy Cross. To this house came, one day, five friars of the Order of St. Francis, who were travelling to Africa to preach the Gospel to the Moors. They suffered martyrdom, however, soon after their arrival there, and their holy bodies were brought back to the monastery of the Holy Cross, at Coimbra, and solemnly interred in the church attached to it. Antony, hearing how fearlessly these martyrs had preached the true faith and had suffered for Christ’s sake, conceived an intense desire to preach the Gospel to the heathen and to give his life for the word of God. Hence, he determined to enter the Order of St. Francis, that he might have an opportunity to gratify the wishes of his heart.

After much hardship, he was at length, when 20 years of age, received into the Order, and after his novitiate, he obtained permission to sail for Africa and preach the Gospel to the Saracens. Scarcely had he arrived there, when God proved him by a severe sickness, which exhausted all his strength, and forced him to return to Spain. The ship, however, in which he embarked for home, encountered contrary winds, and instead of going to Spain, was driven to Sicily. No sooner had he set foot on land, than he heard that St. Francis, the holy founder of his order, had called a general chapter at Assisium. He immediately went thither, in order to receive the blessing of the Saint, which was cheerfully given. When the assemblage dispersed, not one among the superiors was found willing to be burdened with Antony, who was greatly enfeebled by his long illness, and moreover, was thought to be not quite sane. The Father Provincial of the Roman province was at last moved with compassion, and sent him to a house called Mount St. Paul, which was situated in a wilderness. There St. Antony lived a most austere life, performing the most humble labor, and occupying all his other time with prayers and holy meditations.

After passing several years in this manner, he was sent with a few other religious to Forli to be ordained priest. The guardian of the monastery requested the Dominican priests, who had also assembled there, that one of them should make an exhortation or deliver a short sermon. As they all excused themselves from so doing, he said, more in jest than in earnest, that brother Antony should speak to those assembled. Antony obeyed, and delivered so eloquent a sermon that all were astonished at his knowledge and ability, as, until now, they had deemed him one of the least gifted. Not willing that his extraordinary talent should any longer be hidden, St. Francis himself had him ordained priest, and gave him a double employment, namely, to instruct his brethren in theology and also to preach. The duties of both functions were discharged by him, with great credit to himself and an indescribable benefit to others. He converted the most hardened sinners by his sermons, and among others induced twenty-two murderers to do penance and change their wicked course of life. The heretics he convinced so thoroughly of their errors, that they could not withstand him, on account of which he was called the “Hammer of the heretics.”

Many of them he converted to the true faith, among whom was Bonovillus, who had denied the substantial presence of Christ in the Blessed Sacrament. Not able to reply to Antony’s arguments he requested the following miracles. Having starved his ass for three days, he was to bring him food at the same time that Saint Antony should come with the holy Eucharist; and if the beast, before touching his food, should fall down before the Blessed Sacrament, he would believe the Saint’s words. At the appointed time, the Saint arrived with the Blessed Sacrament, accompanied by many Catholics, and addressing the ass, which was held by Bonovillus, he said: “I command thee, in the name of thy Creator and my Saviour, whom I, although an unworthy priest, carry at this moment in my hands, that you come, in all humility, and pay Him due honors.” Bonovillus, at the same time, threw down the animal’s food and called him to come and eat. But without touching the food, the ass fell down on his fore knees, and bent his head. The Catholics rejoiced at this incontestable miracle, but the heretics hid their heads and Bonovillus was converted. At Rimini, the chief seat of the heretics, he ascended the pulpit; but as no heretic would come and listen to him, the Saint went to the sea-shore, where just at that time many of them were standing, and called to the fishes to hear his words, as men would not be instructed. And behold! suddenly a great number of fishes raised their heads out of the water, as if to listen. Speaking for a short time of their Creator, he blessed and dismissed them. This miracle caused the heretics to listen more attentively to St. Antony and to follow his admonitions.

At another time, he made the sign of the cross over a goblet filled with poison, and drank it without being harmed. The cause of his doing this was that some heretics promised to return to the true Church, if he would drink the poison and not die. A perpetual miracle was the fact that, although he preached only in one language, yet all his hearers understood him, no matter what might be their nationality.

Who can count all the miracles God wrought through this Saint, or who can sufficiently praise the wonderful gifts with which he was graced? More than once it happened that at the same time when he was standing in the pulpit to preach, he appeared also in the choir and sang the lesson of the daily office of the Church, which was pointed out to him. He prophesied many future events and knew by divine revelation many secrets of the heart. There lived, in a French city, a writer, who publicly led a most immoral life. St. Antony resided for some time in this city, and as often as he met this man, he bowed very low to him. The writer, on perceiving it, was greatly incensed, as he believed it was done by the holy man only to deride him: hence he reproached him with menacing words. The Saint, however, replied: “Be not surprised that I show such respect to you before others. I have long prayed God for the grace to die a martyr, but it has not been granted me. You, however, will receive this honor, and therefore I evince such particular respect for you.” Although the writer laughed and made a mockery of this prophecy, yet the future showed that the Saint had spoken the truth. After the expiration of some time, this immoral man made a voyage to the Holy Land, in company with the Bishop of the city. On arriving there, he was seized by the Saracens, who demanded of him that he should deny his faith. He, however, remained firm in confessing it, and after having been greatly tormented, he suffered the death of a martyr.

St. Antony was as undaunted and fearless in punishing the wicked, when circumstances required it, as he was famous by the gift of prophecy. At that period Florence was governed by Ezelinus, who, among other cruel deeds, had executed 11,000 men of Padua, part of whom were in his service and part in garrison at Verona, because the inhabitants of Padua had rebelled. Nobody dared to oppose this tyrant in the execution of further barbarities but St. Antony, who had sufficient courage to go to him, and representing most powerfully his inhuman conduct, threatened him with the just wrath of the Almighty and the torments of hell, in case he repented not and abstained from, his tyranny.

During this menace flames of fire darted from the countenance of St. Antony, as Ezelinus afterwards related, which so thoroughly frightened the tyrant, that he fell trembling at the feet of the Saint, and most earnestly promised repentance. As he converted this and many other sinners by admonition, he moved others , in a different way to do penance. Many said that he had suddenly appeared before them at night and exhorted them to repent. “Rise quickly, said he at such times, and confess the sin by which you have offended the majesty of God.”

I should hardly know where to end, were I to relate all that St. Antony did to convert sinners, or how many future events he foretold. I will mention only a few more facts, from which the conclusion may be drawn that, as the holy man appeared in different places at the same time, so also, by the power of God, he was miraculously transported, in one moment, from one place to another. The father of St. Antony resided at Lisbon in Portugal, as treasurer of the royal revenues, the duties of which office he discharged with fidelity and integrity. One day, he was requested by some gentlemen in the king’s service to advance them some money out of the king’s treasury, making a verbal promise to return the same in a short time. The pious treasurer, who neither feared deception nor danger, gave them what they asked, without taking a written receipt. When the time arrived at which he had to deliver his account, he asked the officers for the borrowed money, but they denied having received any. This perfidy grieved the kind man deeply, and he knew not what to do. Seeking refuge in fervent prayers to God, he received help in a miraculous way through his son, who resided at that time in Italy. At the time he was to appear before the royal judge to be sentenced to return the missing money, his holy son suddenly appeared in the room, and addressed the officers in the following manner: “This kind man, my father, has advanced you, upon your request, a sum of money out of the royal treasury, on such a day, at such an hour, in such a place, as is well known to you. I warn you to return it to him and to indemnify him; otherwise, divine vengeance will strike you, and you will be heavily punished.” The guilty men were not less astonished at the presence of the holy man, than at his menaces and the revelation of their wickedness. They immediately testified in writing how much each of them had received, promising at the same time to repay it in a short time. No sooner was this done, than the Saint disappeared from their view.

