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mousegard · 1 year

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I don't know what ask game this is for, but Marianne?

marianne! marianne is i love her yes

favorite thing about them

oh my god i love marianne. she's just. this baby can hold so much catholic guilt and subtextually repressed homosexuality/gender shit. tgirl swag. if anybody tries to tell you that all the catholic aesthetics in fe3h are just superficial window dressing (yes there are idiots in the fandom who still say that last i checked) just point at marianne and tell them to learn how to read

also! also! marianne is just... she doesn't know her own strengths. and i mean that literally, in that she has swordfaire as a budding talent, and in more metaphorical senses. she's shown in a lot of her endings and in some of her supports to have a lot of potential for political acumen... she's a potential leader who's been beaten down and stifled by the stupid myths surrounding crests and a poster child for edelgard's revolution. hell a lot of her paired endings with people like dimitri make it pretty obvious she's the brains of the operation!

if edelgard didn't exist, i wouldn't be surprised to see marianne start some sort of revolution against the church's dogma of her own! it wouldn't look like edelgard's revolution, but who knows? now that could be a fic... hail the mighty marianne...

also tgirl swag

least favorite thing about them

i hate that i'm torn between "the point of marianne's character is that she is literally in no more danger of turning into a monster than any other character in the game who has crests, demonstrating how fodlan's false religion and its crest obsession ruins people's lives" "marianne should be able to turn into a giant monster because hhhhhhhh giant monster angst" but that's not a marianne problem that's a willow problem

favorite line

"The blood of a beast no longer flows through me. I feel human for once."

i really like her paralogue okay. how finding out the truth of maurice and seeing him off to his eternal rest frees her from the long shadow she and her ancestors have all lived under... good for you, marianne. you get that catharsis. you get it good

brOTP

marianne/ferdinand. ferdinand is a good egg and he does so much in their supports to help marianne see her own strengths and value as a person! i don't like, ship them ship them, but i think they have a wonderful friendship

although, the paired ending where ferdinand commissions a statue of her and she's so embarrassed by it that she won't let anyone see it is really funny...

there's also marianne and linhardt, which is really sweet

OTP

who do i ship her with? more like who don't i ship her with?

i think hilda/marianne is very sweet, though i have to admit that it's mainly the aesthetic. can't beat cotton candy pink and blue. also tgirl swag

and then there's dimitri. marianne is really one of the only characters i ship with dimitri. in fact she might be the only character i ship with dimitri. i love how they bond over their shared survivor's guilt and move on together

but i can't stop there. because then. you have marigard. and like yeah i ship literally almost every female character with edelgard because i am extremely gay and extremely thirsty and so is she. but marianne and edelgard is special. you have the shared religious angst. the mutual feeling that they are unlovable in the eyes of the goddess. the survivor's guilt. the shared indictment of the crest system and the church of seiros. the suicidal ideation. the hhhhhhhhhhhh and also edelgard has the whole hegemon thing and GOD i love it when people ship marianne with hegemon edelgard. like fuck yes. hell yes. more please. WHY NO SUPPORTS INTSYS

nOTP

there aren't any marianne ships that i hate. at worst there are ones i'm indifferent to but that's hardly a notp

random headcanon

did i mention the tgirl swag? because boy does marianne have tgirl swag

i would love to write a fic where marianne comes into her own as a political force to be reckoned with earlier, like mid-timeskip, and tips the scales of the leicester alliance into supporting edelgard and the adrestian empire's war on the church, basically turning cf into a cf/gw hybrid

i think marianne and claude would be best friends until politics comes out. then it's knives out. and then the politics are done and they're best friends again. the two things you never do around marianne are talk shit about dorte and talk shit about her trade policy. dorte's trade policy is fair game though, i mean he's a horse, he can't even read and you expect him to understand tariffs

unpopular opinion

marianne has a lot of hidden depths that i think a lot of the fandom glosses over so they can reduce her to "pretty girl with self-esteem issues/shyness/depression/anxiety" and it does a disservice to all of her hidden strengths, not just her strength with a sword but also her political canniness, and also to the root cause of her mental issues and the crushing existential burden she carries—which is, of course, the church

song i associate with them

youtube

i think this song just fits so nicely with marianne's crushing fear of what she might become and the eventual fate of maurice

I have this feeling that my luck is none too good This sword here at my side don't act the way it should Keeps calling me its master, but I feel like its slave Hauling me faster and faster to an early, early grave And it howls, it howls like hell

favorite picture of them

bluestarRaziel

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scullys-scalpel · 10 months

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THE house

Another short fic. In between s9 and IWTB

Three years have gone by since Mulder and Scully had been on the run. They never stayed in a place for too long, afraid there was still an ongoing search for them.

Finally they caught a break. Skinner phoned Scully to tell her there was no longer a search to worry about and as long as Mulder made no attempt to enter the J.Edgar Hoover building.

This news excited Scully. Over the years she yearned for stability. She wanted to return to medicine, to cook in her own kitchen, and to have a home with Mulder.

“Mulder, Skinner called to say we can stop running” Scully said through a smile with a single tear running down her left cheek.

Mulder had a thousand thoughts running through his head but all he could say was “So is the basement off limits or is that too much of an ask?”

This made Scully chuckle, “Since you mentioned it, that’s the one request the FBI made is that you are not allowed on the premises.”

“I had no intentions of stepping foot on those grounds Scully, I just wanted to see you laugh.”

“You know Mulder I have known about this for a few days and wanted to surprise you. I made an appointment to go look at home that I think would be perfect for the two of us.” Scully said as she pulled Mulder closer to her.

“And I was just getting to like this motel” Mulder said as he placed a soft kiss upon Scully’s lips.”

*A week later they met the realtor at the soon to be known unremarkable house*

“Scully this doesn’t seem like the type of home you would pick out for us.” Mulder said as he drove their SUV up the unpaved driveway.

“Sure it is Mulder,” she said grabbing his hand and placing a kiss.

“Remember when you said if you were to settle down you’d live in a place away from the city, a place where you do not have to lock your doors, no faxes, modems, or cell phones.”

“I can’t believe you remember that Scully,” Mulder said squeezing her hand tighter, a toothy smile on his face.

“I remember Mulder and I want the same thing” Scully says as she releases her seatbelt.

The realtor is waiting for them in the porch, “You’re both really going to love this home. It may need some updating, but with the land it sits on and the size of the home it’s quite a deal.” The realtor says shaking both Mulder and Scully’s hands, introducing themselves.

The home is the perfect size for them. It's white with a roof that appears to be in good condition, and a wrap around porch, perfect reading the paper and drinking coffee.

They enter the home and a flood of emotions runs through them both as they imagine their future life here. They don’t express it verbally but the smiles laid across their faces tell it all.

As they tour the home Mulder finds a room he knows would be perfect for his office, he has already picked the wall the wants to place an I Want To Believe poster. They are both pleased by the sizes of the kitchen, living room, and master bedroom.

There is an extra room located at the top of the stairs they know would be perfect for a child.

Neither of them acknowledge what the other is thinking. They haven’t spoken of William much over the years. The pain and guilt is almost to much to for either one of them to bear.

Sensing the emotions silently flooding out of both of them, Mulder pulls Scully towards him. Placing a kiss on her forehead. “ Scully I think this house is made just for us,” Mulder says trying to distract them both from thoughts about William.

“Me too,” Scully says. “I saw a Catholic Hospital in town. Our Lady of Sorrows, I believe was the name. I would really enjoy practicing medicine again” she tell him.

They both meet up with the realtor downstairs, who was giving them their space to tour the home.

“We would like to make an offer,” Mulder says.

#the x files #dana scully #fox mulder #a small William mentioned #the unremarkable house #my fic #im trying lol #im not the most eloquent and i have a hard time translating my ideas #another cell phone publication lol #im sure there are typos 🙃#msr #xf fic

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hansoulo · 4 years

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your heart wears night armor

part 9 of ain’t it a gentle sound (the rolling in the graves)

pairing: Horacio Carrillo/f!Reader

word count: 3.7k

warnings: cursing, discussions canon-typical violence and blood, descriptions of religion, catholic imagery, and praying (it’s 2 paragraphs before the first break and you can just scroll past if you’re uncomfortable/don’t care to read it) uhh…, i think that’s it?? light angst but we kinda been knew at this point

gif credit: my soulmate @pascalplease

A/N: @1zashreena1 i owe u and that first day of school ask my life god bless 🙏🙏 set in like 1991 idk time isn’t real

masterlist carrd

Domesticity during war is a curious thing. You’d left your old apartment years ago and a man had moved in beside you, in your new, promoted house, with his young wife and her stomach swollen by pregnancy. You’d smiled and been neighborly. Teased about play-dates and dinner parties and tight-lipped husbands, the way you used to. Had actually gone to a dinner party and admired their blue-edged china, pouring out the woman’s sparkling water as Isabella grabbed at your wrists.

She’d moved out, alone save for her child and one gifted medal. He was very brave, apparently.

You weren’t surprised when a new couple came by a few months later.

