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abusedsanderssides · 3 years

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Rescued

Trigger/content warnings: Past abuse mention, unsympathetic Remus and Deceit, sympathetic Roman, Patton, and Logan, cursing, tying up, injuries, hurt/comfort, ptsd, rescuing from abusive home.

Ship(s): A little bit of Prinxiety at the end.

Characters: Virgil, Roman, Remus, Patton, Logan, and Deceit/Janus (before name reveal).

2014 words

Prompt: Can roman rescue virgil from this drabble

Requested by @im-a-flippen-dinosaur link

A/N: Sorry this took so long! I’ve had a bunch of stuff come up but I hope you like it! <3

- 4/26/21

Roman had just gotten out of the shower and changed into pajamas, feeling clean and refreshed. It was around midnight, so he went to his bed so he could sleep. He pulled back the covers and there lay a white rat with red eyes. Roman almost screamed, slapping his hand over his mouth before he did so he didn't wake anyone up.

He had to think for a second. Why in the Disney was there a rat in his bed? Then he realized. "Oh my god," Roman said out loud to himself, "Fucking Remus!"

Roman quickly snapped his fingers and the rat disappeared, a clean set of sheets now on his bed. Roman grabbed his sword off the wall and stormed out of his room, going to pay a visit to his brother.

Once he entered the Dark Sides' Mindscape he charged towards Remus' room. Roman kicked the door open and it slammed against the wall. Roman scanned the room, seeing Remus on his bed and his eyes latched onto him, not processing the other person in the room.

After a second Roman's eyes darted to what Remus was towering over. It was a small, pale, very skinny, and terrified boy covered head to toe in bruises and cuts. He was wearing a black hoodie and white and black plaid pajama pants with some black eyeliner under his eyes, and boy was he cute.

'Who is this man?' Roman thought. 'I've never seen him a day in my life.' Roman then noticed that the boy was tied up, wrists and ankles bound, rope tying his legs together as he leaned against Remus' headboard.

Roman's thoughts were cut off with his brother saying, "Well hello there. Now is not a great time for our fight so maybe go jack off and then come back. I'll probably be done with him by then." Roman's eyebrows were furrowed in confusion.

Virgil was overwhelmed. First, Remus dragged him out of his room and brought him to his, beating the living shit out of him for no reason. He didn't even do anything wrong! Then, Remus tied him up and threw him on the bed, crawling to hover over him and whisper all the horrible things he was going to do to Virgil in his ear. Then after that, this man dressed in white and red busted down Remus' door holding a sword and boy did he look furious.

What was going on? Was that man here to hurt Virgil too? Or was he here to save him? Virgil hoped and prayed for the latter, locking eyes with the man and sending him pleads and practically telling him his life story with just a look.

And the man looked... concerned? Why did he look concerned? Was he actually going to help Virgil or was he just going to take him and use him the same way Remus and Deceit do?

"What are you doing, Remus? Who is that? What are you doing to him?" The man asked, his voice rising a bit at the end making Virgil visibly flinch.

Remus laughed his manic laugh, huffing out, "This is none of your concern, brother." Wait, the man in white was Remus' brother? Virgil didn't even know he had a brother! Virgil looked back and forth from both men. He struggled against the bonds, causing Remus to snap his head back to him, holding Virgil down in a firm grasp.

The man in white looked furious, and that scared Virgil. Remus cackled, "I'm not saying sorry for the rat, by the way. That was hilarious!" Virgil could visibly see the anger in the man's face and he wondered if steam was going to come out of his ears.

Virgil watched as the man charged towards Remus with his sword, and Virgil flinched, falling off the bed in the process. The two brothers were rolling around on the floor, fighting. Remus had gotten his mourning star out, which Virgil knew from experience hurt, and he heard the metal clashing together.

Virgil spaced out. He wasn't processing what was going on, all the noise blurring together, and his vision got blurry. So Virgil didn't notice when Deceit stormed into the room, Roman quickly knocking them both out, snapping his fingers to tie them up back to back so they couldn't escape.

Roman hadn't noticed that Virgil fell off the bed, so he panicked when the boy was nowhere in sight. Roman rushed to the other side of the bed, seeing Virgil laying on the floor with his eyes shut tight and brows furrowed. Roman snuck towards the man as to not scare him, sitting down quietly. Virgil flinched when Roman's fingers brushed against his leg, attempting to curl in on himself even more.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise," The man spoke, and when Virgil didn't move a muscle he continued, "My name is Prince Roman and I'm here to rescue you. I'm going to take you somewhere safe, but I have to get this rope off first. Can I do that?"

Virgil slowly cracked one eye open, having a better look at the man, Roman, who showed nothing but sympathy on his face. Virgil took a second to think it over, nodding slowly. Roman reached behind Virgil and started to untie the rope.

Once Virgil was untied he muttered out, "Thank you." Roman took a second to try and figure out what he said, as it was barely audible.

He nodded his head, smiling, "You're very welcome, beautiful." Virgil blushed, hiding his face in his bangs. After a few seconds, Roman asked, "Can I pick you up? I need to take you somewhere safe, princess." Virgil nodded his head, flinching when Roman picked him up bridal style. Virgil panicked, quickly wrapping his arms around Roman's neck. Roman giggled, "Hey, it's okay. I'm not going to drop you, promise."

Virgil looked him in the eyes. He could faintly see a few freckles dusting his nose and cheeks, and deep brown eyes looking at him through long lashes. Virgil's heart skipped a beat, feeling honored that he was being held by this stunningly beautiful man.

Roman exited Remus' room, walking towards the door that Virgil wasn't allowed to go through. He didn't want to anyway, Remus told him there were monsters in there that could eat him in one bite. Roman went to open the door and Virgil struggled to escape his hold. "What's wrong?" He asked concern on his face as his hand dropped from the doorknob.

Virgil looked at him, confused. "W-what? T-there's m-monsters in there!" Roman looked taken aback.

He then let out a laugh that made Virgil blush, "What? No, silly. That's where us Light Sides are!" Virgil mouthed the words 'light sides' in confusion. What the fuck were light sides? "Do you not know?" Roman asked and when Virgil shook his head, he grabbed the doorknob again, "Guess I'll just have to show you then."

Roman opened the door and saw stairs behind it, leading up to somewhere. Roman climbed the stairs after closing the door, opening the door at the top of the stairs. Virgil saw that there was a living room, the same as where he lived, just much brighter and cleaner.

Virgil looked around his surroundings, Roman carefully setting him down on the couch. Virgil sunk into it, it was so comfortable! Roman sat down next to him, keeping his distance while still staying close.

Roman then slowly stood up. "Please stay here, I'll be right back. I promise." Virgil nodded, obeying Roman's orders, watching as Roman climbed the stairs.

A few minutes later he returned with two other men, both looking tired and had glasses. One wore a gray cat sweatshirt and pajama pants, the other wearing a black polo, blue tie, and blue jeans. Did he sleep in those?

The man with the cat hoodie widened his eyes when he saw Virgil, hurrying towards him, causing Virgil to curl in on himself and put his hands up in surrender. The man stopped where he was, kneeling down in front of where Virgil sat on the couch. "Hey," He spoke and Virgil immediately relaxed a bit, his voice being very calm. "It's okay, we're not going to hurt you. We're here to help."

"That is correct," The other said, and Virgil knew it must've been the other man as Virgil didn't recognize it as Roman or the one in front of him. Virgil lifted his head up, seeing three looks of concern and empathy. "Are you hurt?"

Virgil shook his head, confused. Why were they being so nice?

"My name is Patton," The man in front of him spoke, "and that's Logan," Patton said, turning towards the man in the tie. Virgil nodded his head, signaling he followed. "What your name, kiddo?"

"Anxiety," Virgil whispered, not trusting them with his real name yet. Patton nodded, reaching out to hold Virgil's hand, causing him to flinch away, shaking in fear.

"Hey, hey," Patton reassured, "I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe here." Virgil loosened up, complying and letting Patton hold his hand. "Oh my goodness you're freezing cold!" Patton exclaimed, careful not to raise his volume. "Do you want a blanket?" Virgil shook his head, not wanting to be a burden to them even though he was freezing.

"Are you hungry?" Logan asked. Virgil shook his head again.

"Tired?" Roman added, and Virgil nodded at that one.

Virgil was scared. He didn't know who these people were or what was going on, and it didn't help that he was the literal embodiment of anxiety. Virgil mumbled, barely above a whisper, "Please don't take me back."

Patton's eyes widened and he shook his head frantically, "Oh no, sweetie! Never! You're staying here where you're safe." Virgil let out a breath that he didn't realize he was holding him, slightly nodding his head. He didn't know if he could trust these men but they seemed nicer than Deceit and Remus, and even if they weren't nice people, Virgil didn't plan on going back to them ever in his life.

It was silent for a second before Logan spoke again, "Where would you like to sleep? Currently, as your arrival was a surprise, we cannot offer you your own room. Making you sleep on the couch would be highly rude and unsafe, so that is not an option."

Virgil thought for a second. Patton seemed really nice, but he feared that he might touch him too much as he seemed like a cuddly and affectionate person. Logan seemed cold, and Virgil didn't feel comfortable sleeping with him. So that left Roman. Virgil felt safe with Roman. He did rescue him, after all.

"C-can I sleep with R-Roman?" Virgil muttered out. All three nodded their heads and Virgil sighed contently.

Roman took a step forward, getting Virgil's attention. "Would you like me to carry you, princess?" Virgil blushed at the nickname, nodding his head in agreement. Roman picked him up bridal style, Virgil once again holding onto him. They all said goodnight to each other, agreeing to discuss this more in the morning, and Roman carried him up to his room.