This pious treasurer was in still greater danger at another time. He was accused of having committed murder, and sentence was to be executed on him and his servant on the following day. Antony was at Padua; but God revealed to him what had taken place at Lisbon. The Saint asked permission of his superior to seek some recreation out of the city. Hardly was he out of the place, when, like Habakuk, he was carried by an angel through the air to Lisbon. He went to the judge and represented his father’s innocence. Finding, however, no willing ear in the judge, he repaired to the grave of the murdered man, commanded him to rise, and leading him to the judge, he requested of him to say if his father was the man, who, with the aid of his servant had assassinated him. The risen man replied distinctly: “No: it was not he.” The Judge requested that St. Antony should demand of him the name of the real murderer: the Saint, however, replied: ” I have not come to bring death to a guilty man, but to rescue the innocent.” Upon this, his father and his servant were released, and Antony was carried back to Padua by the angel.

After this wonder-working servant of God had filled all Italy and France with the fame of his miracles and conversions, God revealed to him his approaching last hour. He repaired to an isolated spot, and having prepared himself for his end, he returned very sick to Padua, received extreme unction, recited the seven Penitential Psalms, and his usual prayer: “O Glorious Lady, &c.” The divine mother appeared to him with the child Jesus, and the Saint conversed with them most lovingly until his pure soul went to the abode of the blessed. This took place in 1231, when he was hardly 36 years of age. They desired to keep his death concealed from the people for some time, but the little children proclaimed it by calling out in the streets: “The Saint is dead.” Thirty-two years later, when his holy remains were raised, his tongue was found entirely incorrupt. St. Bonaventure taking it in his-hand, said: “O blessed tongue, which always praised God and taught others how to praise Him! Now we have evidence how great thy merits were before God!”

The Saint is generally represented with the divine Child, as He appeared to him and embraced him. The lilies are also dedicated to him as an emblem of his unspotted innocence and purity. It is well known that this Saint is invoked when things are lost or have been purloined. Countless occurrences show at this day that the intercession of this Saint is powerful at the throne of the Almighty.

By: Beverly Stevens

#st anthony

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morningfears · 4 years

Text

Television Romance [Chapter One]

Rating: PG-13 (some swears, nothing major)

Summary: Natalia Adler is a stressed out grad student who attempts to escape the noise of her office by visiting her favorite coffee shop. However, instead of a few hours of writing, she gets a lap full of coffee and a date with the most gorgeous guy she’s ever met.

Word Count: 3.4k

Chapter Two

The graduate student office was usually busy, bustling with activity and overflowing with graduate students working on various research projects or grading coursework as well as undergraduate students seeking assistance with assignments. It was always difficult to concentrate among the din, there was always some conversation or another taking place that was much more interesting than writing yet another proposal, but Tuesdays were the worst.

On Tuesdays, the graduate teaching seminar met in the student office. For an hour each week, the teaching assistants dragged whatever chairs they could find to the center of the room and formed a circle to discuss problems that had arisen in their classrooms, questions they had about university policy, and an article on teaching practices they were assigned to - but never actually did - read. The class was supposed to be useful, a way for them all to prepare for their futures as academics, but it usually turned into a shouting match as the stronger personalities argued over one another about best practices in classroom management. And after, when the dust settled and the faculty facilitator was gone, students who didn’t have a one o’clock class stuck around to catch up on whatever departmental gossip they’d missed throughout the week.

Most days, Natalia was able to tune it all out. Her desk was in the corner, hidden behind a flimsy partition, and her noise cancelling headphones worked wonders to drown out the arguments. She didn’t love catching snippets of pointless conversations about which departmental policies were outdated - they all were - or which graduate students were sleeping together but she made it work. However, today was not one of those days.

She had several important deadlines looming over her head - conference submissions, revisions for a potential publication, the first draft of her thesis proposal, all due within days of one another - and she was feeling overwhelmed. The argument as to whether the department was too hard or too soft on students - or whether professors played favorites - was only making things worse. Instead of subjecting herself to two more hours of torture, she decided to pack up her bag and head to the coffee shop across the street. Even if it was loud, it had to at least be less hostile than the office.

She stood, satchel slung over one shoulder with her cellphone and headphones in hand, and glanced over the top of her partition at the girl who sat across from her. Nicole, like Natalia, wore headphones whenever she worked in the office and only glanced up when Natalia tossed a paperclip at her.

“I’m going to Molly’s,” she announced when Nicole pulled her headphones away from her ears and glanced up at her. Natalia struggled to keep her voice quiet in an attempt to avoid drawing attention to herself, though she was half certain she could yell and still not be heard over her colleagues. However, she remained cautious as the last thing she wanted was for anyone to join her. “You want anything?”

“A new job, a better salary, a husband who takes out the trash… I could go on,” Nicole answered, rolling her neck and grinning tiredly at Natalia’s deadpan expression. “I’ll settle for a caramel latte, though. With almond milk and extra caramel, please. I’ll Venmo you.”

“I’ve got it,” Natalia assured her with a wave of her hand as Nicole reached for her cellphone, “you got me boba last week. You have class at three, right?”

“Don’t remind me,” Nicole sighed as she dropped the device, straightened up in her chair, and pulled a face as she glanced at the syllabus tacked to her partition wall. “We’re going over how Marxism influenced Burke today. I think I’d rather chew off my own foot than try to teach a group of undergrads about either Marxism or Burke.”

“I know the point of college is to make kids think,” Natalia began as she hoisted her bag a little higher on her shoulder and ambled around her partition to stop beside Nicole’s desk, “but I’m glad I got the class that’s a little more, ‘well, duh,’ than that. We’re going over how fundamentally fucked the US healthcare system is today.”

Nicole paused for a moment, staring at Natalia with a look that reeked of both annoyance and exhaustion, before she dropped her head to her desk and asked, “Is it too late to drop out?”

This was a conversation they’d had at least once a week since their first semester of graduate school and Natalia bit back a laugh as she nodded. “Yep. You’re halfway through your thesis proposal, no quitting now,” she pointed out as she nodded toward the stack of books on religious rhetoric that Nicole had stacked on her desk. “Anyway, only eight more months until we’re free.”

“I’m three pages in,” Nicole informed her, a pitiful whine erupting from her throat as she lifted her head and ran a hand through her unwashed curls. “This is going to be a long semester.”

Natalia, who had been under the impression that she was impossibly behind although she only lacked a completed methodology section, grimaced upon learning just how far behind Nicole was. She gave her friend a gentle pat on the shoulder and, although she had her own deadlines to meet, offered her assistance. “I’ll probably be sticking around after class tonight,” she informed her as she thought about the papers she still needed to grade, “if you need me to help with anything, just let me know.”

“Thanks,” Nicole sighed as she turned in her chair and smiled at Natalia, the exhaustion evident in her features although they were only a month into the semester. “I’m thinking about a writing party on Friday so that people can submit conference papers and then go get hammered after. You in?”

“Always down for drinks after opening myself up for rejection. You can send out an email and maybe follow up with a GroupMe or something. Your husband won’t mind you spending Friday with us?” she asked as she glanced over at the group of students, now talking instead of arguing, that still remained in the room. Although they got on her nerves sometimes, she had grown to love most of them.

“He’s going to a football game with some friends. If I stay home, I’ll just end up falling asleep in the tub with a glass of wine. I’ll send the email after class,” Nicole answered as she grabbed her headphones and moved to reposition them onto her ears. “Go, get out of here before someone stops you. You’ll be back by three?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back before you have to leave. I’ll text you when I’m on my way over. See you in a bit,” Natalia hummed as she tapped the top of Nicole’s partition before maneuvering around the group that crowded the doorway and stepping out into the hall.