So you lived your life, a good life, a happy one, shielded by shoulders and smiles and rough-hewn hands clasped in prayer. Receiving the good favor of a virgin mother, wearing a painted clay veil and balming men’s conscience. Good Catholic boys, who died in the name of a “something” and looked Saint Peter in the eyes when they met him again. Your good, Catholic man. Rosaries and holy water. Unholy blood. Stained cherry glass and crimson hands. Prayers and prayers and prayers, made by mothers and fathers and wives.

You had prayed, once. Had knelt at an altar and let the wood dig into your knees like a penance for a sin you didn’t remember committing but felt guilty for enjoying anyhow. You pleaded for one promise to keep him safe and thanked a nameless saint for your fortune, sated when you heard the slap of your sandals on marble and the echo of all your thoughts in the high, vaulted ceilings.

Guilt is strange. “Healing” in quotation marks is strange. You always hated the way people phrased it, as if one day you’d arrive someplace and get a lacquered button pinned to your shirt pocket reading a congratulations. Dr. Reyes hated it, too, and you’d smiled when she made some long-winded metaphor about journeys and life and cat posters. For now you were content with walking, one hand held and one hand holding, with white-knuckled palm promises and the warm, curled grasp of a child.

⫸ ——— ⫷

You gripped the car keys, feeling them dig into your palm as you tried to brush off the hand on the doorknob. “Horacio,” you let out, frazzled with all the rush of a January morning, anxious and tired from the previous day’s shift. You didn’t need to work today though, thank god . “I can take my own damn daughter to her first day of school.”

His hand left the door, only to snake loosely around your waist. When you only sighed, not pulling away, a rough thumb came to rub at the curve of your jaw and bid your gaze to meet his. She has your eyes, you’d once said. Dark and sloping, edged by black lashes. Bright. Gentle.

“No,” he said, apologetic but resolute. “You can’t.”

“I can,” you repeated weakly to yourself, your own hand starting to loosen its hold around the cold rings of metal. “Horacio,” you whispered, shaking your head as his arms wrapped a bit tighter. “The guards, the- the guns. They scare her.”

His brows knitted together while you spoke, quiet as to not alarm Isabella - now a few months shy of six - sitting by the kitchen counter in a blue school skirt. She didn’t look up from her the contents of her backpack, so you continued. “I’m just- I’m tired, I guess,” you admitted with a small hitch in your voice, examining the angry red indents left in your palms. You let him shift you until you faced away from the door, tucked closer into his chest, and reached to fiddle with the silver buttons of his uniform while you spoke.“It’s bad enough that they’re always outside.”

You looked up to see Isabella clambering off of her chair with a scrape of its legs against your kitchen tiles. It’s first grade, she’d reminded you the night before in hurried Spanish while you brushed her hair, chiding her to sit still. She’d set out her uniform carefully, insisting on brightly colored hair clips and two tight braids. We can’t be late.

Your now-husband squeezed your shoulders and his lips were pursed - not in annoyance, but in concern. “Mi amor,” Horacio began, cupping the base of your neck and squeezing softly. Mi amor, he called you. A love. His love. Saccharine, maybe, to foreign ears but to him, to him it was doctrine. You let out a shallow breath. “It’s too dangerous without them,” Horacio reminded you, the rough pad of his thumb tracing over your lips. “You know that.”

You closed your eyes, nodding into the lingering kiss left on your forehead. “Yeah, I know.” Smoothing away the pretend lint on his collar, you pressed your nose to his jaw before moving to step away, inhaling the soft scent of laundry and sandalwood soap. The arms around you loosened to let you go. “Doesn’t mean I like it though,” you mumbled, attempting petulance but failing when another kiss was placed on your cheek.

“We’ll be with her,” Horacio reminded you, his voice placating in your ear. “And it’s just Trujillo,” he assured. You perked up at the name and laughed when Isabella did likewise, her steps towards the both of you quick and echoing her new school shoes.

“Is he coming?” she asked, repeating the question in English and then Spanish again when neither of you answered quickly enough for her liking. Bouncing on the balls of her heels, Isabella tugged on the fabric of your pants with an urgency that seemed unfit for the slightness of her body. “Is he here? Is he going to drive us?”

You reached to smooth down the loose curls escaping from her braids and looked back behind you for confirmation, pleased to report in the affirmative when Horacio nodded.

She didn’t wait much longer for you to open the door, bounding down your front steps to meet the man now standing by a shelled vehicle, a tanned hand resting on the holster at his hip.

“The Jeep?” you asked, incredulous.

Horacio shrugged. “It’s bulletproof.”

“Right,” you answered slowly, watching Trujillo bend down to give the girl a hug. “And they couldn’t bulletproof, say, a minivan?” Horacio only chuckled, walking you down to the car, and you grew more serious. “Thank you, though. For bringing him, and not the… cavalry, I guess.”

In sunlight, Horacio's eyes were lighter - edged by shadowed rings but pooling in deep, fractured amber. Apologetic. “It’s the least I could do,” he said.

Isabella glanced back towards the both of you and you caught the flash of a cellophane candy wrapper, accompanied by a no le digas a tu mamá when Trujillo slipped it in her pocket. Waving at you with an impish smile, the officer slid into the passenger seat.

“I heard that,” you called out. He raised his eyebrows, declaring his innocence, and said nothing more.

The weather was slow with its languid breezes, blanketing everything in the soft smell of baked clay and clear mountain air. In the distance, the first swells of morning traffic began their course.

Isabella climbed into the car (or tank, depending on who you asked) and helped you buckle her seatbelt. When you turned to meet the back of the man behind you, you heard the girl plead, “Don’t kiss.”

When you asked why, she wrinkled her nose. “It’s gross.”

“You see us kiss all the time,” you replied, handing her her backpack. Horacio’s hand came to pass gently along your waist, a quiet reminder of the openness of the road you now stood on.

Isabella shook her head, the dark braids tumbling beside her rounded cheeks. “It’s still gross.”

“How ‘bout you close your eyes,” you offered, leaning out of the car and hearing your husband’s quiet laugh. Catching Trujillo’s face in the reflection of the side mirrors, you grinned. “I can count down if you want.”

“Promise?” Isabella asked, raising her hands to cover her face.

“Promise,” you answered. “Are they closed? Good, okay on three. Ready? One… two… thr-” but your count was muffled, turning into a soft mmph by a pressing mouth. Horacio’s hands curling around the Jeep doors as you reached to steady yourself on his shoulders. The kiss was chaste, quick and barely a peck, but you still smiled when he pulled away.

Running your tongue along your front teeth, you could taste the slow dilution of orange juice. “You can open them now,” you assured Isabella. The girl peeked out between her fingers and sighed in dramatic relief, letting her arms fall to her sides. “You too,” you said to the officer in the passenger seat. Trujillo only rolled his eyes in mild amusement, his gaze fixed firmly on a point far, far off in the distance.

Horacio pressed his lips against your temple once more before you moved to sit down, waiting until you’d done your own seatbelt to close the car door behind you. His boots scuffed heavy against the stoned street and you spoke to Isabella as he walked to the driver’s side. “One day, y’know, you might actually like kissing.”

She shook her head emphatically, her expression one of exaggerated disgust. “Never. Never ever.”

“Suit yourself,” you responded, moving to face the front windows to see your husband now at the steering wheel, his expression fighting to keep itself stern. “Y’know,” you added in a stage whisper, “your dad’s a very good kisser.”

“Gross!”

⫸ ——— ⫷

“I didn’t cry,” you said, shaking your head as Horacio opened the car door for you a few minutes after the first school bell rang. When he only hummed and Trujillo (now on the driver’s side) let out a barking laugh, you protested. “I didn’t!”

Horacio hid his unconvinced sincerity with a slow nod. You leant against the edge of the door when it shut, its hollow metal hot from the sun underneath your temples. Orange starbursts swam across your vision when you swiped quickly at your face with your knuckles. “I didn’t cry,” you maintained, feeling the rising stuffiness of your throat. “It’s allergies. I’m very- I’m very... pollen-sensitive.”

That was technically true - he'd bought you enough pink antihistamine tablets and tissues enough times to prove it - but you knew it wasn’t the cause of anything now. The reason for your swollen eyes was sitting in a real, grownup chair after two years of preschool and one year of kindergarten, a pencil case filled to the brim with bright, sparkly markers. At school.

The car floor shifted under your feet when your husband turned back towards you, offering the polaroids he’d taken just moments earlier. “Do you want-”

“-yesthankyou-” you exhaled, grabbing the stack of photos from his hands. Spreading them out across your lap, you tried to swallow the lump in your throat. There was one of her getting out of the car… then her walking up to the front entrance... then another of her backpack, then of her shoes and Jesus, how many were there?

You flipped through the rest, scatterbrained and trying to commit every single picture to memory until something prompted your pausing. It was a picture of you.

He must’ve taken it while you weren’t paying attention, oblivious to the camera and turned away, but you were smiling. A bright, blinding smile that seemed to seep pure sunlight through the waxy white paper, up through your fingertips and back towards the swelling of your quickening heartbeat.

“That one,” Horacio said, taking the photograph from you and tucking it into the front pocket of his uniform. “Is for me.”