Roman's room had the same layout as Remus's but they were decorated very differently. He has a huge bed with a red comforter, big windows, Disney posters (which Virgil loved), and it looked like a room in a royal castle. Roman set Virgil down on his bed and Virgil immediately relaxed into it, snuggling up against the soft sheets. Roman giggled, a light blush painting his cheeks.

"Let me tuck you in, silly." Roman covered Virgil with the blankets, smiling at the beautiful boy below him. "Would you like me to sleep on the floor?"

Virgil widened his eyes, quickly shaking his head. "No! Please stay." Roman obliged, slipping into bed next to Virgil. Virgil hesitantly curled up in Romans' chest, and big arms wrapped him in a hug.

Virgil felt safe. He felt loved. He felt wanted.

Roman was his hero.

#tw abusive content #tw abuse #abused sanders sides #abused ss writing #abused virgil #abusive remus #abusive deceit #abusive janus #hero roman #sympathetic roman #sympathetic patton #sympathetic logan #unsympathetic remus #unsympathetic deceit #unsympathetic janus #request

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koinoyokvn · 3 years

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* / 𝐈 𝐍 𝐓 𝐑 𝐎 𝐃 𝐔 𝐂 𝐓 𝐈 𝐎 𝐍

* JOSHUA HONG, CISMALE + HE/HIM | you know CHANHEE ‘SOUR PATCH’ BAN, right? they’re TWENTY-TWO, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, THIRTEEN YEARS? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to OCEAN DRIVE BY DUKE DUMONT like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole glitter stippled onto his cheeks, swinging at the playground at midnight & neon lights at a nightclub thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is july 1st, so they’re a cancer, which is unsurprising, all things considered.

hewwo everyone !! i’m kacchan n i, personally, am a bit of an idiot but !! do not let that distract u from the fact that i hav a few fun muses to write w !! i’ve been out of the rp scene for about a year but i’ve been spurred by rekindled inspiration !! i’m rlly excited to meet everyone n i hope we can get some delicious plots n connections that r chef’s kiss <3

trigger warnings: death tw, fire tw, alcohol tw

* / 𝐁 𝐀 𝐒 𝐈 𝐂 𝐒

hair: blackest brown

eyes: chestunut brown

build: slim & active

height: 5′9″ or 177 cm

weight: 127 lbs or 58 kg

distinguishing features: two lobe piercings on each ear, three helix piercings on each ear, an industrial piercing on his right ear, and a small tattoo with the roman numerals “XXIX - MMIX” written on his left wrist

distinguishing style: pastel colours & sparkling pieces make up most of his fashion, very bright jackets and very blushed makeup, designer outfits when he’s told to be on his best behaviour

* / 𝐇 𝐈 𝐒 𝐓 𝐎𝐑 𝐘

chanhee was born along the coast of north carolina, though not quite irving. he was born to a head butler and head nanny of a wealthy estate on irving. very old money, invested in the surrounding agriculture and lumber of the area. his parents were live-in employees, constantly tending to the estate. chanhee lived on the estate as an infant but, as soon as he was old enough to go to school, he lived with his aunt in the city he was born in and only spent summers on the estate.

his mother was kind and charming, graceful with the way she tended to the children of the wealthy family. she always had stories and was filled with compassion. his father was surly and deadpan, a cynical man that always saw the worst in things. but it’s his cynicism that allowed him to thrive as the butler, as he feared the worst, he prepared for it, and all his father’s plans would turn out seamless. chanhee loved the summers. he loved spending every day with his parents. when he was at school, he told everyone that he would become the head butler of the estate just like his father. the family career, so to speak.

chanhee quickly befriended the children of the estate. when they would go to tutors, he would go to the laundry rooms and the gardens. but whenever it was free time, he was stuck to their side. he would join them on their fishing adventures and beach escapades, but he didn’t know much about irving beyond the estate. he was just a visitor, a tourist, every time he would go downtown.

he though life would always be like this. going to school and being with his aunt during the winter, and enjoying every moment of the day during the summer. and when he would finish school, he would move to irving and work under his father’s eyes. that was his destiny... only, it wasn’t.

his father loved stage plays. it was the only thing that could make him smile, other than his family. when chanhee was 10, he was having a “sleepover” with the children of the estate while his parents took the night off. they drove to chanhee’s hometown, met with his father’s sister, and they all went to a stage play. but they didn’t come home. the theatre caught on fire and the building was brought down. eight casualties, three of them being chanhee’s mother, father, and aunt. chanhee wasn’t the wiser until the next morning.

chanhee had no grandparents. his aunt was his only immediate family. he had an uncle from his grandmother’s brother in korea. the only extended family he had. chanhee... to go all the way to korea? and if his uncle was contacted and said no, he would be placed into the foster system. this wasn’t supposed to be the way his life panned out. he was supposed to be the head butler of the estate, wasn’t he?

the wealthy wife hadn’t stopped crying since the funeral. and the wealthy husband, holed up in his study and only coming out to get more drinks, muttering how he only trusted chanhee’s father to hand him things. the wealthy family was mourning, too. while chanhee’s custody was in limbo, he was staying with the wealthy family. an act of compassion brought him to hold the wealthy wife and weep with her, telling her that everything would be okay because his parents are still in every inch of the house. they made their life here and that can’t be taken away. very profound words and chanhee was speaking each from the memory of his mother and what she would always say. that was it!

the next weeks were getting the paperwork settled. the uncle from korea was never contacted. instead, the wealthy family adopted chanhee as their own. that way, chanhee would never be far from what he knows and the wealthy family would have always have his parents’ spirit with them. chanhee was now a permanent residence of irving. he was allowed to keep his surname, a request from chanhee himself.

the transition was a little rocky. chanhee would always drift away from his lessons to help around the estate and get caught by his tutors, disciplined for being tardy or absent. he was critical of food being cooked for him as he learned how to cook quite young and would always help his parents. this transition created a sort of dependency on chanhee’s favourite treats: sour patch kids. he would always have a bag near or around him. when he was upset, some would be brought to him. it got to the point where his newly adopted siblings would call him “sour patch”. eventually, the nickname stuck and never left. he was now sour patch ban, newfound heir.

he never meant to be unruly. but when his troublemaker sister asked him to join her on a party, he couldn’t let her go alone. he wouldn’t be a very good brother if that were the case. it quickly escalated, however, once he let alcohol into his system. soon, it was him and his sister, sneaking out every weekend to find trouble. high school was spent falling asleep in classes but doing stellar on tests and assignments, many thanks to private tutors. it was spent dreading his extracurriculars, though it helped him learn how to play piano, guitar, and the drums. he was also a talented singer, though he does get a bad case of stage fright if he’s asked to sing in front of a crowd.

now that he’s graduated high school, he’s kind of drifting. not sure where he wants to go or what to do. his parents always assured him that he would be loved and taken care of no matter what he decided to do. so for now, he takes a lax business course at the university, just to say he’s trying. otherwise, he’s out on the town, drinking and smoking and laughing and playing away. sometimes he thinks about making his music career, even joining a band with his friends, and maybe making that his life. but something always gripes about him, how that estate is supposed to be his life. anything beyond it almost seems... inauthentic. is that why he spends so much time drinking? never committing to anything? hm, who knows.

* / 𝐏 𝐄 𝐑 𝐒 𝐎 𝐍 𝐀 𝐋 𝐈 𝐓 𝐘

sour patch is definitely someone who tries to make everyone around him smile. he’s kind, affable, super sweet, and thoughtful. he makes an effort to remember the small things people tell him. he’s a bit of an over-analyzer this way, trying to figure out what people want. his motif is to always help people.

but that’s not to say he doesn’t have problems of his own. he’s scared of commitment in any regard and he hides his true feelings quite a lot. he doesn’t want to seem a burden or something to invoke pity, so he never lets on how much something hurts him. he’s quite emotional and can cry at the drop of a pin. he just invests a lot of himself into other people and, of course, that never bodes well.

he’s also a huge romantic. now, mix that with his commitment issues and his mask-wearing, it’s not a pretty trait of his. he has a tendency to fall in love with anyone who shows him a remote kindness. he scoops up opportunities to be intimate while he’s partying because they simulate true affection just enough for him to get addicted to it. but, he’s sensitive and noncommittal, so he can fall out of love just as easily.

* / 𝐂 𝐎 𝐍 𝐍 𝐄 𝐂 𝐓 𝐈 𝐎 𝐍 𝐒

save your tears — sour patch went all in with his chips with this relationship. he really thought that he could unlearn his life of flimsy whimsical habits. but, that’s not the only thing that’s stopping him from being a good partner. maybe it was the nonstop drinking, the hesitancy to show vulnerability, or his inability to get out of his daydreams. but it fell apart. sour patch never stopped caring about this person, however, and he wants to try and be better for them. but will they let him? ( 0/1 )

banana brain — sour patch isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. although he’s always kind to everyone, he can come off ingenuine. however, he’s determined to be this person’s friend. he feels like he can help them, even though he knows that his presence is unwanted. extravagant gifts, surprise visits, the whole shebang. sour patch is persistent even though it’s a futile mission. ( 0/3 )

i wonder — the current pinnacle of sour patch’s affections. maybe this person is a classmate, or a regular at one of his regular spots too, or just happened to perform a random act of kindness. sour patch is quite the romantic individual and overthinks any minute interaction. this is amped up with this person. be prepared. i would prefer if this is unrequited but we can see how it goes, too! ( 0/1 )

eyes closed — sour patch is using this person to distract himself from something he can’t attain. does this person know that? well, only time can tell. it’s hard to see beyond sour patch’s masks sometimes. maybe it’s mutual and this person is also distracting themself from something else. however, it almost feels real. every touch and whisper. it’s just missing some sort of spark. that inescapable romantic ideal that it’s meant to be. ( 0/1 )

SPECIAL MENTIONS: sour patch adores having friends and is a very social creature, he wants to be close with everyone. sour patch also has his share of one night stands and drunken encounters, and not all of them are good. these connections won’t have limits because i’m a fiend for friends/fwb/rivals.