The building itself wasn’t that busy, it rarely was, but campus was teeming with students as Natalia stepped outside. They typically opted for afternoon classes rather than morning ones and it was obvious that classes held after lunch were the most populated as she watched students wander from building to building. Her own undergraduate experience had been very different - classes as early in the morning as she could get them and work in the afternoons until late at night - but she understood the desire to take advantage of the opportunity.

As a graduate student, her schedule was a little different. She was usually the first one to arrive in the office, just to get a little work done, and held office hours during lunch. She was a TA for a class that met on Tuesdays and Thursday at three and had her own classes to attend, with each of the three meeting once a week, starting at six p.m. and ending at around ten.

She was busier than she had ever been, even busier than the two years she spent working two jobs and overloading her class schedule. It was harder and lonelier than undergrad had been. She had little time to feel human or socialize without anyone outside of her program, however, she told herself that it would all be worth it when she finished and had a master’s degree under her belt.

Natalia made the most of the few minutes it took her to walk from her office to Molly’s, the closest coffee shop to campus that wasn’t the always crowded Starbucks in the library. She rarely got to enjoy her days. They were usually spent locked in the office or cooped up in the library, neither of which had enough windows. Although it was September, fall still seemed a lifetime away.

She could still smell summer as an occasional ocean breeze wafted through campus. The sun was bright and high in the sky and the air was warm. It felt like the height of summer, as it usually did in Los Angeles, and she was grateful that she’d chosen to wear a dress instead of pants as the slight breeze kept her from overheating as she entered Molly’s.

The little coffee shop was every Instagram obsessed student’s dream. The exterior was nondescript with plain white walls and a small patio with string lights and a few small tables, however, the interior more than made up for it. There were walls covered with ivy - though Natalia didn’t know if it was real or not - and neon signs littered around the space. There was also a loft with tables and chairs that always seemed to be quieter than the rest of the shop.

It had all been too much for her the first time she visited. It seemed gimmicky, not the kind of place she wanted to frequent even if it was convenient, however, her opinion changed the moment she tried the coffee. Her predecessors in the program hadn’t been wrong in telling her that it was the best coffee she could get and that it served as a good hideout when the office got to be too much to handle. She understood why it was frequented by both students and the outside community, even if it took them too close to campus.

Although the coffee shop was bustling with students rushing in and out between classes, filled with the sounds of conversation and the excitement that came with a new school year, it still seemed quieter than the office. After ordering her iced coffee and settling into a table near the entrance, Natalia slipped her headphones back on and bit her lip in concentration as she opened her laptop and began working on the revisions she’d gotten back from her co-author.

It was difficult, not paying attention to the patrons that entered the shop as she loved people watching, but Natalia kept her eyes on her screen and typed away. If she had glanced up, she might have seen the looks that people threw one another as two men entered the shop. She might have seen how a few snuck pictures with their cellphones or how others whispered excitedly as they passed them by. But she didn’t. All she saw was the cursor on her document blink as she tried to string together a coherent sentence.

She focused on typing a new explanation for a concept she thought she’d covered well enough to need no further explanation, a metaphorical dark cloud hanging over her head as she let the reviewer’s comments weigh on her pride. However, as she got into a groove, her word count quickly climbing, she felt something cold splash against her right side.

She sat, stunned, for a few seconds, before she pulled her headphones off and blinked at the coffee that stained the right side of her dress and dripped from her skin. Ice cubes gathered in her lap, cold seeping through the fabric of her dress as she attempted to process what happened. It took a few more seconds of staring at the mess before she picked up her laptop and held it away from the growing pool of coffee. Ice cubes clattered to the floor as she stood and she grimaced as she watched them fall. She looked over the computer, sighing in relief when nothing appeared to be wet, before she lifted her head and looked at the person responsible.

Any other time, her attention would be on how beautiful the man in front of her was. He stood a head taller than her, easily, with broad shoulders and a surprised expression that she was sure matched her own. His blonde curls had fallen into his eyes, obscuring the blue slightly, and his cheeks and upturned nose were tinted pink in embarrassment as he looked over the damage he’d done.

They stared at one another for longer than necessary, his eyes lingering on her face just as hers lingered on his, and she was glad that he at least had the decency to stare at her face instead of the wet fabric clinging to her. The man beside him, slightly shorter and more amused than embarrassed, nudged his friend who moved as if he were a video that had been taken off pause.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed, his words rushing together as he watched her place her laptop on a neighboring table to keep it out of harm’s way before she reached for a few napkins. “Fuck, here, let me help you with that.”

His hand bumped into hers as he reached for more napkins and began wiping at the table and, as cliche as it was, she felt a jolt of something shoot down her spine as she quickly pulled her hand away. It was easy for Natalia to ignore the feeling as she watched him make matters worse. She tried to hide it, however, she couldn’t help but grimace as she moved her bag away from the table, slipping it over her head in an effort to avoid him sweeping coffee inside it.

She shook her head at his apology and reached for another handful of napkins. “It’s okay,” she sighed, not wanting to be rude even though she knew she’d have to take time she was planning on using to write to go home and change before class, “at least it was iced coffee.” She tossed the soaked napkins into the trash and bent down to pick up the ice cubes and cup from the ground. “What happened, anyway?”

“He tripped,” the shorter, dark-haired man informed her before he took a sip of his coffee. He still looked amused, positively delighted as he watched his friend struggle to find the right words to say, and Natalia bit back a laugh as she realized everyone had a friend like him.

“I didn’t trip,” the taller man defended with a roll of his eyes, cutting his eyes at his friend before returning his attention to Natalia. He met her eyes sheepishly, the embarrassment softening his features as he explained, “Someone bumped into me on their way in and I, uh…” He trailed off, clearly having planned on saying that he tripped, and dropped his gaze to the floor as Natalia laughed.

“Tripped?” she finished, a smile on her lips despite the situation. When the taller man grimaced, bringing the hand not full of soaked napkins up to rub at the back of his neck, she laughed once more.

“Fine, I tripped,” he acknowledged, “but it wasn’t just being clumsy. Someone really did bump into me.” He gave his explanation more to his friend than to her and she wondered how often he found himself tripping over thin air. He looked solid, like he wouldn’t be the type to trip over his own two feet, but looks could be deceiving and she knew from personal experience how annoying it was to be the clumsy friend.

“It’s okay,” she assured him, a little more sincere in her assurance this time as she offered him a genuine smile. “Nothing spilled on my laptop and it wasn’t boiling so, worst case scenario was avoided. I think I’ll just not sit near the door next time, though.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good call,” he agreed. His lips were quirked in a smile, grateful that she wasn’t yelling at him, and he still held the soaked napkins in his hands. “I still feel bad, though. Can I make it up to you; buy you a coffee or something?” he asked, a hopeful lilt to her voice that told her he wasn’t just looking to make up for spilling coffee on her.

As much as it pained her to turn him down - and it hurt quite a bit as she found him to be beautiful, even in basketball shorts and a t-shirt - she didn’t have time. “That would be great,” she began, a rueful smile on her lips as she grabbed her laptop and slid it into her bag, “but I have to run. I need to go get changed before class. It’s really okay, though. No big deal.”

She didn’t miss the nudge his friend gave him and raised an eyebrow as she watched him swat at his friend’s elbow. “I, uh, how about dinner, then?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers.

He looked so earnest, his skin still tinted pink and his eyes wide, and she felt a giddy excitement bubble in the pit of her stomach. He was gorgeous, the kind of guy she never imagined would be interested in her, and she wanted to give him a chance. She didn’t know him, didn’t know if that chance would turn into a disaster, but she found herself wanting to take that risk.