⫸ ——— ⫷

The engine rolled as the men parked. “Are you sure he’s here?” Javier asked, taking off his aviators to examine the row of terracotta houses, with their red-tile roofs and stucco walls. It was quiet in the mid-morning, temperate and warm. Medellín, the city of eternal spring, was living up to its name.

Steve stuffed his government I.D (the only way they’d gotten through the gate) back into his pocket and adjusted the belt on his hips. “S’worth a shot. Wasn’t at the office, was he?”

“No,” Javier hummed, scanning the street with his arms crossed, his fingers curling into the fabric of his shirtsleeves. “No, he wasn’t.”

Neither of the men seemed to notice the officer parked beside the street, waiting for his colonel to retrieve some forgotten files before returning to the embassy.

They walked closer towards the house, stepping over a small tricycle that lay forgotten on the front lawn. Steve lowered his sunglasses. “You think it’s his?”

A low laugh escaped Javier’s chest and he shook his head, his steps meeting the front door. “Nah, he has a little girl. From his first wife.”

Somewhere in the house footsteps echoed with a soft voice, too muffled to make out anything beyond the fact that it was a woman. Steve looked back towards his partner, perplexed.

“Second wife,” Javier explained before ringing the doorbell. “Never met her, though.”

The steps grew louder until a pause, with the small peephole of the door waxing their reflections. Steve held up his badge again and stepped back when various locks unlatched until the door was opened, creaking quietly on its joints. The first thing they saw was your arms, balancing a precarious stack of plastic toys while you nudged the door farther open with a struggling foot. Steve rushed forward to take some from your hands and you smiled back at him, letting out a sigh of relief.

“Sorry about that,” you breathed, setting the brightly colored books and toys on the floor beside you. “Caught me in the middle of cleaning up.” The men shared a quick look at each other, schooling their expressions from the slight shock created at your appearance. You were pretty and barefoot, sporting marker-stained jeans and a loose t-shirt. If they were expecting anyone, this definitely wasn’t it. “You’re DEA, right?”

Javier cleared his throat, elbowing the man beside him. Steve spoke up after a moment. “Yes ma’am. My name’s Agent Murphy, this man right here is Agent-”

“Oh!” you interrupted with a soft slap of your palm against your forehead, chiding yourself and opening the door farther. “Murphy? And Peña, right?”

They both nodded, albeit slowly, but you seemed impervious to their surprise, asking them if they wanted to come inside. The men declined and remained on the stoop, Steve realizing he still held a small rubber ball in his hands while Javier tried to keep his eyes above the scooped neck of your top.

“Was there something you needed?” you continued, bending down to kick out a rise in your runner carpet. “Horacio’s talked about you sometimes, y’know. It’s nice to actually put a face to the name.”

“Horacio?” Steve mumbled to Javier, his lips curling back in an amused, Southern cadence. A man - Colonel to them, or maybe just Carrillo, but Horacio to you - loomed near the edges of the hallway and turned closer when you spoke, his face and his voice familiar as it called out your name. “Speak of the devil,” the blonde agent whispered.

When you leant back into the man’s chest, both men quickly cleared their throats. Javier’s hands rested at his hips in a cocked stance, watching curiously as the colonel turned to whisper in your ear. The words were too quiet for anyone else to hear but you cast your eyes down, smiling to yourself before he pulled away.

You looked back up, the open brightness of your face only magnified when it was placed beside your husband’s stern posture. “I think they need you,” you reminded him. Javier confirmed this with some big lead about a “La Quica” and you bit back a snort at the nickname, pressing your lips together to hide your laugh. It must’ve been kismet, Javier thought, that brought someone like you to someone like him. Someone, he suddenly remembered, who worked in a hospital, witness and mender to the very things Carrillo caused. The man’s eyes were marginally softer here, though, and his hand lingered light on your waist. So maybe it worked.

“You’ll call later?” you asked, catching a soft grip on the colonel’s wrist when he moved to cross through the door. Steve glanced upwards when lips pressed quickly against your forehead, a quiet “of course” spoken into your hair before he walked away down the front steps.

“Surprised someone like that puts up with you,” Javier ribbed, bemused when Carrillo rolled his eyes.

Steve chuckled as they walked in steady tandem towards the parked cars. “Jealous?”

Javier hummed a casual maybe, catching the faint edge of a smile on your husband’s face when you looked out the front window, your silhouette a shadow through gauzy yellow curtains.

⫸ ——— ⫷

You leaned down to whisper in Isabella’s ear, encouraging her to take the few steps forward through the threshold of the office as she held a tall, disposable coffee cup. The rest that you’d brought were quickly put down before being taken by grateful men, their thanks muffled by the sound of lips on crinkling styrofoam. A man, the man you’d come to see, looked up to see you standing beside his desk, your frame edged by the evening light fracturing through the windows.

“You didn’t walk here, did you?” Horacio asked, his voice and his brow drawn over with concern. You lay a hand on his arm, a quiet placation as you rested your hip on a rounded wooden edge.

“I didn’t,” you glanced at the cluster of men on the other side of the room. You heard Isabella laugh, her small legs swinging back and forth as she was placed in a newly-emptied seat. “Hugo drove me.”

Horacio’s thumb traced over the slope of your wrist. “Hugo?”

“Pimienta,” you finished with another look towards the mass of dark green shoulders. “The new recruit.” Horacio nodded with a quiet I see and you give another smile, too observed to do much more. “He’s very sweet,” you assured your husband, offering a small wave when the man (or boy, more like) looked back towards the both of you. Hugo’s returning grin was awkward, endearingly so, and you bit back a laugh when you caught the embarrassed ducking of his head, his dark skin hiding any rising blush.

He was young, barely out of training and still learning to hide his fear. They all were. Stoic, maybe, when they opened your doors and carried your groceries, but young. So, so young.

You picked up a stray pen, twirling it in your hands as you surveyed his desk. It was annoying neat, and you huffed as you tried to find something more interesting than typed field reports and stacks of manila folders. “No pictures?” you teased. He only pointed to the top corner and your eyes followed, falling on a small frame holding a color photograph. It was mostly of you, but you could see Isabella’s face peeking out of its bottom edge, intruding on the shot with a goofy smile. Her hair was short, curling in dark loops around her ears, so it must’ve been from a few years ago. ‘89, maybe. Yeah, ‘89, when he took that week off in Panama City and spent the whole time trying to teach Isabella how to swim. “That one?” you asked, curious. “I thought you’d want something more… I don’t know… official? Looking?”

He raised an eyebrow, adjusting the frame to its proper place. “Would you like to pose for another one?”

You sucked in a breath through your teeth, remembering the day you had to pin what seemed like fifty military badges to his uniform. “No,” you said, examining the photo and shaking your head. “No, that one’s good.”

Horacio pulled you into the slight alcove of the office, the one filled with high-backed chairs and radio equipment that lay partially hidden from view. “They’re looking,” you mumbled, suddenly more conscious of the officers standing a few feet away. “They think we’re up to something.”

“Are we?” he asked, smiling. A laugh bubbled up in your throat and you shook your head.

“I...” you began, your voice trailing off. He looked tired, and you were reminded of before, when infants used to cry in hallways and walls were thin. “I probably shouldn’t have come but you said you wouldn’t be home and I just- I just wanted…”

He slid his hands up your arms until they rested at your shoulders, hushing you quietly before speaking. The soft skin of your lips fell from between your teeth and you swallowed, the words resting unfinished beneath your sternum.

I just wanted to see you.

While I knew you were here.

While I knew I still could.

His fingers rested heavy on the juncture of your neck, their tapering familiarity smoothing back the ache of knotting muscle. His watch was heavy, a tactical thing with a million little numbers, and its ribbed black straps dragged against the necklace holding your wedding ring. You heard Horacio’s men making conversation - questions in Spanish about Isabella’s school and her favorite colors, compliments on how nice her new shoes looked and that tu madre fue muy dulce al traernos este café - but they floated out of your head, momentary and paling in importance to the way his hands seemed to smooth out every wrinkle of your thoughts, until they lay flat and rubbed back softer with sandpaper fingerprints.

“You never told me why you needed to stay late,” you whispered. He frowned slightly when you noticed the copper blooms dotting the edges of his sleeves, rolled up to rest at his elbows. “Did something happen?”

Horacio’s expression turned softer. Maybe to tamp down your worry. Maybe to try and make you forget it completely. He was like that with you. More gentle. Earnest. One hand raised to cup your jaw. “Nothing bad,” he said, shaking his head at your widened eyes, their color glassy from the fluorescence of office lamps.

“Promise?” you asked, wavering an echo of a morning’s conversation.

He straightened out, an oak to wrapping, shaded ivy. “Promise.”

#LET'S GET ITTTTT (after like almost two months oof)#horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo/reader #horacio carrillo fanfiction #narcos fanfiction

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smallplaceinthecosmos · 3 years

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I think I once called Ranboo a “walking poster child for Catholic guilt” but dude that was a joke Jesus shit is he like. Okay

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atheistforhumanity · 6 years

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I was in a church for business recently and I saw this poster taped to a children’s table. Immediately I took out my phone so I could talk about this later, because I was revolted.