#irvingintro #files.#files: chanhee ban.#death tw #fire tw #alcohol tw

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theyungrose · 4 years

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Be Good (Roman X OC Short Story)

Chapter 2

You ever had one of those cries? Yeah, one of those. The ones that make your head pound and make your nose stuffy, the ones you have to take a break from and focus on deep breaths because it feels like your chest is caving in.

You cry sitting up, you cry laying down. You cry on your way to the store, you cry on your way home.

And there isn’t a single thing you can do without thinking about him.

I attempted packing up my things for the third time this week, but each time I came back to it, it felt like I got weaker. Like facing this truth grew into a bigger monster each time I revisited it, and I was getting smaller and less powerful.

I fell down next to my open suitcase knees first on the forgiving carpet, carefully folding up jeans and button ups, stashing heels and sneakers in the spaces in between. The tears were uncontrollable, maybe once or twice I’d crack a smile at a funny ad or a meme that popped up on my Instagram, but after that fleeting moment it was back to Alessia Cara and sobbing.

Somewhere in the midst of all that, the front door opened with a long beeeep, followed by heavy footsteps that I didn’t hear until they were right behind me.

“Aaliyah..?”

There was no way to wipe all these tears quick enough for him not to see, and even then he probably heard me coming up the stairs.

I’d probably just burst into tears looking him in his face anyways.

“Aaliyah I’m sorry I should’ve told you.”

Roman’s warm hand jolted the entire left side of my body when he placed it on my bare shoulder, he was knelt down behind me now, heavy chin resting at the crown of my head. I couldn’t find the words to speak so I just continued folding, biting back sobs so the tears could fall silently down the front of my face.

His free hand stopped mine, tearing the shirt away and tossing it across the room.

“Why did you do that ?”

“Because you’re not leaving... I am.”

He released a deep sigh, still covering my hand with his he led them down gently to rest on my thigh.

“I want you to keep everything Aaliyah, the house, the beds, the goddamn cable, everything is yours. Keep it.”

I choked on a sob trying to speak.

“W-why do you want me to stay here? It’s your house you keep it.”

“It was...our house.”

Was. Am I sensing a twinge of regret in that tone of voice?

“Roman how can you expect me to stay here? Walk these halls, eat at that...table, sleep in our bed?”

There was no need to hide that I was in total pieces anymore, and turning around to face him I felt my heart flutter then sink in one passing moment.

“How do you expect me to live here alone? Without you?”

Roman tugged his lips to the side of his face and stayed silent, looking down at the soft carpeting between us. His lack of emotion and response agitated me.

“So you just get to up and leave everything behind and I’m stuck with the baggage and the burdens right? That’s fair to you?”

“I don’t want you to be out.”

“And instead I lie in your spot of the bed and try to sleep? Or leave it empty and let the sheets grow cold in just that spot? Might as well keep the pictures up too, and try not to rem-”

The last of my sentence got cut off by a sob I was trying so hard to hold back, at least until the end of my rant. Roman’s frown drooped even lower seeing this, and he reached out his hands to try and hold my shoulders again.

“Peaches I-”

“No, no listen to me. I’ll keep the pictures up and force myself to forget smiling that hard or laughing that loud or how warm your hand felt when it was holding mine, or how it feels to be in your arms.”

I was crying so hard I was shaking at this point, and again I had to take a break and focus on breathing so my chest wouldn’t cave in.

“Baby...”

“No I’m not done! What happens when your friends come? Or my friends come? They’ll look at me and ask what went wrong, why we didn’t try harder, and how I can live everyday walking in and out of a broken memory. And when the ones that don’t live close call asking for you, tell me how I’m supposed to respond?”

“I-”

“Should I keep your half of the leftovers in the fridge for you? Or your favorite beer that I only buy to see the look on your face? Who dries the dishes when I wash them now? Who mops when I sweep? Who chooses whether we watch sports or... Scandal?”

My heart was burning in my chest with every word I spoke, and with his hair pulled back I could see the tears welling up in Roman’s eyes, threatening to spill at the slightest blink. I couldn’t hold myself back anymore; I threw my arms around his abdomen and let my head fall into his chest, staining his grey cotton with wet spots.

“You’re leaving and you’re asking me to stay.”

A drop of water greeted my bare shoulder, followed by two more, then another one after. His strong arms cradled my shivering frame, and for a second, it felt like everything might have been okay. As if this was just a tiny fight, a tiff even, and now we were both crying, and the only thing left was to kiss and make-up.

Oh how I wish the dreams of my mind were the reality I lived in.

“I’m so sorry Aaliyah. I wish things were different, I really do.”

There goes kissing and making up. Quicker than I think he expected, I broke myself away from his embrace and used my palms to wipe my tears and my nose, good thing I wasn’t wearing makeup.

“If you want me to keep the house fine I don’t care, just please take your clothes... and we can take down all the pictures together. I want to strip this place to the bones.”

Roman nodded silently, now wiping his own tears.

“I uh... I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Well we both know it won’t be a pitch to get back together and have steamy make-up sex while it pours outside. A girl can only dream.

“What is it?”

Roman sniffled, taking a pause I assume to put his words gently and in the correct order.

“I just wanted to say... that since we work together and stuff...if you’re going to talk to other people...or-or see other people.”

Is that really where his head was at? Here I was, crying so hard that my face was turning red even under this brown complexion, I just told him how empty my life would be without him, and he’s worried about me sleeping with another guy?

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“I’m not going to talk to anyone else.”

I didn’t even look at him saying that, shattered at the fact that he believed that anyone could ever be after him. I wouldn’t even have a heart to give.

“Okay... I’m not planning on talking to anyone either. I just want- even though we’re broken up now... I want us to still be good to each other. I hate seeing you cry, and I don’t want to be the reason...”

Roman trailed off once he realized what he was saying and his arms wrapped around me once more, pulling me into his chest. This embrace was cold though, rigid; I couldn’t allow myself to revel in his warmth or his scent. All of this meant nothing now, we were broken up. Over.

There was no comfort in his touch. No love in his smile. No future in his eyes. It was no use allowing myself to feel those things anymore, because soon he would get up off this carpet, pack up his clothes, and leave.

And the only thing I’d have here to comfort me is a catalyst and these chest-heaving cries.

#romanreigns #roman reigns #wwe #roman reigns fanfiction #romanreignsfanfiction #roman reigns x oc #romanreignsxocfanfiction #joe anoa'i #joeanoai #joeanoa'ifanfiction

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a-little-dreamer-s-world · 4 years

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Desperate Times and Desperate Measures (Can Lead to Good Things)

So, this was my secret santa gift for @lovebug5151! I’m so, so sorry that this is so late, and I hope I got what were some of the things you wanted. I’ve been under a lot of stress recently, but now it’s behind me so I was finally able to post this! For anyone else wondering, this was a sanders sides g/t secret santa event held by @secret-sanders-sized!

Warnings?: Sickness mention, Loceit, Deceit as a character, allusion to past trauma with no description to it, anxious thoughts,

_____________________

It was quiet within the walls.

Dee wasn’t sure if he should be bothered by that fact or not. The boys, Roman and Remus, were both asleep in their beds. Normally, they would both stay up to talk and giggle with each other; the last few days had been rough, though, so he could understand why they weren’t in the mood to be playful. But for now, that’s not what he could focus on. No, there was something else entirely.

Logan was ill.

Now, if they were human, it wouldn’t be a big deal; take some medicine, a lot of rest and fluid, and you’d feel better after a few days. But Dee and Logan weren’t human. They were borrowers.

Dee sat beside their shared bed, a bowl of cool water next to him as he used a scrap of cloth to wipe at Logan’s forehead. Lo was currently asleep, a fever coursing through his body that was almost painful to watch. When he finished, he put the cloth back into the bowl to soak as he tenderly reached over to hold his hand.

“What am I going to do, Lo?” He asked quietly, trying to keep him from waking. They weren’t human beans; they couldn’t go out of the house to get medicine. Whatever was in this house was in their grasp, but that came with its own risks. Much more likely to get caught, much more likely to get stuck, and worse of all, much more likely to overdose.

Dee froze when Logan’s head moved toward him, blinking slowly at him. “Honeybee?” he asked, his voice raspy from sleep and from sickness.

“Yes, Logan?” he breathed out, squeezing his hand.

“Are the boys okay?” He tried to sit up, but he groaned as his very bones seemed to protest at the movement. Dee quickly got him to lie back down, petting his hair.

“Yes, they’re both in their beds, I made sure,” he said to him, trying to smile a bit. Logan shakily reached out and rubbed a thumb on the large scar that covered the side of his face, making him close his eyes and lean in the feeling. His hands were ice cold, much colder than they usually were.

“Dee, do me a favor,” Logan said, his voice hushed.

“Anything in my power,” he immediately said, looking at him with an aching worry.

“Go grab me a piece of paper and some lead,” he said, letting go of Dee’s cheek. The other man nodded, getting from the bed. He swiftly left to go down the hall towards the living room, but he paused at the boys’ room.