“I have class until ten tonight,” she told him, biting back a coo when his face dropped at what he assumed was her rejection, “but if you tell me your name, I think I could free up my Friday night for dinner.”

He blinked, surprised at how her sentence ended, and smiled at her. He had a unique smile, his teeth on full display and tongue pressed to the back of them, and his eyes brightened as he nodded his agreement. “Right, yeah. Luke,” he introduced, moving to offer her his hand before realizing he still held the wad of napkins. “This meeting isn’t really going that well, huh?”

“I’d say it went south when you dumped coffee on her,” the friend commented, not even bothering to hide his grin as he watched the interaction unfold before him. “All downhill from there, mate.”

“I’m Natalia,” she introduced, pointedly ignoring his friend’s comment with an amused glance in his direction. “I’ve had worse first meetings, don’t worry. My freshman year roommate opened a door on me and gave me a concussion. You just stained a dress.”

“Oddly, that makes me feel better about this, thanks,” Luke laughed as he reached out and dropped the napkins into the garbage. “Can I get your number? That way you can go change now and we can make plans later,” he clarified, smiling at her as he offered her his cellphone to put her number in.

She felt Luke’s gaze on her as she put her number into his phone and she offered him a smile as she handed the device back. “I have one request for Friday,” she told him as she grabbed her own phone from the table and grinned at the text he sent her with his name, “no tables near the entrance.” Luke laughed at her request, a sound that she found endearing, and Natalia grinned at him. “I’ll see you on Friday, then.”

“See you on Friday,” he confirmed, grinning as he watched her step around him.

Natalia and Luke maintained eye contact for a moment, each giddy and grinning as they felt the butterflies of something new on the horizon, before Natalia bumped into something solid on her way out and made a face before quickly turning to apologize. She tossed Luke a wave over her shoulder, her own cheeks burning in embarrassment, as she heard his friend mumble, “Wow, she’s perfect for you.”

As she stepped out into the world once more, she grinned at the encounter. It made her lose an hour of writing time - and ruined her favorite dress - but maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing. She’d been single for years and hadn’t had any luck with dating apps. She knew that a boyfriend wasn’t the most necessary thing in her life, however, it might be nice to be the girl with a date for once. And it certainly didn’t hurt that Luke was gorgeous.

Whatever the future held for them, she found herself looking forward to it.

____________________________________________________

Author’s Note: If I try to start another series, someone fight me. Like, actually, genuinely fight me. I’m focusing on Rose Tattoo, These Violent Delights, and this. (And MF if I get inspiration but those updates are more sporadic, never meant to be regular, sorry. :() I want to write a few one shots but they’ll likely be shorter and just fun, you know? Not super plot heavy. I may or may not update the next chapter of this sooner than a week because this is kind of short. But, hey, I’ve got all the time in the world because after I defend next week, I’m done with grad school and that’s mildly terrifying. Anyway. Here we go.

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matildainmotion · 3 years

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How to Keep the Children Safe? What will you Risk?

When I first held my son after his birth, I did not feel the famous rush of maternal love - the love came later, growing, deepening - what I felt in that first moment was a rush of responsibility. His life is in my hands, I thought. Nine years later, along with the love, I still feel this, because that’s the deal as a parent, isn’t it? It’s our job to keep them safe.

But how? It often seems like a difficult task. Some of the friction that my husband and I have weathered as a couple, transitioning into parenthood, has been over our different ideas and feelings about how to fulfil our protective role. My husband’s approach is physical and immediate. He is on high alert beside busy roads, on train station platforms, and when crossing big bridges. In my pre-motherhood life, I was a circus aerialist, and we have some of my old circus equipment rigged up beside the dinner table (not recommended for peaceful mealtimes) - wild swinging also makes my husband nervous.

Whether it is because of my aerial training, in which doing physically risky things was part of the course, or because I have read The Continuum Concept too many times, I have tended to take a different approach. In The Continuum Concept Jean Liedoff describes the Yequana people’s radical approach to child-rearing and in particular to health and safety. She writes of the innate trust the adults hold in their children, to the point that they leave babies rolling around beside the village water hole, allow toddlers to wield knives, and no one comes to any harm. Her theory goes that children are social beings and will do what is expected of them - if they intuit that they are expected to fall and hurt themselves, they will. If they are expected to balance, and keep poised, they’ll do that. Seen from Liedoff’s perspective, we, in the West, are a health & safety, and safeguarding-obsessed culture, that gets more dangerous every day, because the former (the safety policies) anticipates and thereby invites the latter (danger!).

However, whether it be my aerial training or my parenting reading, the fact is that I stay calmer than my husband when crossing bridges, or witnessing wild swinging, but it would be wholly misrepresentative to suggest that I am the cool, laid back parent and he is the uptight one.

When our children are tucked up safe in their beds at night, is when I grow afraid. If my husband’s concerns are physical and immediate, mine are emotional and long-term. Night is the time when I look at the two of them, at their quiet faces in the dark, and think about their futures. The future of the next day, or the future of their lives in ten years time. It is at night that I imagine my daughter running out into the road, not by day when we walk beside it. It is at night that every possible horror- attacks, abuse, illness - comes visiting.

Because of these contrasting attitudes to danger and risk, my husband and I also take different steps towards the actual act of keeping our children safe. My daughter likes to bounce on our bed (of course - that’s what a parent’s bed is for, isn’t it?). Our bed has another bed built in above it. When we moved in, on the ladder up to the other bed, was a metal hook. This hook would get perilously close to my daughter’s head as she bounced, which would worry my husband, so eventually he got a screwdriver and took it down. I can do nothing so practical to protect my children from the dangers I fear may harm them, so I resort to cliched superstitions. I touch wood - I have a wooden egg I hold at night. I cross myself when I see a magpie, thumb lifted to my forehead - my father, despite not being a religious man, used to do this, and I keep up the tradition, in part to honour him, in part for me, for the children. I throw salt over my shoulder when it spills. I know these are preposterous acts - I am ashamed of them, although that does not stop me doing them.

I do not intend to defend my approach and criticise my husband’s. Anyway, something humbling happened yesterday, whilst I was working on this blog, that put an end to any chance of that. My daughter came to me and asked me to somersault her – a her-walking-up-my-legs and then me-flipping-her-over-the-top manoeuvre – which we have done a hundred times. But this time, whilst doing it, she dislocated her elbow. It was easily reset, as it turned out, but driving her to A&E, along dark roads, gave me a short, sharp taste of what it is to be in real fear for my child, of the fierceness of the need to take care of her physically right here, right now. I realised my long-term night-time worries are a luxury – they only arise out of living in a situation of relative safety.

And yet, they go on.

And yet, some long-term thinking is part of the job.

Because to be a parent necessarily involves a constant holding of two timescales. The minutiae of the days- the second by second demand of the children’s needs- and the epic scope of a whole life, from that first moment that we held them to…..we do not know what, but it is, in some way, our task to prop up a possible future for them, until they are ready to step into it, and it becomes their present.

I believe it is a challenging time to be a parent, to have to carry on, with the minutiae, with the beds to be bounced on, the roads to be crossed, the somersaults to be supervised, as if the world were fine, as if it were all going to be okay, when we have no idea whether it is, but increasing evidence to the contrary. I am thinking of the climate crisis; I am thinking of societal collapse, of further pandemics, extreme weathers, war, of all the things that may come to pass within my children’s lifetimes. In the face of these things, taking down a hook and throwing salt over a shoulder, both seem entirely inadequate actions (though the former is more useful). What to do? How to keep them safe?