This was a Catholic church, of course. They are known for teaching the concept of original sin and threatening children with eternal hellfire. This poster does not reference original sin directly, but let me explain what my problem is with this.

This is meant for children who are under ten years old, who cannot sit in adult size chairs at a normal table. The act of making children beg for forgiveness for being sinners before they’ve even learned their multiplication tables has a detrimental effect on the self-perception and self-esteem. This convinces them they’re doing wrong before they’ve grown enough to ponder what right and wrong is. This creates a mental state or moral paranoia and neuroticism that leads to a vicious cycle of self-hate, doubt, and guilt. The real problem is that people don’t deal with these emotions in a healthy way when they connect them to disappointing a God figure.

Furthermore, this is a perfect example of how church indoctrinates children with the existence of God before children have a chance to gain a grasp on reality. Before a child gains the critical thinking to realize Santa Clause is not real these people are telling them they are failing this imaginary being and they should feel guilty and sorry for being horrible human beings. I can’t think of a worse psychological mindfuck.

No, this is not simply a poster about being a better person, because it doesn’t give you a chance to be a good person. There is a huge difference between recognizing that we all lack perfection and accusatory language in this poster for small children. And in secular society, outside of religions, doing wrong does not mean spending an eternity in a pit of hellfire and torture. Because if we look at the larger picture and follow the doctrine to it’s logical conclusion, that’s what this poster is about. It’s about begging this imaginary figure in the sky not to send you to hell, because he loves you fucking much. How’s that for a mindfuck as a child?

There’s a magic man in the sky that loves everyone so much he sacrificed his son in a blood magic ritual and now you get the pleasure of begging him not to send you to a place where demons will rip your flesh from your bones. Why do you have to be afraid of hell if Jesus washed away all sin? Who the fuck knows, because none of this makes any sense!

#atheism #rant #can't stand this bullshit #religion #catholic #church #god

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weekendwritingmarathon · 5 years

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This weekly roundup includes fics written (at least in part) during the 1k1h sprints and/or the Weekend Writing Marathon events.

Fics are ordered first by fandom, then by word count from smallest to largest.

***

every sunday's getting more bleak by gunsnships

Good Omens || Aziraphale/Crowley || Teen & up || No major warnings apply || 4,173 words || Complete

Summary: Crowley indulges Hastur's request to focus on one human— he finds a quite interesting priest to tempt, so he takes matters into his own hands.

Other tags: Alternate Universe, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demon Crowley (Good Omens), Priests, Internalized Homophobia, Catholic Guilt, Temptation, Gardens & Gardening, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Alcohol, First Kiss, Tenderness, POV Alternating, Hopeful Ending

***

The Corruption of a National Icon by @pherryt

marvel || Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, steve rogers/natasha romanov/clint barton/bucky barnes/sam wilson/tony stark || Teen & up || No major warnings apply || 1,790 words || Complete

Summary: Tony finally sleeps with Steve only to find he's not the innocent poster child Tony always thought him to be - now he wants to find out who was responsible for that!

Other tags: Slutty steve, Crack Fic, lots of banter, A little bit of angst, little bit of jealousy, then one big coming together

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Foul Diplomacy by @ramblingandpie

Mass Effect: Andromeda || None || General || No major warnings apply || 1,348 words || Complete

Summary: The crew of the Tempest is tasked with transporting some very important cargo. Chicken cargo.

Other tags: Fluff, Literal Fluff, A bunch of baby chickens

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Just Friends by @pherryt

Star Trek || McKirk || Mature || No major warnings apply || 1,457 words || Complete

Summary: Jim and Leonard are just friends, so why is everyone around them insisting they're something more?

Other tags: non explicit smut, but definitely smut, Denial, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn(sort of - if you take the elapsed time over fic length), Bottom!Jim, Top!Leonard, , Everybody knows

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Thin Walls and Shower Stalls by @pherryt

Supernatural || destiel || Explicit || No major warnings apply || 3,644 words || Complete

Summary: Dean's been pining over his best friend and roommate, even since before he gave Cas a place to stay, and it's driving him nuts. He's pent up and needs release, and he can't exactly take care of himself with Cas in the apartment. Dean knows how thin the walls are, but apparently Cas doesn't know that. Luckily for both of them.

Other tags: shower smut, smut and feels, bottom!cas, top!dean

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distractions by @froggydarren

Teen Wolf || Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski || General || No major warnings apply || 2,748 words || Complete

Summary: There are hunters in town. Young, ill-advised, easy targets for the pack. Still, Stiles knows that walking right into the motel they’re staying at is a recipe for disaster. Since it’s precisely what Derek seems to want to do, Stiles needs a distraction.

Other tags: Future Fic, Canon Compliant, Getting Together, First Date, Flirting

***

Have you posted a fic recently? Any active WWM participant can Submit your fic here by midnight EST Wednesday and it will be included on next Friday’s WWM Fic Roundup post.

#wwm fic roundup #good omens #marvel #mass effect #mass effect: andromeda #star trek #supernatural #teen wolf #fanfic

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romancatholicreflections · 5 years

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16th February >> Daily Reflection/Commentary on Today’s First Reading for Roman Catholics on Saturday, Fifth Week in Ordinary Time (Genesis 3:9-24). The man and the woman now experience the results of their disobedience to God.

It begins with a lovely but sad dialogue between God and the man and the woman. God is looking for them in the Garden. “Where are you?” God, of course, knows where they are but he needs to elicit the confession of their sin. The man says they are hiding because they are naked. Nakedness now fills them with a sense of shame and guilt. They can no longer face their God. Their original innocence is gone; from now on nakedness is linked to immorality and base desires.

“Who told you that you were naked?” God asks the Man, “Have you been eating of the tree you were not supposed to eat from?” God now interrogates the Man, who blames the Woman, who blames the serpent. God’s judgements, however, are pronounced in the reverse order. What follows provides explanations for the origin of some present-day realities – agriculture, prepared or cooked food, childbearing, family of husband and wife.

We now see a pathetic shifting of responsibility to someone else. First, the Man blames the woman, the “woman you put with me” – even God is being held partly to blame! “Yes, I ate the fruit but she made me do it.” She, in her turn, blames the serpent for putting temptation in her way. “He tricked me.” The Hebrew for this verb, hiss’iani, suggests the hissing of the snake.

All now pay the price of their wrongdoing.

First the serpent. He is condemned to crawl the earth for ever eating the earth with a hint that in the original creation the snake was once upright. He will be cursed for ever among all the animals.

From now on, a strange enmity will exist between the woman and the serpent, between her offspring and the serpent’s. “He will strike your head and you will strike his heel.”

Later theology would see here not just enmity between snakes and humans but the serpent is identified with Satan, whose eventual defeat seems implied in the contrast between ‘head’ and ‘heel’. Later generations saw in the passage the first promise of a Redeemer for sinful humanity. In that case, the Woman’s offspring is Jesus Christ.

The New Jerusalem Bible has the following comment:

The Hebrew text, by proclaiming that the offspring of the snake is henceforth at enmity with the woman’s descendants, opposes the human race to the devil and his ‘seed’, his posterity, and hints at ultimate victory. It is the first glimmer of salvation, the proto-evangelium or ‘pre-Gospel’.

The Greek version has a masculine pronoun (‘he’, not ‘it’ will bruise. . .), thus ascribing the victory not to the woman’s descendants in general but to one Son in particular, and thus providing the basis for the messianic interpretation given by many of the Fathers. The Latin version has a feminine pronoun (‘she’ will bruise. . .) and since in the messianic interpretation of our text, the Messiah and his Mother appear together, the pronoun has been taken to refer to Mary. (edited)

The woman: She will experience great pain when giving birth. She will have a strong desire for her husband but will be dominated by him. Women’s historical subordination to the male is presented as a consequence of human events, not an ideal in its own right. Responsibilities of procreation will compromise the freedom of both genders. He will dominate her but he will need her to continue his family line.

The man: In the garden the Man had just to pick the fruit from the trees. Now the tilling of the unfriendly and infertile soil will become a laborious and painful task, resulting often in brambles and thistles. From now on his life will be one of hard physical labour until the day he goes back to the soil from which he was originally made. Agriculture was a major step in human evolution but one beset with difficulty and hard work. Unlike the abundant fruit just waiting to be picked, bread, for instance, requires many steps and much human cooperation in its preparation. And, at the end, he will return to the earth from which he came – the first clear indication of human mortality.

In a final touch, we are told that God made skins for the Man and his wife to wear to cover the shame of their nakedness. Some see in this a new alienation between humans and animals, which did not exist in the Garden. Animals now were being killed by humans for food, clothing and other purposes – and humans were often being killed and eaten by animals. Later, the prophet would dream of a day when the lion and the lamb could lie down peacefully together – Paradise Regained.

At the same time the Man and the Woman were now able, like God, “to know good and evil”. They now knew all the possible extremes, they knew about sex, mortality and moral distinctions of good and bad, right and wrong. There was a danger that they could reach out to the Tree of Life and win immortality. They must be removed from the Garden and sent back to the earth from which they had originally come. They will have to settle for the modified immortality of succeeding family generations – a human family tree.

To the east of the Garden in Eden, cherubim with a flaming sword were placed to keep the Man and the Woman out and away from the Tree of Life.