Roman and Remus were fast asleep, Roman’s bed empty and Remus’s holding double the amount of sleepers. He smiled softly at the sight of them; they liked to sleep together when one of them had bad dreams, or when they stayed up talking and scheming.

His smile fell as he left, going into the next room to grab what Logan wanted. He made his way back quickly, trying not to wake the boys up. When he came back into their shared room, Dee sat down next to the bed in his spot from before, handing Logan paper and lead.

Logan reached over to their bedside table, a spool of thread that had been cut in half (the other half being in the boys’ room), to put on his glasses. He blinked a few more times to get readjusted, looking down at the paper and getting to work.

Dee watched him write strings of numbers he could only wish to understand; before Logan had to move and found himself here, he had lived at a college professor’s home. It was there that he used the textbooks to learn much more complicated math than the simple adding and subtracting many borrowers knew.

When he was done, Logan flipped the piece of paper over and started writing normal words; he wrote simply, and Dee was grateful for that. He had grown up in the country; specifically in a barn, and it wasn’t until he moved into the more urban areas that he started learning to read.

“Here,” Logan whispered, handing him the paper. He took it, and his eyes began to widen as he understood what he wanted.

“Lo, are you sure?” he breathed, looking at the answer to what would hopefully solve their problem; an exact amount of how much a painkiller he could take.

Logan nodded, taking his glasses off again. “It will help me be well again, so then I’m not a burden.”

“Never,” Dee reached over to squeeze his hand. “Never to me. Never have been, never will be.”

His love gave him that small, rare smile he loved to see, though to see it on a face so pale made his throat close up. Dee leaned over to kiss his forehead once and got up, getting his borrowing bag ready. He had medicine to get, afterall.

_____________________

Within one of the bedrooms of the Sanders’ home, a teenager lay on his bed with his headphones in, listening to punk rock music as he worked over something he hated with a burning passion: algebra homework.

Virgil sighed out as he sat up, rubbing his temples for the umpteenth time since he started this an hour ago. The fourteen year old may have been smart, sure, but even he didn’t think he could keep doing this for a minute longer.

He paused his music to take off his headphones, stretching his arms out and arching his back backwards. He stood up and went to his backpack against his dresser, pulling out a battered sketchbook. He snatched up a pen off his dresser and began to pace around, trying to think of anything to sketch.

His dad was downstairs making dinner, so he couldn’t do anything with him at the moment. Normally he’d help him, but this was something new they were trying, and his dad liked to know what he was doing so he knew how to teach him. He did offer to bake cookies with him after though, so he would probably take him up on that offer.

He groaned even more when he tossed the sketchbook on the bed, changing his mind to go get some pjs and take a shower. If he couldn’t draw, and he really didn’t want to go back to algebra, he could at least get himself cleaned up and ready for bed a bit early, right?

He went out into his hallway to go grab a towel out of the linen closet, light footsteps barely heard over the sound of clanking pots further away in the one-story home. When he got into the bathroom, he paused to notice that the medicine cabinet above the sink was cracked open.

Virgil frowned as he set his clothes on top of his toilet, going over to open it up. Did his dad get cut or something and he left the door open? There wasn’t any blood in the sink, so he didn’t think so. When he opened, nothing seemed to be out of place, which confused him even more. The cabinet door was sturdy; it didn’t just swing open on its own. So what…?

As he was about to close it again, he thought he saw something move inside, making him stop to open it again. All was still once more, but now his suspicions were raised as he carefully started to move things around.

When he got to a bottle of cough syrup a sudden sharp pain came from his index finger, making him yelp as his hand pulled back with the bottle. He dropped it though, with growing eyes and his mouth starting to hang open, when he realized what was standing in the cabinet.

It was a tiny man, maybe a bit taller than his finger, standing there with a safety pin in his hand and a glare in his eyes. Virgil didn’t know what to say, taking a single step forward as all his brain could make him say was, “Uhhh…”

“Don’t come a single step closer,” the tiny man spat out, and Virgil couldn’t help but listen as he took in what he was seeing. This man was standing so close to the edge of the shelf, pointing out that safety pin right at him. The whole half of his face was scarred (burns, maybe?) and twisted in anger. No, it wasn’t anger at all.

It was fury.

“W-Wait, don’t move,” he finally said, worry starting to seep out as he realized just what kind of fall at that height would really hurt the man, and he didn’t want him to do anything like that thanks to him.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” the man said, taking another step closer, another step to teeter on the edge. “I can and will make your life a personal hell if you try to lay a finger on me.”

“Please don’t move,” Virgil pleaded, his arms waving a bit in an attempt to calm him down. “I-I don’t want to do anything to you, so please—”

“Don’t think I don’t know your games, bean!” He yelled at him, making Virgil freeze at just how much hatred was in his voice. “You say you won’t do anything, but then you’ll set up traps to get me out, or better yet, you’ll do something like this,” he pointed at his face where the scar laid, “just because you can!”

Virgil felt confusion and anxiety and who knew what else course through at the tiny man’s words, but he couldn’t say anything when nothing came to mind.

“I’m not going to let that happen! So, get—” his tone changed to surprise and fear as his footing slipped, making him wobble over the edge and start going down. Virgil worked on pure instinct, rushing forward with his hands out, feeling a very small weight land in them. He slowly opened his eyes, peering down at the small man in the dark clothes, the smallest pack he’d ever seen by his side and spilled out.

Their eyes met, and for a solid minute the whole world felt like it had gone still. Virgil could barely breathe, but his brain was starting to process the whole fact that this tiny man, so impossibly small, was now in hands. He realized something else too: he was trembling, trembling with a fear he was trying so hard not to show.

The teen reacted quickly and carefully, leaning forward to set the man down on the bathroom counter. He happened to glance down and see that one of the things that had come out of the bag was a painkiller; that was probably why the man was in the cabinet in the first place.

“I’m so sorry, are you okay!” he blurted out, his hand slapping over his mouth. For reasons he didn’t know why himself, he turned around and went out the bathroom door, closing it behind him to dash back into his room. He got to the side of his bed and slid down, his hand still over his mouth.

He sat there in silence for a while, rubbing his temples as he tried to process everything he saw. As he did, other thoughts came into his mind. Where did the man come from? Had he always been here? Why was he taking a painkiller? What was he, and were there anymore?

He shook his head as the last question entered his mind, standing up. He didn’t know, and it wasn’t any of his business. He slowly went back out of his room, going to the bathroom door once more. He rapped a knuckle against the door and pressed an ear against it, listening for any movement. Nothing.

He opened the door to peek inside, finding it completely empty. He looked around, finding nothing that showed that the tiny man had been there. He did find the bottle of cough syrup on the ground, picking it up to put away.

He was starting to think that maybe he’d imagined the whole thing up somehow when something caught his eye. Curled up in the corner of the cabinet was a pile of string with a metal piece at the end. He picked it up carefully in his fingers, examining it. It looked like… a rope and hook. It clicked to him then that that must have been how the man had gotten inside in the first place, but now he had left it behind all thanks to him.

He chewed on his lip as he thought of what to do when he heard his dad calling him. “Hey, kiddo! Dinner’s ready, do you want to eat?”

Virgil quietly pocketed the tiny man’s hook and got out of the bathroom, calling back, “Yeah, one sec!” He glanced at his clothes on the toilet seat, his shower long forgotten. He could take one when he was done eating, and he figured he’d put the hook on the floor somewhere hidden, so that maybe the man would find it again. As much as he wanted to meet him again, he didn’t think it would be a good idea.

Unaware to him in that moment, Dee had made his way back home, a bit shaken up, but happy to be back safe and sound. He’d spend the rest of the evening to take the pain killer and scrape off the amount Logan gave him to help get better. This would make Logan better by the next day, and the day after his fever would break for good, but he didn’t know that yet.

And unaware to the borrowers that lived in the Sanders’ home, Virgil’s sketchbook would start filling with doodles of a strange tiny man with a scar on his face, as well as lists of things he could try to leave for him, for the next few weeks to come.

#g/t writing #g/t #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #logan sanders #virgil sanders #sanders sides #infinitesimal!sides

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flateshippingrates · 4 years

Text

Always Yours

A/N: This idea was suggested by @nicohasahappymeal :)

Ship: Solangelo

Words: 3095

Ao3

It was not common for Will to leave camp, but it did happen from time to time and, by the Gods, this week was one of those times until further notice. The Roman camp was short staffed and were in need of a healer to help teach others and work alongside in the infirmary. It was a good learning experience for everyone; Will could learn different techniques and they could share some knowledge the Greeks had as well. It was a win-win; well, it almost was except for the fact it meant he would have to leave Nico which was hard enough as is but was intensified when they learned the ghost king was being summoned to the Underworld.

They weren’t sure if they would have any time to talk or if their schedules would match up at all. Nico tended to have no concept of time when he was in the Underworld for more than a few days, basing his time on how often he slept but that was, of course, a faulty system. It had been several days since their last Iris message and frankly Will was homesick. No one here seemed to understand when he was joking or when he was being serious or that some of his southern expressions were meant to be passive aggressive in the nicest way possible. It was like he was speaking Greek to them.

He just wanted to go home. He just wanted to be with Nico.

That night the blond was left to flop down on the bed in a tired huff, overgrown hair flaring out like a halo, and knocking all the air out of him. He had his own room which was a nice change but going from being around people constantly to no-one at all was a little jarring. Blue eyes scanned the hardly lived in room to check the time (was 7 o’clock too early to go to bed?) and was surprised when he saw a letter on his nightstand.