As has become my practice - the practice that lies at the heart of Mothers Who Make - I turn to my making for answers. As an artist, risk-taking is reframed as a positive act. I know this and understand it, on a stage, and in my writing. It is ironic that my afraid-of-big-bridges-husband, teaches improvisation, and the importance of moving determinedly towards the danger, whatever it is, inside a story. Get into trouble. Cross the bridge, lean far out over the raging river, fall in - is the practice he teaches in this context. And when I am writing, I know too to go to the place that feels most vulnerable. I found this blog inside a moment when I was reaching for a crystal of spilt salt. I thought, “Could I admit to doing this?” and that felt dangerous and difficult, so I thought I better had.

In our art we take risks, just like our children do in their play. We can explore the horror, the creatures hunched in the shadows, the underside of everything, the monsters under the bed, the churning water under the bridge. It is also, of course, why artists and their art have at times been banned, by certain authorities, because art can tell of untold dangers, and sometimes people in power would prefer them to stay un-told, unmentioned. But I believe the whole point of art is that it has the potential to hold all the dangers, safely. Unlike my superstitions, rituals that try to push the dangers away, art is a ritualistic act that turns towards the dangerous and the difficult, and welcomes it in. Art is like salt - ordinary and precious. Not something to be thrown over your shoulder into the devil’s eye, but something to scatter deliberately and generously, something that preserves, keeps things good - even the devil -adds flavour, cleans, something to be found both inside us, in our sweat, our tears, and outside us in the sea - something that helps us float. There is a folktale I remember from my childhood, one of the sources of King Lear, in which salt is the symbol of true parent-child love: a good daughter tells her father that she loves him as much as salt loves meat. He doesn’t appreciate this at the time, but he comes to do so, when he tastes what it would be like to dine in a salt-less world - about as terrible as living in an art-less one.

But in what way can our salty art help keep our kids from harm?

Well, I cannot teach them wilderness survival skills, which in one of my imagined versions of an apocalyptic future, they are going to need. I cannot show them how to make a fire out in the woods, without matches. But I can teach them how to sit around that fire and tell a wild story, and I believe they will need that too.

Both my children have a story-telling gene – actually, I think we all have this in our DNA. Artists or otherwise, we are story-makers, and our children are ready to take risks inside the stories that they tell. My daughter saw a Pride rainbow the other day and asked me about it. I tried my best to explain the range of identities that the colours celebrated. She said, “So, is it also standing for all the rabbits who feel they are squirrels? And all the eyebrows that are lips?” She expanded my limited understanding of the gender spectrum and divergent identities right then and there. One way, I think, to help protect her, is to encourage her to take risks in her play, in her dreams, her stories, about rabbits, eyebrows, lips and more.

Despite our different approaches to health and safety, this is where my husband and I join up - we both believe that supporting our children’s creativity, and our own, is one way to help them to stay safe, stay afloat in the world, with all its rising sea levels. When, in the bedroom at night, I think about the future, and then think about my children, I feel scared. But, by day, as I listen to their stories, when I think about my children, and then think about the future – in that order, with them coming first - I feel hopeful. They, along with the rest of their generation, and the stories that they tell, are the best hope that we have. Maybe, in the end, they will keep us safe and not the other way around. But until the time when they are old enough to do this, I will keep on propping up a possible future for them, and keep on making, because however tiny my contribution, grain by grain, salt crystal by crystal, I think making makes the world a safer place.

P.S. A question I asked myself yesterday when my daughter hurt her arm: Does the art really matter when things get real?

But then on the way to A&E, frightened and tearful, my daughter wanted a story about the most clumsy monkey that ever existed in the jungle, called Oops A Daisy. Oops A Daisy was so clumsy that she was forever slipping over her own banana skins….

So, yes, I think it does.

Here, then, are my questions for you for the month:

What is your approach to health and safety? Your own? Your children’s?

What risks do you, or could you take in your creative work, however tiny? What dangers can you safely hold?

What do you do when the salt spills?

Poem below by Zoe Gardner @limberdoodle

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starsailorstories · 4 years

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star bug school, which is for star bugs

I don’t think I’ve ever said a word about the various astraea cultures’ education systems, which I can see how one would have questions about considering that they live longer and age more slowly than humans

Basilean society, which never met a thing it couldn’t institutionalize on a massive multiplanetary scale, has a system of government-approved schools run mostly by landed colonies for the benefit of their own children. There’s no national-level public school system; children’s education is treated like an employee benefit, a “favor” bestowed on working parents for their services. This of course means that a great many children slip through the cracks in the system--“orphans” (whose colony matriarch may be living but who have no legal adoptive household) and children of impoverished households or colonies may not be formally educated at all, although it’s common for members of the priestly class, retirees, and housewives in the community to cooperate to provide some general instruction (although this of course is limited by the education of said volunteers themselves).

Basilean schools where they do exist take in a similar range of ages to those we’d expect from public schools on earth, but they have much longer breaks (practically like a year on/a year off) during which students are expected to help their families, take jobs or apprenticeships, travel, or whatever (there are a lot of supplementary educational or daycare-like programs for younger children designed around this system, although unless they’re coordinated and funded directly by one’s own matriarchal household they’re likely to be expensive and I’m pretty sure the majority of kids--at least in the mid and outer rings--just run riot until the school term starts again).

Long breaks between terms aren’t the only difference because of the longer relative life span--for older students, especially middle-class ones who aren’t expected to get any sort of prestigious specialized schooling, it’s common to take entire years off to pursue other career options. Military service, intern positions in government offices, and low-level sail-deck or engine-room positions on spaceships are all possibilities in this case. The actual amount of information honestly isn’t that different from what a human gets in twelve years, there’s just a great deal of emphasis on being able to +present+ said information--memorization, demonstration, recitation, etc.--and on structured “social development” designed to equip young imperial citizens for the lifetime of schmoozing ahead (which includes things like deferential visits with the teacher-appointed head girls in your year and games where you have to trade up and negotiate to win).

As you may have gathered, the last few years of school are really flexible, and to actually take classes year round/stay for a long period of time is a known luxury and an Aesthetic for intellectual types from upwardly mobile colonies and wealthy maidens of particularly studious astrology. On the whole being formally educated at all is a privilege of imperial citizenship and connections, although many immigrant colonies in the Rings have their own schools styled after the educational systems of their Motherworlds.

On that note, the older and more integrated-with-their-planets antedome cultures rarely have formal education on the government level, but rather have adults in every colony (and generally, younger adults training under them) who are charged with keeping the homeschooling of children to a certain standard. Among the Loar, this is a hereditary position, while for the Atennui it’s one of many possible adult roles that are meant to be discerned at a person’s coming of age and sometimes there just...isn’t one for a while, although this is considered undesirable as more time and effort will need to be put in once she’s found and identifies which children have catching up to do. The Kengfara, who don’t really do “households” but rather court new romantic partners throughout their lives and raise children communally, aren’t exactly the same TYPE of literate society, but regularly convene all the kids of the same age to teach them techniques for memorizing oral texts and handing them down or teaching them to others, as well as symbol-writing and other art forms. Healers, who also have a number of religious/mystical functions, get a secondary education under a mentor. A few other Aevarellan cultures rely on a mentorship model for the entirety of a person’s education, considering it a standard duty of older adulthood.

The Sol Garna system does have planet-wide public school systems (and FUNCTIONING CHILD LABOR LAWS) which are managed top-down by regional commissioning bodies, although these suffered badly from the Hyperians’ economic sanctions and exploitation and from beholdenness to rich benefactresses for funding. They are slowly modernizing with the help of widespread grassroots efforts, but like a lot of things on Esmrrrder and Hiramar, it’s a long tooth-and-nail fight. Many parents opt to homeschool or to send their children to Sitheria (where many priestly orders still operate charity schools) or the Inner Rings to be educated, but this can be a source of political tension and is a factor in the decline of some Garnaxe minority languages.