Lastly, the Man now gave his wife the name of Eve, which means “bearer of life”. She would be the mother of every person to be born in succeeding ages. This second naming of Woman reflects the couple’s new role as procreators. Much later, spiritual writers liked to take the Latin form of her name ‘Eva’ and turn it round to read ‘Ave’, the word of greeting used by the angel at the Annunciation to Mary, our new Mother.

Obviously, all of this is less a historical account than an explanation why things are the way they are. It is part of the answer to the question we raised earlier: If everything God created was so good, why is there so much pain and suffering in the world? Human pain and sorrows are not intended by God. Evil is the result of our misbehaviour.

Again, the New Jerusalem Bible comments:

The punishment is appropriate to the specific functions of each: the woman suffers as mother and wife, the man as bread-winner. The text does not imply that, without sin, woman would have given birth painlessly or that man would not have had to work with sweat on his brow, any more than that, before sin, snakes had feet [i.e. did not have to crawl on their bellies].

Sin upsets the order willed by God: woman, instead of being man’s associate and equal, becomes his seductress, while he for his part reduces her to the role of child-bearer; man, instead of being God’s gardener in Eden, has to struggle against a now hostile environment. But the greatest punishment is the loss of intimacy with God. These penalties are hereditary. The doctrine of hereditary guilt is not clearly stated until Paul draws his comparison between the solidarity of all in the Saviour Christ and the solidarity of all in sinful Adam, Rom 5.

This is the “original sin”.

We should avoid a fundamentalist, literal understanding of all this, as if we were dealing with ‘real’ history. What is being said is that the human race, as far back as we can go, has been infected with sinful acts against truth, love and justice and, in consequence of its own choices, has suffered hardships of all kinds.

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rapidreader · 7 years

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Matthew Murdock is the poster child for Catholic guilt.

#the defenders #daredevil #matt murdock #charlie cox

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osoorts · 5 years

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War Baby (2019) dir. Dennis Empalmado

Meet Duewand Collier ⁠— Male, 68 years old, American Citizen, a child conceived in the backdrop of the Philippines-American Mutual Defense Treaty, born and raised with Catholic guilt. He has made peace with his past and now tells his story—a story of love. (Synopsis by Jerico Torres)

Poster by Owen Suerte

#Pinoy Film #WAR BABY #Pleasant Dreams Production #Dennis Empalmado #Owen Suerte #John Guiller Abarcar #Jerico Torres #Roy Empalmado #poster

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milehighcity-rp · 7 years

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“My great mistake, the fault for which I can’t forgive myself, is that one day I ceased my obstinate pursuit of my own individuality.”

Name: Anais Lockwood

FC: Oona Chaplin

Age / Birthday: 29 / 1 November 1987

Job: Independent Artist / Art Instructor

Apartment: 104

Personality traits:

+ Intelligent, Introspective, Visionary, Cultured

- Melancholic, Aimless, Enigmatic, Mercurial

tw: suicide mention, toxic relationships, mental health

Charmed isn’t exactly the word that could be used to describe Anais Lockwood’s’ early life, but privileged certainly fits the bill. Being born into a well-to-do family meant that the old adage of “You can be anything you want to when you grow up” was reality rather than a well-meant lie told in order to keep that light of hope in a child’s eyes. Her parents may have made it clear that they expected her to be responsible after she found her start in life, but they were more than willing to pay her way through a private Catholic school and a well-known Jesuit college. What she lacked in scholarships was supplemented with mommy and daddy’s money, though she somehow managed to remain studious and responsible. Her aspirations were worldly – - she wanted to travel, to sculpt, to pain, to cloak herself in hedonism and emerge an enlightened being. The closest she ever got, unfortunately, was a year spent studying abroad between the UK, Italy and France.

School had been unremarkable, for the most part. Her talents were exceptional enough for teachers and professors to push her toward pursuing a degree in fine arts with a minor in business. Beyond owning her own studio and spending her time painting on rooftops or balconies, Anais had very little direction for her future. She was content, it seemed, to move with the natural ebb and flow of the universe. It was in this way that she met Jasper Howl.

In order to acquire extra cash and some extra credit, she acted as a nude model for an illustration class. Jasper was no artist – - actually, he ended up being the professor’s assistant entirely by mistake - – but that didn’t stop him from trying to befriend Anais. Though unwilling to give up any semblance of independence at first, she eventually came around and began to see him regularly. This carried on after she acquired her bachelor’s degree, and provided a certain level of motivation for her decision to drop out of grad school mid-semester. By that time, she and Jasper were living in a nice apartment with their cat; he paid the rent, she chipped in when she could and her family was kind enough to furnish the living space. For the most part, they were happy – - Anais could pursue sculpting and painting while Jasper followed his own passions. Everything was ideal, until it wasn’t.

After two years of living together, Anais began to notice a rift developing between herself and Jasper. Her first assumption was that his job had become more stressful and their lives would continue as normal after he found his footing, but that wasn’t the case. Things grew worse and worse; Jasper spent more time at the office, he expressed little interest in Anais, and he had a million excuses for his negligence. Soon enough, the fighting started; what was a small argument once every couple of weeks became screaming fits nearly every day, with pottery broken and canvases torn in the process. Their life shattered, fragmented and disconnected until neither Anais or Jasper were barely recognizable to one another.

It wasn’t a surprise that he had found someone new, but Anais was the last to find out. The woman – - that other woman Anais so desperately wanted to believe was a figment of her own imagination - – was someone from work, someone young and blonde and rough around the edges; someone more like Jasper, someone who understood him more than Anais ever could. The arguments became more personal, attacks on one another that were made without provocation or concern for the other’s well being. They had become bickering roommates rather than a couple, which became more and more painful as Anais began to find that woman’s clothing or possessions lying around the apartment.

Shades of grey had been cast over the once-vibrant swath of her life. Without realizing it, Anais had begun slipping into a melancholic state. Before she could stop herself, she found her gaze passing over the Golden Gate Bridge with one question at the fraying edges of her mind’s tapestry: What if? What if she ran away? What if she jumped?

It wasn’t a serious thought until she spent a weekend out of town and returned to find Jasper’s girlfriend shamelessly sprawled in the bed he and Anais once shared. Worse than that, the door to their apartment had been left open and her cat – - one of her only sources of comfort and companionship in that domestic prison - – had escaped. Posters were drawn up and rewards offered, but nothing came of it. Finally, Anais took a stack to the bridge and began taping them to the railing one by one.

Though it originally began as an intrusive thought, Anais did end up planting her feet firmly at the bottom rung of the crimson railing. With a mere few feet between herself and the drop that would lead to the dark waters of the San Francisco Bay, Anais released the papers and watched as they were carried off in the wind. Her gaze followed the course of fluttering pages before she found some resignation, eyes closed while she savored the smell of exhaust from passing cars, the oxidation of the Golden Gate Bridge, and the salt of the bay in which she expected to meet her end. It was at this point that a photographer stopped, taken by what they assumed to be a moment of serenity. Unbeknownst to Anais, a photographer took a few snapshots before coming to the realization of what she intended to do. It was a stroke of genius that led him to calling the police before approaching, and one that he would later brag had likely saved Anais’ life.In reality, Anais had been startled by the sound of his voice after he decided to approach. Her footing was compromised, one foot slipped sideways while the other slid through the empty spaces between the spokes. Although she fell backward to safety, Anais experienced a kind of terror that she had never known – - an eye-opening, consuming fear of what would have happened if her trajectory had been altered. In the moments of panic afterward, she was pulled backward by the photographer and was rendered inconsolable until police arrived. The story she stuck to was that she had no intention of jumping, but had wanted a better view of the bay from her position. Though frowned upon, she did manage to escape with a harsh warming and a stern lecture about the dangers of the bridge and it’s macabre reputation. For some time, only she and the photographer who had spotted her knew the truth.

The incident didn’t give Anais the new lease on life that she expected, but it motivated her to pack her belongings and send them to her mother and father’s home while she disappeared for three weeks to seek mental health treatment at Bayside Marin. When she emerged once more, she found that one of the photographs of her near-miss had been entered into various contests and had won quite a bit of money. Perhaps it was guilt that motivated the photographer, but a stipend of the money was given to Anais – - it was, effectively, the main thing that protected him from a terrible lawsuit. His only other saving grace was the fact that Anais wanted to leave San Francisco as quickly as possible. A dark cloud hung over her parents, and seemed to dissipate when she mentioned wanting to take a step toward a different future.

Denver wasn’t her first choice, but the idea of Colarado grew on her after a while. Her parents suggested that she move to Aspen to live in one of their homes, but she was adamant that she wanted an apartment of her own and the ability to start her own business. In reality, she simply didn’t want to risk running into family friends or becoming some sort of hermit in the mountains. Perhaps that was why she chose a studio apartment in a complex that she happened upon online. Queen Apartments had the amenities she wanted, and there was space available quickly. Since most of her things were already packed up, she had no reason to keep herself from moving with a generous gift from her parents – - six months of her rent would be paid as long as she kept in touch and settled into therapy. So that was exactly what she did.