It was in a simple, white envelope, clearly labeled “Willow” in sharp handwriting and a ‘W’ substantially larger than all the other letters; it was typical of Nico to make the capital letters tower over the lowercase. Turning it over he found a black, wax seal with the helmet of Hades on it, and while he was curious how this got to him Will knew not to question Nico. Instead, he did his best to open it without destroying the seal completely. The letter read as follows:

Dear Willow,

I hope you don’t mind if I write to you, since (and I am sure this will not surprise you) I have lost track of time. I miss you terribly and, even if you cannot respond, I still want you to know I have thought of nothing but you since we were separated.

I am ragged and exhausted and want to take a break to be home or, at the very least, in your arms and to share a clementine with you. I would split it in half but if you said you were still hungry I would happily give you my part as well. I just want a bite so I can taste what you taste. I want us to have even more in common today, and the next, and for as long as time moves forward so that, for a moment, while loving each other, it feels like the same as loving ourselves and as if we are sharing a piece of citrus.

I will write again tomorrow.

Always yours,

Nico

And that’s how it began, as simple as that: a letter came in once a day in an identical looking envelope and filled with sweet words that made being apart more bearable. Will looked forward to this but desperately wished he could write something back or give Nico some idea that he was actually reading them. Sometimes he would even reread the same notes over and over again--especially on the days when the infirmary took all his energy; some days it was all he had to look forward to.

It was hard being at the Roman camp because their schedule was stricter and left little room for experimenting. They used more medicine based practices over Will’s preferred healing powers. He also found that their infirmary lacked any ambiance. Where were the sweet smelling oils, soft singing, and idle conversation between the doctor and patient? It felt more sterile and as if the goal was only to rush people in and out as fast as possible without reassuring them that they could come back with any questions or concerns.

He tried to teach the new medics the power of human empathy but not everyone took to it. When he thought of all the fits he got from Greek campers compared to the well-oiled machine that was the Roman camp, he felt kind of silly for complaining about it. He supposed what he missed most of all was the personality of Camp Halfblood. The worst part of this situation being that he knew one day he would have to be in this camp, especially if he wanted to stay under some protection. He would have to learn to love it whether he wanted to or not and that is just what he tried to do. He decided he would try to keep on the sunny side as best he could when he was working.

There was also the matter of Nico’s friends here and how they often tried to make Will feel like he was part of their group. It felt awkward and forced at times though. He was not part of this original collective which lead to feelings of doubt; they were most likely hanging out with him because he was Nico’s boyfriend and not because they actually liked him. It wasn’t that Will had never been insecure before yet this felt different. He didn’t have Nico here to reassure him that everyone did like him or thought he was a vital part of the team. Instead, all he had were these letters and they could only make shots in the dark at what Will needed to hear at that moment.

He went back to his room relatively early, picking at his food, and was eager to see if the note had arrived yet. There was a dissipating shadow as he entered the room, allowing Will to know how Nico was transporting the letters (it was so small he knew it would only be a hand traveling), as well as a sense of ease knowing he wouldn’t immediately be left alone with his thoughts. The blond sat on the bed, just as careful as always when he opened the letter, and read:

Dear Willow,

I met with Hypnos today; we sat in his field of poppies and, as I’m sure you know, we could not speak freely for no noise and no light can enter his grotto but he did allow me some knowledge for my quest and of you. He is a kind God and has agreed to give you deeper sleep tonight to calm your unease at the Roman camp. I was not aware you were feeling so out of place among our friends.

You are the greatest ally we could ever ask for. That is why they asked you to go to their camp in the first place. If they seem stiff or awkward around you it is because they have never felt the embrace of your true laugh. We will be in our home before you know it, Will. I am sure of it. For now, make the best you can of the situation. I promise I will be there soon.

I am sending this letter, but I wish it were me instead.

Always yours,

Nico

It was true that a good night’s rest could change your perception to the point you would not recognize yourself the next day. This attitude adjustment helped him ease back into work and look at the new work environment as refreshing rather than a burden. He did start to see certain swaps that could help his own infirmary; for example, the thorough documentation of everything that happened. It could be such a pain having to note it but when he wasn’t sure what treatment a patient was given he wasn’t finding himself running around to ask who treated them. It, also, was nice to know exactly how much someone was eating to see how the medicine was affecting them.

He still missed Nico deeply, of course, but now he was finding it easier to focus on the daily tasks at hand. It wasn’t out of neglect or falling out of love; he just understood he was doing no one a favor by sulking and pining for his boyfriend. This was just one of the downsides of being in a relationship. The daily letters did help ease his mind which is exactly why when he didn’t get one that night he practically spiraled into a panic attack.

It wasn’t like Nico to just <i>forget</i> Will like that! What if something happened to him? The blond was not sure if he should pack a bag and go to the Underworld himself! He was pacing around until almost midnight before decided to go to sleep and choose a plan of action in the morning. If Nico was in a fight Will wouldn’t be doing him any favors by messaging him.

Sleep should come easy after a long day at work yet concern would not allow him a decent rest. He woke up every hour on the hour, no matter how hard he tried to stay asleep. Maybe Nico just forgot or fell asleep or lost track of time? Surely nothing happened, right? By 3AM and no word from his sunspot, Will tried to Iris message him but was immediately brushed away. This did nothing to soothe his anxiety in the least; Come morning he was so tired and worried that he was unable to work with a competent hands so he was sent back to rest for the day.

He tried three more times in succession to Iris message Nico, always being immediately disconnected, until the Goddess eventually snapped, “Oh my Gods, you again? Give it a rest, buddy!”

So now he had no way of contacting his boyfriend.

He paced around the room for another hour, doing his best to formulate a solid plan to get Nico back from the Underworld like a modern day Orpheus. There would be plenty of people at the Roman camp who would be willing to help him, afterall. They knew his worth, not only for him being a friend, but as a great ally to have if another war comes. During all this frenzied planning and organizing, Will failed to notice a letter being placed onto the nightstand, along with a small bag of coins for Iris messaging, until he turned around to see a retracting shadow.

Apollo may be the God of the sun, but in that moment Will would have bet he moved faster than the speed of light upon seeing that letter. He ripped it open like his life depended on it and skimmed the card so fast he didn’t process at first. The blond forced himself to take a few calming breaths, still shaking with anticipation and, much slower this time, read:

Dear Willow,

I am fine. I was resting after a MINOR injury and forgot to ask my father to send my letter to you. It was not a good time for Iris messages either (I am really fine, this is not a cover up) so I have sent you a few coins to make up for all your calls. Don’t waste your money.

My father told me yesterday that I should be coming home to you soon and I can’t think of any greater joy in life than to be with you undisturbed after so long. I love you and have woken up in the middle of the night to write this letter. I am ready to say nothing but “I love you, Will” for the next lifetime.

I have missed drowning in your laughter and finding all the air I could ever need in the crook of your neck. I want to lie beside you and love you, fully and without apology. Would you let me love you? Would you come and love me?

If I could walk into your room now, I swear, I would never long to be anywhere else; not even Olympus could offer me any home greater than the one I’ve made with you. The number of hours we have been together has not been long enough to satisfy me--they are sweet and so quick and the hours apart have doubled with bitterness. I want any excuse to be with you tonight. When I come back, I promise I will always linger behind you and forget my scarf in our home before work so I always have a reason to come back. I will always come back to you.

Always yours,

Nico

And it was true, in three days time Nico was stumbling through a shadow right into Will’s arms with the look of utter exhaustion written on his face. The Italian was roughed up with bruises and cuts, but he had definitely seen worse in his day. As much as he would have loved to immediately cuddle with the son of Hades though, Will knew he needed to wash the dry blood from his face and stop what looked like a still bleeding nose. When his tanned fingers ran through black hair it was matted, feeling greasy and crusty at the roots like he was unable to clean it for the last month; still, Will loved it. He loved all of it.

His pants were too big on Nico and had to be rolled up at the ends but with a belt he was able to wear them with no problem. The son of Hades was resting his head against Will in the evening after showering and finally feeling safe as his hair was tenderly brushed against with skillful, surgeon hands. It was the most peace either of them had gotten in the last month and, not ready to see the others yet, they hid in Will’s room. Their moods were mellow and they were happy, content, and enjoying it while they could, because they understood moments like these didn’t last forever; all they could do was try to memorize it for a later memory. How could they forget how their hands fit together so perfectly though?

“Hey, Neeks,” Will said with a sweet smile, “I was thinking… wouldn’t it be cute if we brushed each other’s hair?”

The son of Hades looked up--his attention definitely caught--and nodded slowly. This was one of those times where he was not sure if this was a normal thing that couples did or if it was exclusive to them. Will was the one who understood what was normal behavior in this time, or in general, and if his boyfriend was recommending it then surely it was not so strange. It did sound nice too; he couldn’t remember the last time he brushed his hair. Most of all though, he just wanted to touch Will and be touched back.

The brush went through Will’s hair easily and the curls spread in a frizzy mess at being parted by fine bristles. Strands of blond stuck in the teeth and the soft mess felt nice against Nico’s blistered fingers.

It was quickly Will’s turn to do Nico’s and that was when problems started to arise. It would not be easy to part the somehow still greasy, clumped strands but he was determined to save anything he could. The blond started from the tips, careful not to pull hard, an apology escaping his mouth anytime his boyfriend whined. “Okay, okay...new approach… maybe a haircut?”