#sweet chariot #worldbuilding

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yanderu-deredere · 4 years

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Liam Anthony Arieh ★ picrew link

gender: male sexuality: pansexual age: 26 height: 6′3″ (190cm) body notes: Liam is fairly buff since he works out a lot. He tries to look big and strong to intimidate people and keep them in line. He has a plethora of tattoos but all of them have religious symbolism though which religion ranges a lot. A common theme between them are angel wings and Nordic runes. He refuses to get anything resembling a face since he knows how badly those can age. Despite that, he does have a creepy seraphim tattoo on his back. He has one lobe piercing in each ear. He has a scar on his mouth from an accident he had as a teen.

type of yandere: Possessive Yandere

the possessive yandere is a mix between the overprotective yandere and the self-serving yandere. these yandere may think they’re better than their darling but it’s not because they think their darling is too good for this world, too pure; it’s because they think their darling is beneath them. some yanderes in this category can truly fall in love with their darlings but all of them think (even if it’s just a little bit) that their darling is a possession they can manipulate and do whatever they want with. unlike the self-serving yandere, the yandere in this category are a bit more aware of the fact that they need to take care of their darling/that their darling doesn’t exist for the sake of the yandere

Liam has a rather jaded view of the world and, though he definitely doesn’t act like it, he only ever focuses in the worst parts of the people he meets. To really like someone, they’d have to be someone Liam can find some good in and someone Liam wouldn’t easily get bored with. People with both those characteristics come few and far in between. So, if he ever falls in love with someone enough to obsess over them, better believe that they’re his. People like that only come once-in-a-lifetime for terrible people like Liam and he’d be damned if he’d ever let them go.

likes: the color black, cigarettes, tattoos and tattooing, most art, most types of alcohol, world religions dislikes: wine, being ignored, incompetent people, blood

Liam is the owner and one of the tattoo artists for a shop called the Lion’s Den. It’s located in a seedy part of town that doesn’t get much business. At least, not any legal business, anyway. The Lion’s Den is pretty much the same as all the other shops in the area. They do get a handful of serious customers really looking for a tattoo thanks to the shop’s popular Instagram account. Most of their money, however, comes from selling drugs.

Liam is a serious shop-owner. There’s little he does outside of his business. He’ll have a good drink or two with his employees now and again but, most of the time, he’s going over his finances or going over what needs to be done in his business. He doesn’t partake in casual flings or relationships either; he won’t do anything that’ll threaten the security of what he and his employees have.

As serious as he is with his store, he’s even more serious about the art that happens inside. He trains every single artist that comes to work in the shop, whether they have experience or not. Though he gets a crack out of an occasional dumb tattoo, he teaches his employees the importance of really putting your heart and soul into your art.

Unfortunately, that’s one of the only redeeming qualities about him. As expected of someone who can head a drug ring, Liam is ruthless. He takes glee in seeing people in pain, in seeing them squirm and writhe. He’s not too big of a fan of blood, surprisingly, but that’s mostly because it’s hard to clean up.

If something isn’t done efficiently, he’ll change it so it is. By force, if necessary. In fact, he’s not the type to hesitate to do anything by force, especially if it’s something he wants. It’s always his way or the highway and it’ll always stay that way.

sexual preference: dominant top turn ons: impact play/spanking (giving), bondage (giving), biting (giving/receiving), hair pulling (giving), creampies (giving), submission (receiving), over-stimulation (giving), edging (giving), breath play (giving)

dick size: 8in

#yandere x reader #yandere oc x reader #oc x reader #male yandere #yandere #about the yandere #lemony content #liam

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julesnjd · 3 years

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rēˈbərth -- Juliet

The trees have dressed themselves in the fresh, bright yellow green leaves that only suit late springtime. These leaves wave softly with the breeze. The lakewater ripples blue-green, the kind of color that can only be produced by dyes, though it’s darkened with dirt from the floor and there are still leaves scattered from the autumn. Tiny fish dart back and forth in an eternal dance with the sunlight, water, and leaves. The water is just cold enough to shock at first, but it becomes more comfortable the longer she’s submerged. Juliet’s face is the only thing above the water as she leans back, soaking her hair. She listens to the rush of water flooding her ears happily. It’s a comforting kind of white noise.

It’s so comforting she forgets to open her eyes.

A hand wraps around her ankle. One by one, fingers touch her skin.

Juliet screams, trying desperately to get away, but every stroke against the water just pushed her backwards instead. A laugh shatters the image. The laugh grows louder, high-pitched and punctuated: Ha ha ha ha! It sounds so amused it leaves a metallic sting in her teeth.

A hand curls in her hair and plunges her face into the water again. Right when her lungs start to ache, she is pulled back up. Raw, amused gray eyes meet hers. His lips curl into a vicious, too wide, toothy thing. She can’t tell if he’s baring his teeth or smiling. “You’re so fun to play with. Andy messed up my instructions but he gave me some fun shit. Maybe he does deserve a reward.” He shoves Juliet under again for a couple seconds, then laughs again when she comes up gasping and wiping water off her face with water-soaked hands. He readjusts his grip on her hair and holds her chin in his fingers. “You’re a pretty one, y’know?” He winked at her.

Juliet just stares at him, breathing hard through her nose. She doesn’t dare to open her mouth. Especially not after that.

“You wanna know my name, sweetheart? Kalos.” Kay-loh-sh. “It’s Greek. It means good. Isn’t that ironic?” He laughed again and Juliet feels her stomach convulse. His nostrils flare in his amusement. He pulls harder at her hair when her knees slip in the mud. She gasps at the feeling of follicles tearing, staring up at him. Her face is wet with tears now. “Aw, she’s crying. I love when they cry!” He reaches down and traces her cheek, up to her eye. She keeps it open, staring at him. Daring him to do something.

His smile falls at her stubbornness. “And I hate when they stare. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that staring is disrespectful?” He grabs her jaw so hard something cracks and pain shoots up her cheek. “The fuck is your problem?”

“You,” Juliet spits out at him in a sudden surge of power. Her jaw hurts like hell from it, but it’s worth it. “Where am I?”

“Oh, come on. Religious girl like you should know where you are.” He shakes her head lightly, pressing his fingertips into her jaw where he’d shattered it. “Though this is more like a spell on your soul than it is an actual place. I’m just your watcher.” He smiles again and taps her nose. “You want an explanation, brat? I’ll give you one.”

He drags her onto shore by her hair, not giving a single shit when her face falls under the surface of the water or that fact that she’s scrambling trying to follow him without being literally dragged by her hair. She sucks in frantic breaths when he finally stops and shoves her down against a tree before plopping down next to her. He points at their wrists side by side. A pair of handcuffs appears to connect them.

He points again and a small white board like the kind Juliet would use in elementary school appears in his lap with a red marker. “You like red, right? Me too. It’s the best color.” He draws a little stick figure girl on one side of the white board propped on his knees. She was smiling. “That’s you.” He draws a guy with horns and an angry smile. “That’s me. No, I’m not the devil, but I’m pretty close.” He grins and draws an X over the girl. “You’re dead, and—“ He circles her. “Trapped in this spell. Basically you’re fucked, destined to relive your worst nightmares and your death and whatever else I want you to imagine and experience.” His voice picks up speed as he continues. “I could rip your arm off. I could tear out every hair on your body one by one. I could hang you upside down and bleed you into a bucket, pull out your fingernails, pluck out your eyes, staple your lips, extract every single tooth in that mouth— Basically I can do whatever I want with you, because you’re mine now. Got it?” He smiles at her as she stares at the girl on the whiteboard. “You’re dead, your corpse is six-feet under, and your soul is here. Suck it up, princess.”