Six months passed faster than she imagined they would. In that time, the photograph of her near-jump gained more notoriety, even a meager spot on Time Magazine’s 100 photos of 2016. Without her name attached to the photograph, she felt comfortable enough with the level of anonymity; there were no interviewers knocking on her door and the correspondence she had with the photographer was brief. Her life may have began when it nearly ended, but Anais’ desire is to put her experience behind her and rediscover herself through art and whatever opportunity may place itself in her path.

#fbio #bio

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badwolf1988-blog · 7 years

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Abbotts Creek: Chapter Two

Author's Note: I'm just going to go ahead and dedicate this chapter to the late, great Kurt Cobain. Still love him twenty-three years after he died.

Author's Note II: I'm Catholic so the words Zak recites are actually from an old textbook from Catholic school. It's part of a Catholic exorcism prayer but not the entire thing. I have a serious case of Catholic guilt and according to the Church, this exorcism prayer should only be said by a priest. The good little Catholic girl in me wouldn't allow me to publish the whole thing or the name of the prayer...I'm weird.

Author's Note III: What Persephone experiences in this chapter (on top of being a sign of a haunting or demon activity (that yes I believe in...I'm Catholic...DUH!) in rare cases) is actually a medical condition called sleep paralysis. It can be caused randomly by exhaustion. It has happened to me once...when my insomnia got real bad when I was thirteen and I fell asleep for the first time in three days. I woke up and I couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but breathe (even that was hard to do) for a good ten minutes (that felt like a year). It is not fun and I totally understand how some people can jump right to the supernatural after it happens to them. I would have jumped to a demon or ghost too if my late mother hadn't been in the medical profession. She knew my troubles with sleep and was able to put two and two together.

I had been having such a nice dream. I was a little girl and I was fishing with Grandpa Phil on his boat on King's Mountain Lake. The weather was beautiful. It was sunny and warm with a mild breeze keeping it from getting too hate...a perfect North Carolina spring day. The smell of muddy lake water invaded my nostrils and the fish were biting like crazy. Papa Phil's cooler was close to overflowing with catfish of all sizes and we hadn't turned on the fish finder once.

Suddenly, a large black cloud blocked out the rays of the sun. Papa Phil was nowhere to be seen anymore. The boat gave a sudden lurch and I was thrown into the muddy water of the lake. No matter how hard I swam, I couldn't break the surface. I couldn't breathe.

My eyes shot open and I found myself lying in my four-poster bed...but something still wasn't right. I still couldn't breathe and when I tried to move my arms or legs, nothing happened. Some invisible force was holding me down.

“In the name of Jesus Christ,

Our God and Lord,

Strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary,

Mother of God,

Of Blessed Michael the Archangel,

Of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and all the saints,

And powerful in the authority of our ministry...”

The unseen man's voice sounded familiar but I really didn't care who he was. All that mattered was that with every word he spoke, whatever had a supernatural hold on me loosened its grip just a little more and it became easier to breathe.

“We confidently undertake to repulse attacks and deceits of the devil.

God arises;

His enemies are scattered and those who hate Him flee before Him.”

Suddenly the pressure on my throat eased completely and I could breathe again. Gasping for air, I reached my hands up to massage my sore throat and my relief, the actually moved.

Terrified of giving whatever the fuck had just been holding me captive a chance at a repeat performance, I jumped out of bed.

“You okay?” My savior was suddenly at my side so I was able to get a good look at him. He looked familiar but the fear and adrenaline still running through me was making him hard to place.

“Yeah,” I nodded and ran a shaky hand through my sky-blue (I'm unique, okay?) hair. “How did you know I was in trouble?” I asked. It wasn't like he had been taking a midnight stroll through my bedroom...at least, I hope that's not what he been doing. Enough creepy shit had happened for one night.

“I just checked in and was headed towards my room when I heard moaning...and not the fun kind. I was feelin' some bad vibes outside your door so I decided to check on you.”

Bad vibes? Who the hell was this dude?

“Well, thanks for the rescue.” I smiled awkwardly. I was still trying to place where I knew this guy from. Maybe he had stayed with us in the past?

“No problem, hon.” He shook his head and held out his hand. “Name's Zak Bagans...and you sweetheart, have a real problem because that was a demon...a nasty one.”

Holy crap on a cracker! Now I know where I had seen him before. He was the host of Ghost Adventures! I thought they wouldn't be arriving until morning. Wait a minute...had he said demon?

“Persephone,” I shook his hand and he chuckled darkly.

“What is so funny?” I demanded.

“Persephone...wife of Hades...Queen of the Underworld...very fitting name for you.”

“Why?” I was quickly growing frustrated and if my parents were still alive I would be giving them hell for saddling me with the name Persephone.

“Because this demon really likes you...” I really hoped he was kidding.

At an almost alarming speed, Zak's personality did a complete 180 and he slowly let his eyes travel up and down my body, “I love Kurt Cobain,” He smirked.

I blushed a deep scarlet as I remembered that all of this drama had started with me in bed. I only wore panties and a faded old Nirvana t-shirt to bed.

“Oh, fuck my life!” I stomped my foot like a child.

This actually made him laugh.

CHAPTER INDEX

#zak bagans #zak bagans fanfiction #ghost adventures #ghost adventures fanfiction

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hansoulo · 4 years

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your heart wears night armor - preview

part 9 of ain’t it a gentle sound (the rolling in the graves)

pairing: Horacio Carrillo/f!Reader

warnings: cursing, mentions of canon-typical violence and blood, descriptions of religion, catholic imagery, and praying

A/N: hmmmmm

masterlist carrd

Domesticity during war is a curious thing. You’d left your old apartment years ago (truthfully it wasn’t much of a trip, down the hallway with what few effects not already migrated) and a man had moved in, with his young wife and her stomach swollen by pregnancy. You’d smiled and been neighborly. Teased about play-dates and dinner parties and tight-lipped husbands, the way you used to. Had actually gone to a dinner party and admired their blue-edged china, pouring out the woman’s sparkling water as Isabella grabbed at your wrists.

She’d moved out, alone save for her child and one gifted medal. He was very brave, apparently.

You weren’t surprised when a new couple came by a few months later.

For now you’re content with walking, one hand held and one hand holding.

White-knuckled palm promises and the warm, curled grasp of a child.

permanent: @ah-callie @itzagoodthing @spookypym @opheliaelysia @watsonwise @damndamer0n @amarvelousmandalorian @bunnyart-blog @agirllovespasta @pascalispedro @pascalplease @coffeencontemplation @chelsfic @lesqui @javierpenaspinkshirt @symbiont13 @glowingpena @squidlywiddly87 @1zashreena1 @hiscyarika @lostingoogletranslate @keeper0fthestars @bobafvtt @halfwaythereroyal @starwarsiscooliguess @huliabitch @frietiemeloen @justrunamok

ain’t it a gentle sound/horacio carrillo: @paniclana @huliabitch @jayoknrjk28 @raabiac @sparrows-books @popculturepriestess @pascalplease @ididntmeantobutiaccidentally @lockedoutofmyotherblog @multifandom-fiasco @wherethefuckiskathmandu @mandoplease @nicke0115 @ionlyjoinedforboydholbrook @the-cry-of-youth

#hm.#horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo/reader #horacio carrillo x you #horacio carrillo fanfiction #horacio carrillo imagine #narcos fanfiction #narcos imagine

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succorcreek · 5 years

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Hamsa Blessed Water, the Five Fingers

Hamsa Blessed Water

5 World Traditions Holy Water / Blessed Water Hamsa, Fatima, Ganges, Evil Eye ++Get yours here at our Ebay store:

https://www.ebay.com/str/scooterbeesmercantileoutwest

5 Fingers of the Sacred Hand of World Traditions, healing, protection, removal of obstacles, blessing of self / life, anointing of quests, doorways, pets, photos, and your own forehead!

“Carlos, a priest of Afro-Brazilian Indigenous spiritual traditions in Santos, Braz. il, lead me out to the Statue of Yemanja, in the great bay, surrounded by beautiful coconut palm beach, stunning fluorescent pink sunsets, lighted cruise ships, and distant cargo ships for the largest port of South America, and shipping point for half the world’s coffee beans. There were other spiritual people visiting, wading the waste deep Atlantic ocean, half from this indigenous and ancient tribal belief, and half from all other spiritual traditions and interest, all open minded and intelligent persons on their own Soul Quests.

It seemed peaceful as he said certain phrases and blessed the water gathered there. It seemed, for me, with a Ph.D., in world cultures, to be common to world universal spiritual views. I mean, it wasn’t odd, garrish, funny, or a spectacle. I’ve seen this belief worldwide and in multitudes of people, the same searching, prayer, honoring, and openness, whether it is the syncretised view of a Mexican at Virgen de Guadaloupe, a non-Catholic going to Fatima, Portugal, or even the 60% of the persons in my conservative state of Idaho, where those 60% state they have their true spirituality, it’s a mystery, but they’re satisfied with it and don’t feel they need a view of “another person” imparted or guilted onto them. They are in contrast to the rigid and dogmatic, and they seek a Beloved, God, Goddess, Universe, or Unknown, with that universal tongue, from soul and (defined bottom of page), Universal Unconscious of Man/Woman kind, patterned even in our genetic code!