“Do you even know how to do that?” Nico snapped, rubbing his hair to try and release the discomfort. He could feel the loose strands but there was still a rats nest in his hair. Even in his annoyance, he felt bad a snapping after he had been waiting to see Will for so long; it was just in his nature to be crabby. Nevertheless though, he mumbled, “Sorry, I am tired. I shouldn’t have snapped at you… But, seriously, Will, do you even know how to cut hair?”

The blond nodded confidently. “I do, habibi, and I can be as quick as shadow travel.”

Nico snorted at the comparison and, although still skeptical, nodded. This must have been the plan all along because the blond was ready with scissors and a razor in no time. It wouldn’t surprise Nico if he had been waiting for this moment; generally his hair was too hard to manage during missions, being low on the list of priorities, and it took days for him to get it back to some symbolince of normal. It was not fun for either boy.

Will began cutting out chunks of black hair, at first being a bit careless, before realizing what he took he couldn’t get back without time. The last thing he ever wanted to do with Nico was rush. He slowed his movements, being as careful as he could be when he started shaving the boy’s neck. It was a bit of an awkward cut, an Aphrodite child would have done a better job, but with a #3 razor he was able to shorten the sides to an easy to care for length. The top was still as long as he could allow after chopping away the knots. It was not the best but a decided improvement.

Nico ran his fingers through his hair, just glad the whole thing was over. “So, how does it look?”

“Like a million bucks,” Will stated as he leaned in to kiss a neck decorated with freshly cut hair, “And I get to be rich just by being close to you.”

“I’ve missed you so much, tesoro,” Nico mutter, twisting his body to look into his sky and felt sturdy arms wrap around him. When they kissed between a smile, the son of Hades noted, “You taste like clementines.”

“I do,” Will said, staring into the only forest meant for his arms, “I had one earlier--when you were showering. It was good, but… I much prefer the taste of you.”

#solangelo #Nico di Angelo #will solace #ao3 #fanfic #my post

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tvdas · 4 years

Photo

John Berryman in 1966, two years after the publication of “77 Dream Songs.” The Heartsick Hilarity of John Berryman’s Letters is a book review by Anthony Lane (in The New Yorker) of The Selected Letters of John Berryman. The book is edited by Philip Coleman and Calista McRae and published by the Belknap Press, at Harvard. My acquaintance, the generous Philip Coleman, mailed me a copy of this book at the end of October. Lane writes, “. . . anyone who delights in listening to Berryman, and who can’t help wondering how the singer becomes the songs, will find much to treasure here, in these garrulous and pedantic pages. There is hardly a paragraph in which Berryman—poet, pedagogue, boozehound, and symphonic self-destroyer—may not be heard straining toward the condition of music. ‘I have to make my pleasure out of sound,’ he says. The book is full of noises, heartsick with hilarity, and they await their transmutation into verse.” Here is the book review:

The poet John Berryman was born in 1914, in McAlester, Oklahoma. He was educated at Columbia and then in England, where he studied at Cambridge, met W. H. Auden and Dylan Thomas, and lit a cigarette for W. B. Yeats. All three men left traces in Berryman’s early work. In 1938, he returned to New York and embarked upon a spate of teaching posts in colleges across the land, beginning at Wayne State University and progressing to stints at Harvard, Princeton, Cincinnati, Berkeley, Brown, and other arenas in which he could feel unsettled. The history of his health, physical and mental, was no less fitful and spasmodic, and alcohol, which has a soft spot for poets, found him an easy mark. In a similar vein, his romantic life was lunging, irrepressible, and desperate, so much so that it squandered any lasting claim to romance. Thrice married, he fathered a son and two daughters. He died in 1972, by jumping from the Washington Avenue Bridge in Minneapolis. To the appalled gratification of posterity, his fall was witnessed by somebody named Art Hitman.

Berryman would have laughed at that. In an existence that was littered with loss, the one thing that never failed him, apart from his unwaning and wax-free ear for English verse, was his sense of humor. The first that I heard of Berryman was this:

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother told me as a boy (repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored means you have no

Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored. Peoples bore me, literature bores me, especially great literature, Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me. And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag and somehow a dog has taken itself & its tail considerably away into mountains or sea or sky, leaving behind: me, wag.

“Wag” meaning a witty fellow, or “wag” meaning that he is of no more use than the back end of a mutt? Who on earth is Henry? Also, whoever’s talking, why does he address us as “friends,” as if he were Mark Antony and we were a Roman mob, and why can’t he even honor Achilles—the hero of the Iliad, a foundation stone of “great literature”—with a capital letter? You have to know such literature pretty well before you earn the right to claim that it tires you out. Few knew it better than Berryman, or shouldered the burdens of serious reading with a more remorseless joy. As he once said, “When it came to a choice between buying a book and a sandwich, as it often did, I always chose the book.”

“Life, friends” is the fourteenth of “The Dream Songs,” the many-splendored enterprise that consumed Berryman’s energies in the latter half of his career, and on which his reputation largely rests. His labors on the Songs began in 1955 and led to “77 Dream Songs,” which was published in 1964 and won him a Pulitzer Prize. In the course of the Songs, which he regarded as one long poem, he is represented, or unreliably impersonated, by a figure named Henry, who undergoes “the whole humiliating Human round” on his behalf. As Berryman explained, “Henry both is and is not me, obviously. We touch at certain points.” In 1968, along came a further three hundred and eight Songs, under the title “His Toy, His Dream, His Rest.” (A haunting phrase, which grabs the seven ages of man, as outlined in “As You Like It,” and squeezes them down to three.) Two days after publication, he was asked, by the Harvard Advocate, about his profession. “Being a poet is a funny kind of jazz. It doesn’t get you anything,” he said. “It’s just something you do.”

There was plenty of all that jazz. Berryman forsook the distillations of Eliot for the profusion of Whitman; the Dream Songs, endlessly rocking and rolling, surge onward in waves. Lay them aside, and you still have the other volumes of Berryman’s poems, including “The Dispossessed” (1948), “Homage to Mistress Bradstreet” (1956), and “Love & Fame” (1970). Bundled together, they fill nearly three hundred pages. If magnitude freaks you out, there are slimmer selections—one from the Library of America, edited by Kevin Young, the poetry editor of this magazine, and another, “The Heart Is Strange,” compiled by Daniel Swift to toast the centenary, in 2014, of the poet’s birth. And don’t forget the authoritative 1982 biography by John Haffenden, who also put together a posthumous collection, “Henry’s Fate and Other Poems,” in 1977, as well as “Berryman’s Shakespeare” (1999), a Falstaffian banquet of his scholarly work on the Bard. Some of Berryman’s critical writings are clustered, invaluably, in “The Freedom of the Poet” (1976). In short, you need space on your shelves, plus a clear head, if you want to join the Berrymaniacs. Proceed with caution; we can be a cranky bunch.

Of late, Berryman’s star has waned. Its glow was never steady in the first place, but it has dimmed appreciably, because of lines like these:

Arrive a time when all coons lose dere grip, but is he come? Le’s do a hoedown, gal.

“The Dream Songs” is a hubbub, and some of it is spoken in blackface—or, to be accurate, in what might be described as blackvoice. It deals in unembarrassed minstrelsy, complete with a caricature of verbal tics, all too pointedly transcribed: “Now there you exaggerate, Sah. We hafta die.” To say that Berryman was airing the prejudices of his era is hardly to exonerate him; in any case, he seems to be evoking, in purposeful anachronism, an all but vanished age of vaudeville. Kevin Young, who is Black, prefaces his choice of Berryman’s poetry by arguing, “Much of the force of The Dream Songs comes from its use of race and blackface to express a (white) self unraveling.” Some readers will share Young’s generously inquiring attitude; others will veer away from Berryman and never go back.

For anyone willing to stick around, there’s a new book on the block. “The Selected Letters of John Berryman” weighs in at more than seven hundred pages. It is edited by Philip Coleman and Calista McRae, and published by the Belknap Press, at Harvard—a selfless undertaking, given that Berryman derides Harvard as “a haven for the boring and the foolish,” wherein “my students display a form of illiterate urbanity which will soon become very depressing.” (Not that other colleges elude his gibes. Berkeley is summed up as “Paradise, with anthrax.”) The earliest letter, dated September, 1925, is from the schoolboy Berryman to his parents, and ends, “I love you too much to talk about.” In a pleasing symmetry, the final letter printed here, from 1971, shows Berryman rejoicing in his own parenthood. He tells a friend, “We had a baby, Sarah Rebecca, in June—a beauty.”

And what lies in between? More or less the polyphony that you’d expect, should you come pre-tuned into Berryman. “Vigour & fatigue, confidence & despair, the elegant & the blunt, the bright & the dry.” Such is the medley, he says, that he finds in the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, and you can feel Berryman swooping with similar freedom from one tone to the next. “Books I’ve got, copulation I need,” he writes from Cambridge, at the age of twenty-two, thus initiating a lifelong and dangerous refrain. When he reports, two years later, that “I was attacked by an excited loneliness which is still with me and which has so far produced fifteen poems,” is that a grouse or a boast? There are alarming valedictions: “Nurse w. another shot. no more now,” or, “Maybe I better go get a bottle of whisky; maybe I better not.” There are letters to Ezra Pound, one of which, sent with “atlantean respect & affection,” announces, “What we want is a new form of the daring,” a very Poundian demand. And there are smart little swerves into the aphoristic—“Writers should be heard and not seen”; “All modern writers are complicated before they are good”—or into courteous eighteenth-century brusquerie. Pastiche can be useful when you have a grudge to convey: “My dear Sir: You are plainly either a fool or a scoundrel. It is kinder to think you a fool; and so I do.” It’s a letter best taken with a pinch of snuff.