Juliet shakes her head. She’s not fully dead. She can’t be. “Mason’s gonna save me,” she breathes. “She will. I know her. We have to—“

Kalos laughs again and lifts his hands to hold her face. Her hand lifts with his. “Oh, girl, you are rich. This shit is strong. You really think you can just be broken from this by a cute little witch? She hasn’t even mastered illusions! She hasn’t even been a witch for a year! You are hilarious!”

Juliet shakes her head more. Panic is welling in her chest. “That won’t matter! She’s— You don’t know her and you don’t know our friends and you don’t know shit about me!”

“I don’t know shit about you?” Kalos snickers and tosses the whiteboard and marker to the side. They disappear. He stands up and drags her up with him. He faces her, so close Juliet could smell every word on his breath. They smell like cigarette ash and rotten meat. “I have seen you through every lifetime you’ve had. I have seen you as Jullian Hill, transgender rockstar. I have seen you as Jullian Hill, transgender single father. I have seen you as Jullian Hill, male superstar, male lead singer, male hockey player, male art teacher.... I have seen you as Juliet Hargrove, stripper, Juliet Hill, famous actress, Juliet Hargrove, popstar. You changed your last name then, you couldn’t stand your family. You tend to favor music, sweetheart. It’s funny that the one time I catch you, you don’t seem to give a shit about making it. I’d been planning some wicked shit with destroying your vocal cords.” He wraps a hand around her throat. His sharp, claw-like nails dig into her skin. They draw blood that drips down her neck slow and warm. Images of every lifetime drip into her mind. “Mason found you in every different dimension, too, that bitch. Of course she did. I’m not surprised; she’s strong. So did Aurora, and boy, I can’t wait til she sees this spell and what her new boy toy did to you and tears herself apart trying to fix it. I can’t wait to have her in my grasp again.”

He stares at Juliet for a second, then smirks. “Aw, that’s so sweet. You’re curious about my work?” He taps her nose again and leans in closer to rub his against it. He stays that close. “Well, baby, let’s just say you should really behave. You’re gonna be here a long time. Juliet Hill, Hargrove, Jullian, Mona, whatever you go by? They don’t exist anymore, sweetheart. You don’t exist. There’s no reincarnation, no other dimension, no time jump, no getting fucked into another life to keep safe this time.” He lets go of her, but she stays right where she is. Her palms flatten against the tree bark. “Juliet Hill is no more. Juliet Hill no longer exists!”

After cackling again, he smiles wide at her speechlessness. “Good girl.” He lifted his hand near her eyes and snapped his fingers. “And back to your regularly scheduled programming!”

Juliet gasps, eyes opening to the ceiling of the motel room. Next to her, someone whispers.

“Juliet… Are you okay?”

#rebirth #rēˈbərth #senior comprehensive writing #juliet hill #mason hill #my writing #fiction #rebirth pt 2 #writing #short story #portfolio

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khiphop-discussions · 3 years

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Don't tell people your business because the evil eye is possible from everyone. Just saying that you want this and that will make people to give you evil eye. Jealous people are everywhere! So please next time🤐 and stay mysterious.

And yes for every door that closes another one opens. Don't worry... god has a plan for everyone and eventually you will do that what is best for you.

It's crazy how master in your country gives you more job opportunities while in my country bachelor is as good as master.

And even those who did below bachelor and master have more chance in getting a job then for those who even graduated universities.

The crazy thing is... all the income is almost the same expect for the people that graduates university... well it depends on what you studied.

I wish you a lot of protection of the evil eye and hope you will find your ease and peace with youre study

I honestly don’t think it was the evil eye tbh. Maybe lol but IDK. I’m not really religious or anything, I’m agnostic but I’m also open to believing that higher powers/beings/spirits/etc DO exist. I just think if that stuff is real then it’s more along the lines of the universe/god/whatever testing me to see if I REALLY want that or not. And once I said it out loud it became more than just an idea in my head and more something I was actually declaring that I’m going to do and actually want to do, you know what I mean?

I have a lot of options and I can totally see why this specific opportunity might not even be my cup of tea. So I’m more inclined to thinking that all of this opposition might actually telling me that I might just be trying to squeeze a square block into a round hole, you know? Or maybe explore all my options before I become committed to this specific one. I haven’t even fully fleshed out what I actually wanna do in this field yet and Master’s degrees are historically for people who want more specific instruction and have more defined goals for what they wanna do. Honestly, I’ll be fine without this specific opportunity but A) its cheap B) its at a really good school and in the US school name is a big deal C) it’s only a year long while most masters programs take 2-3. So I was pretty interested.

In the US educational attainment can make or break you. Each step higher up you go (like from bachelors to masters or masters to ph.d),the more money you are likely to make. Unless in special cases,like celebrities or making a successful business, or...winning the lottery lol. But now it’s becoming a thing where degrees are EXTREMELY expensive and so people are going into HUGE amounts of debt (100,000 united states dollars or MORE) but can’t pay it off in their lifetimes cause their salary isn’t high enough + interest keeps making their debt even higher + cost of living in the US is so high. So they spend their whole life trying to pay it every month anyway even though they know they’ll never pay it off (you can’t get rid of student loan debt in the US without just paying it off in full and defaulting on it a.k.a not paying it can actually keep you from getting certain jobs!).

Some degrees here tend to not go into much debt and they can pay it off cause the wages are high compared to other jobs(Computer Science for example. I study this with Linguistics and so I’m luckily not in much debt). But most DO! In fact, there’s degrees that people tell you to avoid studying (psychology, sociology, english) and careers they push you away from (teaching, psychologist, social worker) even though they are SUPER important in our society. It’s because then you’ll probably be poor and in debt for the rest of your life :(

So yeah, long story short: American education (and healthcare and like a million other things) is TRASH! The US is literally a 50 state wide ghetto ,but everyone pretends like it’s great even though most of us are poor, sick (physically and/or mentally), and/or drowning in debt.

Anyway, thanks for talking with me and encouraging me! I really appreciate it! I’ll be fine, the whole situation is just hella annoying. So many HOOPS to jump through.

#asks #Anonymous

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loveforpreserumsteve · 4 years

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Those Who Fall: “APTF” Story (Modern Domestic Stucky AU)

Nineteen:

"You cannot tell me that Return to Halloweentown is better than Kalabar's Revenge!" Jonas's voice heatedly exclaimed from the back door.

Smiling, Steve stood from his seat on the couch. Wanda turned her head to look towards the kitchen just as Katie loudly confirmed, "I said what I said. Kalabar's Revenge has that weird ass filter and Halloweentown doesn't even look like Halloweentown! It looks like it could've been filmed in our driveway!"

"We're not talking about which one looks more like Halloweentown," Jonas argued, "We're talking about which movie is better acted and has a better story."

This wasn't exactly the impression Steve wanted Wanda to have of Jonas and Katie. Not that it wasn't how they normally were. Just… he hoped that they would've bonded more before the loud, opinionated movie discussions started.

Glancing over at Wanda, he found her staring into the kitchen with her mouth open and her brows arched high on her forehead. Sheepishly, Steve shrugged as he clarified, "Our family's really passionate about Halloween. Especially the movies."

"I can see that," Wanda weakly giggled.

Steve nodded and headed for the kitchen. At the table, Katie tightened the orangey-red messy bun on the top of her head, "I don't care. Sara Paxton is a goddess, my guy."