All 5 waters Blessed by local traditions. Blessed Waters, Holy Waters.

Most information is put onto posters here you can zoom in on each one for each finger, location of holy blessed water, traditions, more.

You’ll not find this information Any place else, because this combination of Blessed, Holy Waters is based on my travels and research worldwide for my Ph.D. in World Cultures and World Religions. I also believe these ancient traditions and symbols, found in EVERY culture, are valid for us today. These views are pancultural: found in all places. I collected the not just as an academic, but a world mystic and respector of these views, their validity, and world people. I believe in the power you’ll find in the 5 Fingers, 5 blessed waters, and that the symbolism will connect you with your soul and a greater Universe or Beloved.

Size:

Each purchase is one tiny bottle, shipped in triple protection.

One tiny bottle will recharge one million gallons of water! It’s not necessary to buy a big two liter of this, or ever by more! The Blessedness of this water is spread throughout all particles, and if you put it in a fountain, or a crystal jar: it’s all blessed.

But, this product is for sensible folks: see the note at the bottom of the text: consider this like water from a local stream or mountain river: you don’t drink it, give it to kids or pets, or get in eyes. It’s NOT dirty or buggy, it’s natural. (Remember when your mother told you to not put that in your mouth?).

Each Purchase is:

One tiny light proof bottle, with ALL 5 waters mixed in, described below. Yep, all 5, through great personal travail to get…… You’d think water like this should be given away: but you make the journeys, pay the tickets, and work to get the waters all blessed! Whew….

About 1-3ml. Use to recharge other water, for you, gifts to others, anointing of self, object, pets, etc.

This is Quantum Blessing:

Rumi: “the Universe is held in a drop of Water”.

5 Fingers, 5 World Traditions, and the message:

Don’t Fear

Be Healed

Be Protected

· Hamsa Hand

· Hand of Fatima or

· Abhaya Mudra

A tradition and symbolism known and respected worldwide: the Holy Hand.

The 5 fingers:

5 Fingers, 5 World Traditions, 4 Continents, Healing Goddess within saying: the messages:

ü Don’t Fear (Fear Not)

ü Be Healed

ü Be Protected

1. Fatima: Holy Water from Fatima, Portugal Shrine

2. Lourdes: Holy Water from the Grotto of Lourdes, France

3. Ganges, India: Holy Water from 1,000 locations along the Holy Ganges River, India

4. Brazil and Africa, and Santeria and Indigenous religions worldwide: Water from Statue / Atlantic at Santos Brazil, priest blessed. Yemanja (Iemanja), traditions from all Brazil, all sub-Saharan Africa, and all World Santeria

5. Americas: 5. Water from Ecuadorean Andes: combined / joined / synchretized Mary Aparitions in Quito and 50 other sites and Kechua Indigenous Beliefs: a. Shown: Virgen has a lizard like creature chained, is only winged Mary in world. b. Our Lady of Clouds Aparition. c. Quechua people, indigenous of Ecuador

Information on the 5 fingers, symbolism, and world traditions

1. Evil Eye

2. Abhaya Mudra

3. And more background for the 5 Fingers / 5 World Traidtions

HAND OF FATIMA

positivity | abundance | faith

The Hand of Fatima is an ancient talisman that symbolizes feminine power. Originating from the Hebrew word hamesh, literally meaning five, the hand is worn as a defense against negative energy, deflecting the gaze of the evil eye away from the wearer. Believed to channel the forces of good, the Hand of Fatima promotes healing and fosters miracles.

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Hamsa Hand: history

Examples of Khamsa

Early use of the hamsa has been traced to ancient Mesopotamia (modern-day Iraq) as well as ancient Carthage[citation needed] (modern day Tunisia). The image of the open right hand is seen in Mesopotamian artifacts in the amulets of the goddess Ishtar or Inanna.[2] Other symbols of divine protection based around the hand include the Hand-of-Venus (or Aphrodite), the Hand-of-Mary, that was used to protect women from the evil eye and/or boost fertility and lactation, promote healthy pregnancies and strengthen the weak.[2] In that time, women were under immense pressure and expectation to become mothers.[8] The woman’s upbringing was centered on becoming a mother as an exclusive role, and it indicated child bearing as necessary.[9] It was also thought that marriage was a sense of protection for both the man and the woman.[10] In Jewish culture, the hamsa is associated with the number five because of the five fingers depicted on the hand.[11]

Art depicts a hamsa

One theory postulates a connection between the khamsa and the Mano Pantea (or Hand-of-the-All-Goddess), an amulet known to ancient Egyptians as the Two Fingers. In this amulet, the Two Fingers represent Isis and Osiris and the thumb represents their child Horus. It was used to invoke the protective spirits of parents over their child.[2] Another theory traces the origins of the hamsa to Carthage (Phoenicia, modern Tunisia) where the hand (or in some cases vulva) of the supreme deity Tanit was used to ward off the evil eye.[12] According to Bruno Barbatti, at that time this motive was the most important sign of apotropaic magic in the Islamic world, though many modern representations continue to show an obvious origin from sex symbolism.

This relates to the belief that God exists in everything. Another meaning of this symbol relates to the sky god, Horus. It refers to the Eye of Horus, which means humans cannot escape from the eye of conscience. It says that the sun and moon are the eyes of Horus. The Hand of Fatima also represents femininity, and is referred as the woman’s holy hand. It is believed to have extraordinary characteristics that can protect people from evil and other dangers.[13]

Symbolism and usage

Clay hamsa with an inscription in Hebrew (translates to “good luck”)

Amulet with two hands of Fatimah, bearing the inscriptions “God is the guardian”, “God brings consolation in all trials”

The Hand (Khamsa), particularly the open right hand, is a sign of protection that also represents blessings, power and strength, and is seen as potent in deflecting the evil eye.[2][18] One of the most common components of gold and silver jewelry in the region,[19] historically and traditionally, it was most commonly carved in jet or formed from silver, a metal believed to represent purity and hold magical properties.[2][20] It is also painted in red (sometimes using the blood of a sacrificed animal) on the walls of houses for protection,[21][22] or painted or hung on the doorways of rooms, such as those of an expectant mother or new baby.[2] The hand can be depicted with the fingers spread apart to ward off evil, or as closed together to bring good luck.[23] Similarly, it can be portrayed with the fingers pointing up in warding, or down to bestow blessings. Highly stylized versions may be difficult to recognize as hands, and can consist of five circles representing the fingers, situated around a central circle representing the palm.[23]

Hamsa in the Tropenmuseum, Amsterdam

Used to protect against evil eye, a malicious stare believed to be able to cause illness, death or just general unluckiness, hamsas often contain an eye symbol.[20][24] Depictions of the hand, the eye or the number five in Arabic (and Berber) tradition are related to warding off the evil eye, as exemplified in the saying khamsa fi ainek (“five [fingers] in your eye”).[24] Raising one’s right hand with the palm showing and the fingers slightly apart is part of this curse meant “to blind the aggressor”.[21] Another formula uttered against the evil eye in Arabic, but without hand gestures, is khamsa wa-khamis (“five and Thursday”).[25][26] As the fifth day of the week, Thursday is considered a good day for magic rites and pilgrimages to the tombs of revered saints to counteract the effects of the evil eye.[27]

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Evil eye

Nazars, charms used to ward off the evil eye.

The evil eye is a curse or legend believed to be cast by a malevolent glare, usually given to a person when they are unaware. Many cultures believe that receiving the evil eye will cause misfortune or injury,[1] while others believe it to be a kind of supernatural force that casts or reflects a malevolent gaze back-upon those who wish harm upon others (especially innocents). Talismans created to protect against the evil eye are also frequently called “evil eyes”.[2][3]

The idea expressed by the term causes many different cultures to pursue protective measures against it. The concept and its significance vary widely among different cultures, primarily in West Asia. The idea appears multiple times in Jewish rabbinic literature.[4] It was a widely extended belief among many Mediterranean and Asian tribes and cultures. Charms and decorations with eye-like symbols known as nazars, which are used to repel the evil eye, are a common sight across Portugal, Brazil, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Albania, Algeria, Tunisia, Lebanon, Turkey, Greece, Israel, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Bangladesh, Iran, Iraq, Nepal, Pakistan, parts of North India, Palestine, Morocco, southern Spain, Italy, Malta, Romania, the Balkans, the Levant, Afghanistan, Syria, and Bahrain, and have become a popular choice of souvenir with tourists.

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The Hand up: Abhayamudra

Remember: the message of all Gods, all traditions: FEAR NOT

Hindu Gods, most with right hand held up, palm out.

Buddha with his right hand in abhaya mudra.

Dewi Sri (Parvati) with her right hand in abhaya mudra, Bali Indonesia.[1]

The Abhayamudrā “gesture of fearlessness”[2] is a mudrā (gesture) that is the gesture of reassurance and safety, which dispels fear and accords divine protection and bliss in many Indian religions. The right hand is held upright, and the palm is facing outwards.[3] This is one of the earliest mudrās found depicted on a number of Hindu, Buddhist, Jain and Sikh images.