Berryman was a captious and self-heating complainer, slow to cool. Just as the first word of the Iliad means “Wrath,” so the first word of the opening Dream Song is “Huffy.” Seldom can you predict the cause of his looming ire. A concert performance by the Stradivarius Quartet, in the fall of 1941, drives him away: “Beethoven’s op. 130 they took now to be a circus, now to be a sea-chantey, & I fled in the middle to escape their Cavatina.” The following year, an epic letter to his landlord, on Grove Street, in Boston, is almost entirely concerned with a refrigerator, which has “developed a high-pitched scream.” Berryman was not an easy man to live with, or to love, and the likelihood that even household appliances found his company intolerable cannot be dismissed.

Yet the poet was scarcely unique in his vexations; we all have our fridges to bear. Something else, far below the hum of daily pique, resounds through this massive book—a ground bass of doom and dejection. “You may prepare my coffin.” “If this reaches you, you will know I got as far as a letter-box at any rate.” “I write in haste, being back in Hell.” Such are the dirges to which Berryman treats his friends, in the winter of 1939–40, and the odd jauntiness in which he couches his misery somehow makes it worse. It’s one thing to write, “I am fed up with pretending to be alive when in fact I am not,” but quite another to dispatch those words, as Berryman did, to someone whom you are courting; the recipient was Eileen Mulligan, whom he married nine months later, in October, 1942. To the critic Mark Van Doren, who had been his mentor at Columbia, he was more formal in his woe, declaring, “Each year I hope that next year will find me dead, and so far I have been disappointed, but I do not lose that hope, which is almost my only one.” We are close to the borders of Beckett.

There are definite jitters of comedy in so funereal a pose, and detractors of Berryman would say that he keeps trying on his desolation, like a man getting fitted for a dark suit. The trouble is that we know how he died. Even if he is putting on an act, for the horrified benefit of his correspondents, it is still a rehearsal for the main event, and you can’t inspect the long lament that he sends to Eileen in 1953—after they have separated—without glancing ahead, almost twenty years, to the dénouement of his days. The letter leaps, like one of those 3 a.m. frettings which every insomniac will recognize, directly from money to death. “I only have $2.15 to live through the week,” the poet says, before laying out his plans. “My insurance, the only sure way of paying my debts, expires on Thursday. So unless something happens I have to kill myself day after tomorrow evening or earlier.” To be specific, “What I am going to do is drop off the George Washington bridge. I believe one dies on the way down.” If Berryman is playing Cassandra to himself, crying out the details of his own quietus, how did the cry begin?

It is tempting to turn biography into cartography—unrolling the record of somebody’s life, smoothing it flat, and indicating the major fork in the road. Most of us rebut this thesis, as we amble maplessly along. In Berryman’s case, however, there was a fork, so terrible and so palpable that no account of him, and no encounter with his poems, can afford to ignore it. The road didn’t simply split in two; it was cratered, in the summer of 1926, when his father, John Allyn Smith, committed suicide.

The family was living in Clearwater, Florida, at the time, and young John was eleven years old. There was a bizarre prelude to the calamity, when his brother, Robert, was taken out by their father for a swim in the Gulf. What occurred next remains murky, but it seemed, for a while, as if they would not be returning to shore. One of the Dream Songs takes up the tale, mixing memory and denial:

Also I love him: me he’s done no wrong for going on forty years—forgiveness time— I touch now his despair, he felt as bad as Whitman on his tower but he did not swim out with me or my brother as he threatened—

a powerful swimmer, to         take one of us along as company in the defeat sublime, freezing my helpless mother: he only, very early in the morning, rose with his gun and went outdoors by my window and did what was needed.

I cannot read that wretched mind, so strong & so undone. I’ve always tried. I—I’m trying to forgive whose frantic passage, when he could not live an instant longer, in the summer dawn left Henry to live on.

Smith’s death would become the primal wound for his older son. Notice how the tough and Hemingway-tinged curtness of “did what was needed” gives way, all too soon, to the halting stammer of “I—I’m trying.” The wound was suppurating and unhealable, and there is little doubt that it deepened the festering of Berryman’s life. As he writes in one of the final Dream Songs, “I spit upon this dreadful banker’s grave / who shot his heart out in a Florida dawn / O ho alas alas.” Haffenden quotes these lines, raw with recrimination, in his biography; dryly informs us that the poet, in fact, never visited his father’s grave; and supplies us with relevant notes that Berryman made in 1970—two years before he, in turn, found a bridge and did what he thought was needed. He sounds like a patient striving mightily to become his own shrink:

Did I myself feel any guilt perhaps—long-repressed if so & this is mere speculation (defense here) about Daddy’s death? (I certainly pickt up enough of Mother’s self-blame to accuse her once, drunk & raging, of having actually murdered him & staged a suicide.)

Alternatively:

So maybe my long self-pity has been based on an error, and there has been no (hero-) villain (Father) ruling my life, but only an unspeakably powerful possessive adoring mother, whose life at 75 is still centered wholly on me. And my (omnipotent) feeling that I can get away with anything.

For readers who ask themselves, browsing through “Berryman’s Shakespeare,” why the poet bent his attention, again and again, to “Hamlet,” to the plight of the prince, and to the preoccupations—as Berryman boldly construed them—of the man who wrote the play, here is an answer of sorts. And, for anyone wanting more of this unholy psychodrama, consider the list of characters. Berryman’s mother, born Martha Little, married John Allyn Smith. Less than eleven weeks after his death, she married her landlord, John Angus McAlpin Berryman, and thereafter called herself Jill, or Jill Angel. As for the poet, he was baptized with his father’s name, was known as Billy in infancy, and then, in deference to his brand-new stepfather, became John Berryman. This is like Hamlet having to call himself Claudius, Jr., on top of everything else. As Berryman remarks, “Damn Berrymans and their names.”

A book of back-and-forth correspondence with his mother was published in 1988, under the title “We Dream of Honour.” (Having picked up the habit of British spelling, at Cambridge, Berryman never kicked it.) Inexcusably, it’s now out of print, but worth tracking down; and you could swear, as you leaf through it, that you’d stumbled upon a love affair. The son says to the mother, “I hope you’re well, darling, and less worried.” The mother tells the son, “I have loved you too much for wisdom, or it is perhaps nearer truth to say that with love or in anger, I am not wise.” We are offered a facsimile of a letter from 1953, in which Berryman begins, “Mother, I have always failed; but I am not failing now.”

One obvious shortfall in the “Selected Letters” is that “We Dream of Honour” took the cream of the crop. Only eight letters here are addressed to Martha, six of them mailed from school, and, if you’re approaching Berryman as a novice, your take on him will be unavoidably skewed. By way of compensation, we get a wildly misconceived letter of advice from the middle-aged Berryman to his son, Paul, concluding with the maxim “Strong fathers crush sons.” Paul was four at the time. Haffenden has already cited that letter, however, and doubts whether it was ever sent. One item in the new book that I have never read before, and would prefer not to read again, is a letter from the fourteen-year-old Berryman to his stepfather, whom he calls Uncle Jack, and before whom he cringes as if whipped. “I’m a coward, a cheat, a bully, and a thief if I had the guts to steal,” the boy writes. Things get worse: “I have none of the fine qualities or emotions, and all the baser ones. I don’t understand why God permitted me to be born.” He signs himself “John Berryman,” the sender mirroring the recipient, and adds, “P.S. I’m a disgrace to your name.”

To read such words is to marvel that Berryman survived as long as he did. If one virtue emerged from the wreckage of his early years, it was a capacity to console; later, in the midst of his drinking and his lechery, he remained a reliable guide to grief, and to the blast area that surrounds it. In May, 1955, commiserating with Saul Bellow, whose father has just passed away, Berryman writes, “Unfortunately I am in a v g position to feel with you: my father died for me all over again last week.” He unfolds his larger theme: “His father’s death is one of the few main things that happens to a man, I think, and it matters greatly to the life when it happens.” Bellow’s affliction, Berryman reassures him, lofts him into illustrious company: “Shakespeare was probably in the middle of Hamlet and I think his effort increased.” Freud and Luther are then added to the roster of the fruitfully bereaved.

None of this will surprise an admirer of the Dream Songs. Among the loveliest are those in which the poet mourns departed friends, such as Robert Frost, Louis MacNeice, Theodore Roethke, and Delmore Schwartz. Berryman the comic, who can be scabrously funny, not least at his own expense, consorts with Berryman the frightener (“In slack times visit I the violent dead / and pick their awful brains”) and Berryman the elegist, who can summon whole twilights of sorrow. In this, a tribute to Randall Jarrell, he gradually allows the verse to run on, like overflowing water, across the line breaks, with a grace denied to our harshly end-stopped lives:

In the night-reaches dreamed he of better graces, of liberations, and beloved faces, such as now ere dawn he sings. It would not be easy, accustomed to these things, to give up the old world, but he could try; let it all rest, have a good cry.

Let Randall rest, whom your self-torturing cannot restore one instant’s good to, rest: he’s left us now. The panic died and in the panic’s dying so did my old friend. I am headed west also, also, somehow.

In the chambers of the end we’ll meet again I will say Randall, he’ll say Pussycat and all will be as before when as we sought, among the beloved faces, eminence and were dissatisfied with that and needed more.

A photograph of 1941 shows Berryman in a dark coat, a hat, and a bow tie. His jaw is clean-shaven and firm. With his thin-rimmed spectacles and his ready smile, he looks like a spry young stockbroker on his way home from church. Skip ahead to the older Berryman, and you observe a very different beast, with a beard like the mane of a disenchanted lion. Finches could roost in it. The rims of his glasses are now thick and black, and his hands, in many images, refuse to be at rest. They gesticulate and splay, as if he were conducting an orchestra that he alone can hear. A cigarette serves as his baton.