Jonas shook his head as he grabbed a cookie from the seasonal witch ceramic jar that Bucky made. It was lopsided and the cookies hardly stayed fresh for long, but Steve refused to put any other cookie jar out for Halloween. Steve had even joked that he'd want to use it as an urn when he went. Bucky never found that funny.

"Kimberly J. Brown gave us hit --" Jonas chopped the side of his hand into his palm to accentuate his point "-- after hit, and you're just going to disrespect her like that?!"

Stuffing an entire purple sugar cookie into his mouth, Jonas went to continue talking, but Steve immediately reprimanded him. "Jonas Howard, take smaller bites. You know better than that. You're going to choke."

"I don't know, pops," Katie deadpanned, "I heard he's into that sort of thing."

Coughing and hitting his chest, Jonas was very obviously choking on the cookie, which made Katie laugh. Steve grabbed the oldest teen a glass of water to help soothe his throat and tried not to think about his child's sex life because that was definitely too much for him, as their father, to know. Instead, he decided to change the subject. Setting his hands on his hips, he looked over his kids. Jonas standing beside him, next to the cookie jar and Katie sitting at the table on her phone.

Feigning offense, Steve accused, "So, you go away to school and suddenly you can't give me a hug?"

Katie rolled her eyes, but a smirk was fighting to tug her lips upward. She stood from her seat and walked around the kitchen table to Steve. Being taller than Steve, the 5'11" girl bent her knees to hug his 5'4" frame more comfortably. With his arms around her, Katie let out a breath of relief and her body started to ease. Knowing that she had been homesick and anxious being away at college for the first time, he rubbed her back and held her just a little longer.

"I missed you," Steve reminded her, just as he always did during the occasional phone calls and the group facetimes and, more often, text messages. Because he did. He missed her. He missed tripping over her shoes that she left abandoned in the foyer. He missed finding her awake at six in the morning on a Saturday with a half drunk mug of cookies and cream coffee and thick glasses on as she started a Lifetime movie marathon. Missed her baking with Bucky on a Sunday afternoon. Missed her and her friends being too loud on a Friday night and having to remind them that the little kids were sleeping.

Katie held Steve a little tighter, "I missed you, too."

"I missed you, most!" Jonas playfully stated, wrapping his wiry arms around them both.

"I don't think so, mister," Steve argued. Because even though this was Jonas's second year at the university, Steve still missed him. Missed him sitting on the couch on a Tuesday night, teaching Bucky a new crochet stitch. Missed him helping Luke with his homework after school. Missed him asking how he looked before going on a date. Missed the Sunday Sunrise yoga that the pair would do almost religiously because it helped alleviate Steve's arthritis pain while stretching his scoliosis riddled spine, and Jonas didn't like his pops being in pain. And Steve missed him. Just missed him. No matter how many years he had a chance to get used to it, he never truly would.

Steve was positive that he'd miss his kids no matter how many years passed. Or how often they talk on the phone. Or how many holidays they visit for. He'd still miss having them home all the time. It made his heart hurt to think about what'll be like once they move out officially and they stop coming home for summer vacation.

And Steve knew that although she hadn't been in their lives long, he'd miss Wanda once she left, too.

Speaking of Wanda, Steve whispered, "Wanda is in the living room. And I need you to be on your best behavior. Or at least not yell every five minutes."

"Sounds like you're askin' for a lot," Katie joked, not seeming convinced that she could remember her inside voice.

Smiling, Steve half-joked, "Please, don't scare her off."

"Are you kidding? She's going to love us," Jonas confidently assured.

Steve playfully rolled his eyes and accused, "You've been talking to Uncle Sammy too much."

Glancing over at the living room, Steve watched Wanda snap her attention back to the TV. Almost as though she didn't want them to know that she was eavesdropping. Not that any of them would've cared.

Giving them both a squeeze, he removed himself and started through the dining room. Reaching the living room, Steve grabbed some knick knacks from the tub. As he crossed over to the book shelves on either side of the fireplace, Katie took a seat on the opposite end of the gray sofa from Wanda and Jonas plopped down in the purple velvet armchair.

"Wanda," Steve started as he introduced the three, "This is Katie and Jonas."

"Hi," Wanda shyly greeted, still holding that metallic silver pillow to her torso. Almost as though she was trying to hide her abdomen. Which Steve found to be odd, but didn't vocally question. If Wanda didn't want to draw attention to it, then he wouldn't.

Bringing his leg up to rest his ankle on his knee, Jonas leaned against the black and white striped pillow and asked, "Got roped into helping decorating?"

"Volunteered," Wanda corrected, giving him a small smile.

"Would you like to help us bake cookies instead?" Katie offered, "Might be more fun than decorating, at least. Even if it is with this bum."

Theatrically, Jonas gasped and touched his chest like a damsel in an old Victorian novel, "The audacity."

"What kind of cookies are you making?" Wanda asked, subtly sniffling.

"The Pillsbury classics," Jonas answered while Katie clarified, "Ghosts and pumpkins."

With his back to the kids, Steve froze. Facing the bookshelf as he set up the more breakable items out of reach of the younger kids, Steve's eyes widened. He couldn't believe that he had forgotten about picking up breakaway Pillsbury sugar cookies. Of course, things had been hectic, so he didn't think the kids would be too upset at him, but he still worried about upsetting them.

"Pops?" Katie prompted.

Sheepishly, Steve turned and explained, "I forgot to pick up the cookies."

"Well," Jonas ran his hand through his two-strand twist locs. The vibrant midnight blue reminded Steve of an ocean at nighttime while also noticing how it complimented Jonas's dark olive-brown complexion. Standing, he pulled his keys from his pocket, "Who wants to go buy cookies?"

"Ooh!" Katie nodded, setting down the ghost plush and turning towards Wanda. She offered, "You wanna join?"

Sincerely shocked, Wanda asked, "Really?"

"Yeah," Katie confirmed as she stood up fixing her green sweatshirt with a picture of a beetle, a plus sign, and a picture of a glass of orange juice.

"If you want to," Jonas added.

Wanda looked up at Steve, almost as though she was asking for permission, Steve picked up a ceramic ghost and smiled, "I don't mind. I can finish up."

"You're sure?" Wanda placed the pillow beside her and pushed herself up from the sofa. The bump starting to throw of her balance, Katie subtly took a step forward, ready to catch her if she needed to.

"I'm positive," Steve waved them off, "Go, have fun!"

"Do we need anything else?" Jonas asked, twirling his keys around his index finger.

Biting his lip, Steve admitted, "Pizza crust."

"Pops," Katie dramatically groaned, as she threw her head back in her playful annoyance. Tightening her bun, she looked over at Steve and said, "We'll be back soon."

"I'll be here," Steve set the cheerful, cute ceramic figure on the shelf and called, "My wallet is next to the coffee maker!"

Discreetly, Steve watched as the trio headed for the door. Smiling when Katie complimented Wanda's velvet black sweater, and chuckling under his breath when Jonas wondered if he could borrow it sometimes. Not necessarily amused that he asked to borrow a maternity top, but that he had asked, so soon after meeting her, to borrow it.

Steve felt light though. Knowing that his children were accepting a new sibling so easily, warmed him to his very core. He only hoped that once Wanda turned eighteen, she'd stick around. If only because Steve didn't want her alone. He didn't want her to struggle, especially not with the baby. It probably should've surprised Steve how much he cared for the girl after such a short time, but after fostering many children over the years, it didn't anymore. He loved all the kids that lived with them. Whether it was permanent or temporary, Steve loved them all.

#a place to fall #jump then fall #those who fall #bonus #stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #steve rogers x bucky barnes #marvel #fanfic #wattpad #ao3 #modern au #domestic life #fluff #smut #otp

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