The abhayamudrā represents protection, peace, benevolence and the dispelling of fear. The Hindu god Nataraja is depicted with the second right hand making the Abhaya Mudra, bestowing protection from both evil and ignorance to those who follow the righteousness of dharma. In Theravada Buddhism, it is usually made with the right hand raised to shoulder height, the arm bent and the palm facing outward with the fingers upright and joined and the left hand hanging down while standing. In Thailand and Laos, this mudra is associated with the Walking Buddha, often shown having both hands making a double abhayamudrā that is uniform.

Yemanja, Iemanja:

Goddess protector of Africa, Brazil, and world Santeria Traditions

Goddess of the Andes:

See posters for info on:

Holy Water, blessed,

From Cathedral de Fatima

Note on Santeria: a serious faith of followers based on Afro-Brazilian Indignous religions, and is only mocked in caricature of voodoo, the New Orleans movie parody and not related to indigenous religions.

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Above info from Wikipedia.com

Now: this is water collected worldwide: use some sense here:

It’s not for children, ingestion.

It’s often used to anoint a forehead, objects, or places: but don’t drink, get on lips or eyes, mix with foods or drinks, give to children. If anointing pets, do on top of head, not eyes or mouth. Keep the contents away from children, jokers, pets.

This isn’t dirty water, but consider it as any water from a local creek or river: you don’t drink it. Hey, you’re an adult here so take charge of the concepts, bottle, because you’re assuming risks of misuse by others, kids, pets.

We’re providing a leak proof bottle, and pack to prevent breakage up front: all items at Scooter Bee’s are pretty scrutinized: no refunds or returns in any situation. We also don’t accept returns as nobody wants used stuff.

This is genuine: collected waters. To purchase means you’ve read all the text and know what you’re buying. We’re not shipping you several liters silly. Read all, buy, enjoy, be healed and don’t forget to bless that cat.

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Please ask the day your order, and we’ll add a set of full page copies of the “posters” above, for your use. No Charge.

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Where will you keep your Blessed Water, that you charge? Here’s a idea:

Treat the charged water just like you would if you were making a personal home altar:

Set an intention of finding an a bottle or air proof container that is special to you. Give it a week or two for that item to “find” you. For one person, it could be something found at a yard sale, old, but then you wash it. For another person, it could be something costly, or a bottle you then embellish with tiles or gems. What ever it is for you, it will be “important”. Than, add your water to the container. It’s just me, but I’d use a highly filtered water (even from the machine at Walmart), because this would be missing local contaminants and smells, but a simply bottle of your favorite commercial water would do!

Then, add 2-3 drops of Blessed Water. It will charge the whole bottle. As I’ve done this personally, and kept both the original blessed waters and my “charged water to use”, they last and last. For instance, I may dab my pets on the forehead, the doorways inside and out to, of my home, a sacred object that may mean nothing to another person, my own forehead with prayers, a piece of clothing for some reason of prayer, blessing, to unseat obstacles, and open myself to what I view as God, the Universe, the Mystery, and the universal and pan cultural myths of ALL religions and the gods within.

Unlike lighting a candle or incense daily in the morning, this blessed water blessings is often done on a special day, special time, or struggling time, occasionally. It’s also important to do at the start of journey, quest, new jobs, new relationships, new intentions and dreams. How and by who’s power does the water work? It is the Mystery that lives in every person, and it’s the mystery of how the Spiritual World works. There are those who doubt, or totally disbelieve anything, but there are those who know that this world is as real as the seen and touched world. It’s sort of like the mystery and science writers of 1,000 to 3,000 years ago: they wrote about particles smaller than atoms, and edges of universes, and other realities and parallel universes now accepted by the most noted brained physicists. Why would then so many worldwide believe in this unseen? Carl Jung, European Psychiatrist, wounded healer, and deceased, said:

These ideas are patterned in every brain to know and believe that. Some body tells you about the spiritual world (which is often apart from organized religion), and you just “know”. These concepts exist in all persons, all places, and all times that we know of. Even if you have persons in an isolated tribe, they have these spiritual concepts, which are brain archetypes called the Collective Unconscious of Man/Woman Kind. They are not just there for a survival mechanism. Did the great mystery called God, Deity, Universe or Mystery put them in our genetic code? Or are they part of our soul: we just function so naturally with a concept of the Beloved: one or many or a mystery that we seek, seeks us, can be prayed to, is part of each person’s personal definition of that (you know for yourself who the Beloved is, apart from, or just influenced by books), you can reach directly, and yet is a Mystery of the Unknown and Unseen.

Some Quotes from the Poet Rumi, 13 Century Mystic Sufi Poet, and Seminary Teacher at a school in Turkey that taught to seekers from All religions, not presenting a dogma view:

“God is nearer to you than your self.”

“Do not feel lonely, the entire universe is inside you.

Stop acting so small. You are the universe in ecstatic motion.

Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames.”

― Rumi

“One went to the door of the Beloved and knocked.

A voice asked: “Who is there?” He answered: “It is I.”

The voice said: “There is no room here for me and thee.”

The door was shut.

After a year of solitude and deprivation

this man returned to the door of the Beloved.

He knocked.

A voice from within asked: “Who is there?”

The man said: “It is Thou.”

The door was opened for him.

The minute I heard my first love story,

I started looking for you, not knowing

how blind that was.

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere,

they’re in each other all along.

Love is from the infinite, and will remain until eternity.

The seeker of love escapes the chains of birth and death.

Tomorrow, when resurrection comes,

The heart that is not in love will fail the test.

When your chest is free of your limiting ego,

Then you will see the ageless Beloved.

You can not see yourself without a mirror;

Look at the Beloved, He is the brightest mirror.

Your love lifts my soul from the body to the sky

And you lift me up out of the two worlds.

I want your sun to reach my raindrops,

So your heat can raise my soul upward like a cloud.

There is a candle in the heart of man, waiting to be kindled.

In separation from the Friend, there is a cut waiting to be

stitched.

O, you who are ignorant of endurance and the burning

fire of love–

Love comes of its own free will, it can’t be learned

in any school.

There are two kinds of intelligence: one acquired,

as a child in school memorizes facts and concepts

from books and from what the teacher says,

collecting information from the traditional sciences

as well as from the new sciences.

With such intelligence you rise in the world.

You get ranked ahead or behind others

in regard to your competence in retaining

information. You stroll with this intelligence

in and out of fields of knowledge, getting always more

marks on your preserving tablets.

There is another kind of tablet, one

already completed and preserved inside you.

A spring overflowing its springbox. A freshness

in the center of the chest. This other intelligence

does not turn yellow or stagnate. It’s fluid,

and it doesn’t move from outside to inside

through conduits of plumbing-learning.

This second knowing is a fountainhead

from within you, moving out.”

“What else can I say?

You will only hear

what you are ready to hear.

Don’t nod your head,

Don’t try to fool me—

the truth of what you see

is written all over your face!”

― Rumi, Rumi: In the Arms of the Beloved

tags: life, love, poetry, rumi 14 likes Like

“Why are you so enchanted by this world

when a mine of gold lies within you?”

― Rumi, Rumi: In the Arms of the Beloved

“In the heavens I see your eyes,

In your eyes I see the heavens.

Why look for another Moon or another Sun?—

What I see will always be enough for me.”

― Rumi, Rumi: In the Arms of the Beloved

“Lose yourself,

Lose yourself in this love.

When you lose yourself in this love,

you will find everything.

Lose yourself,

Lose yourself.

Do not fear this loss,

For you will rise from the earth

and embrace the endless heavens.

Lose yourself,

Lose yourself.

Escape from this earthly form,

For this body is a chain

and you are its prisoner.

Smash through the prison wall

and walk outside with the kings and princes.

Lose yourself,

Lose yourself at the foot of the glorious King. When you lose yourself

before the King

you will become the King.

Lose yourself,

Lose yourself.

Escape from the black cloud

that surrounds you.

Then you will see your own light

as radiant as the full moon.

Now enter that silence.

This is the surest way

to lose yourself. . . .

What is your life about, anyway?—

Nothing but a struggle to be someone,

Nothing but a running from your own silence.”

― Rumi, Rumi: In the Arms of the Beloved

“Then I looked within my own heart

and there I found Him—

He was nowhere else.”

― Rumi, Rumi: In the Arms of the Beloved

“I once had a thousand desires,

But in my one desire to know you

all else melted away.

The pure essence of your being

has taken over my heart and soul.

Now there is no second or third,

only the sound of your sweet cry.

Through your grace I have found

a treasure within myself.

I have found the truth of the Unseen world.

I have come upon the eternal ecstasy.

I have gone beyond the ravages of time.

I have become one with you!

Now my heart sings,

“I am the soul of the world.”

Rumi: In the Arms of the Beloved, book at all book resources.

Where will you keep your Holy Water?

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Thank you to my friend bringing me the Holy Water, official type, from Fatima and Lourdes. The other three were gathered on my own journeys and quests. All, come out of a “quest, seeking, journey, sincerity”

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I think for a while we’ll not put a glitzy label on the tiny bottles, so that it is fully neutral and you. Do you have feedback on this?

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