If you seek to understand this metamorphosis, “The Selected Letters of John Berryman” can help. What greets us here, as often as not, is a parody of a poet. Watch him fumble with the mechanisms of the everyday, “ghoulishly inefficient about details and tickets and visas and trains and money and hotels.” Chores are as heavy as millstones, to his hypersensitive neck: “Do this, do that, phone these, phone those, repair this, drown that, poison the other.” We start to sniff a blend—peculiar to Berryman, like a special tobacco—of the humbled and the immodest. It drifts about, in aromatic puns: “my work is growing by creeps & grounds.” Though the outer world of politics and civil strife may occasionally intrude, it proves no match for the smoke-filled rooms inside the poet’s head. When nuclear tests are carried out at Bikini Atoll, in 1954, they register only briefly, in a letter to Bellow. “This thermonuclear business wd tip me up all over again if I were in shape to attend to it,” Berryman writes, before moving on to a harrowing digest of his diarrhea.

Above all, this is a book-riddled book. No one but Berryman, it’s fair to say, would write from a hospital in Minneapolis, having been admitted in a state of alcoholic and nervous prostration, to a bookstore in Oxford, asking, “Can you let me know what Elizabethan Bibles you have in stock?” The recklessness with which he abuses his body is paired with an indefatigable and nurselike care for textual minutiae. (“Very very tentatively I suggest that the comma might come out.”) Only on the page can he trust his powers of control, although even those desert him at a deliciously inappropriate moment. Writing to William Shawn at The New Yorker, in 1951, and proposing “a Profile on William Shakespeare,” Berryman begins, “Dear Mr Shahn.” Of all the editors of all the magazines in all the world, he misspells him.

No such Profile appeared; nor, to one’s infinite regret, did the edition of “King Lear” on which Berryman toiled for years. What we do have is his fine essay of 1953, “Shakespeare at Thirty,” which begins, “Suppose with me a time, a place, a man who was waked, risen, washed, dressed, fed, on a day in latter April long ago—about April 22, say, of 1594, a Monday.” Few scholars would have the bravado, or the imaginative dexterity, for such supposings, and it’s a thrill to see a living poet treat a dead one not as a monument but as a partner in crime. “Oh my god! Shakespeare. That multiform & encyclopedic bastard,” Berryman says in a letter of 1952, as if the two of them had just locked horns in a tavern.

Such plunges into the past, with its promise of adventure and refuge, came naturally to Berryman, nowhere more so than in “Homage to Mistress Bradstreet,” which was published in the Partisan Review in 1953 and, three years later, as a book. This was the poem with which he broke through—discovering not just a receptive audience but a voice that, in its heightened lyrical pressure, sounded like his and nobody else’s. The irony is that he did so by assuming the role of a woman: Anne Bradstreet, herself a poet, who emigrated from England to America, in 1630. It is her tough, pious, and hardscrabble history that Berryman chronicles: “Food endless, people few, all to be done. / As pippins roast, the question of the wolves / turns & turns.” In a celebrated scene, the heroine gives birth. Even if you dispute the male ability (or the right) to articulate such an experience, it’s hard not to be swayed by the fervor of dramatic effort:

I can can no longer and it passes the wretched trap whelming and I am me

drencht & powerful, I did it with my body! One proud tug greens Heaven. Marvellous, unforbidding Majesty. Swell, imperious bells. I fly.

What the poem cost its creator, over more than four years, is made plain in the letters, which ring with an exhausted ecstasy. “I feel like weeping all the time,” he tells one friend. “I regard every word in the poem as either a murderer or a lover.” As for Anne, who perished in 1672, “I certainly at some point fell in love with her.” Berryman adds, as if to prove his devotion, “I used three shirts at a time, in relays. I wish I were dead.”

Is this how we like poetry to be brought forth, even now? Though we may never touch the stuff, reading no verse from one year to the next, do we still expect it to be delivered in romantic agony, with attendant birth pangs? (So much for Wallace Stevens, who composed much of his work while gainfully employed, on a handsome salary, as an insurance executive.) Berryman viewed the notion of his being a confessional poet “with rage and contempt,” and rightly so; the label is an insult to his craftsmanship. Nobody pining for mere self-expression, or craving a therapeutic blurt, could lavish on a paramour, as Berryman did, lines as elaborately wrought as these:

Loves are the summer’s. Summer like a bee Sucks out our best, thigh-brushes, and is gone.

You have to reach back to Donne to find so commanding an exercise in the clever-sensual. It comes from “Berryman’s Sonnets,” a sequence of a hundred and fifteen poems, published in 1967. Most of them had been written long before, in 1947, in heat and haste, during an affair with a woman named Chris Haynes. And, in this huge new hoard of letters, how many are addressed to Haynes? Precisely one. Gossip hunters will slouch off in frustration, and good luck to them; on the other hand, anyone who delights in listening to Berryman, and who can’t help wondering how the singer becomes the songs, will find much to treasure here, in these garrulous and pedantic pages. There is hardly a paragraph in which Berryman—poet, pedagogue, boozehound, and symphonic self-destroyer—may not be heard straining toward the condition of music. “I have to make my pleasure out of sound,” he says. The book is full of noises, heartsick with hilarity, and they await their transmutation into verse.

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mysticalmusicwhispers · 4 years

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APH England Headcanon: On Top of the World

Hey look another song headcanon. Idk why I get so much inspiration from songs but here it is. Long, Long, Long, Long, Long Post Warning (I went into detail here so... you’re warned)

Basically a look at this song (On Top of the World by Greek Fire, not Imagine Dragons, one of my favorites, please listen) through England’s eyes, because I think it really fits him, mostly discussing his imperial times (colonies, America, all that fun stuff):

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Ok so: Imperial England, in my headcanon, is a Sly Old Bastard exactly the way China is/was at his height. And this post is going to be focusing on England’s sly, cunning nature and weaknesses (?) he might have felt at the height of the British Empire. Most of the song is reminiscing (“I remember”...), so it could also be when England’s empire has crumbled and he’s wondering how it all went down.

Anyway, first couple lyrics are just “on top of the world/on top of it all/trying to feel invincible”, the refrain that goes on throughout the song. I guess it just kinda sets the scene, I think as his empire got larger and larger, and as England got more and more colonies, he would become somewhat aware that all the things he’d been building, the states/lands he’d been conquering, would crumble one day, and then his empire would be no more (trying to feel invincible).

Slight Digression: Britain was a Roman province, however the whole of the British Isles were never quite subdued by military conquests, and I think England would have existed at the time and would be resisting the Romans with his mother Britannia (even though I think Scotland was the one left unconquered, although they were defeated in battle lots of times, England would not have willingly surrendered either). Therefore, he would also witness the fall of Rome, and carry with him the knowledge that all empires fall, no matter how great they are or how much land they have. So this would also factor into his state of mind of inevitability I guess (I was thinking of insecureness but that’s not fitting, England is too egotistical to be insecure imo) that his empire will end one day, and the least he can do is to enjoy (?) or pay attention to how it feels to rule while it lasts

Ok anyway: “I remember the nights/Caught up in dreaming my goodbyes/Watching the door for anything more than an ordinary life"

I have no explanation, maybe this was when he was first starting out as a country or when he was starting to grow his empire, when things used to be ordinary for him maybe? Idk what it means about dreaming goodbyes but rationale is: he somehow has a premonition that his empire will die someday? Actually wait, even better is that he’s saying goodbye to Britannia, who is dying, and perhaps deciding to build something great in her legacy? As a tribute (and also maybe a fuck you to Rome) to her, he wants her legacy to be “my son(s) did something great” rather than to be a forgotten woman to history. I interpret the next line as England perhaps being excited about the prospect of his growing empire, excited about leading, conquering. I think during imperial times he had the same god-complex America does; the US often markets itself as “doing good” for the world (eg. Ridding Communist Scum !!!) which, although it may actually be disastrous, is usually seen as “right” in some way (I have major issues w/ US politics as you can see but let’s not talk about that). So the wishing for a better, more exciting life might just be his wish to “make the world more civilized, more British, more gentlemanly” etc.

Next: “I remember the days/New beginnings on an open page/With something to prove/ And nothing to lose, not a soul to betray”

I think this could be about his relationship with young America as the 13 colonies, before the American Revolution. I believe (correct me if wrong) most of the Age of Imperialism, when England, France, Germany etc. started scrambling for land was in the 1800s, and so I think America was like England’s test run colony, and therefore the first person he really had to “care for” as a brother and a child. He didn’t have anything to lose with America, all he could do is build a relationship with this small country and open his heart to friendship and love from America. I don’t think England was as uptight about stuff then and America was his test run, his “new beginning” if he messed stuff up at home (idk if he really did though). He didn’t have any “history” or previous relationship with America before they became like a father/son duo, so he didn’t have to worry about damaging a previous friendship with him (”nothing to lose” by getting to know him).

Side note: I think America’s independence sort of broke England, and I definitely agree with @hongkongenthusiast ‘s hc that England distanced himself from his other colonies because he didn’t want what happened with America to happen again.

Next: “Here I am/Living a dream that I can’t hold/Here I am/On my own”

So this just kinda speaks to England’s loneliness ig. He’s literally living the dream: power, colonies, wealth, everything, but he still has the premonition/wisdom (?) to see that it won’t last (“...that I can’t hold”). He won’t be king of the world forever. He’s also up on a pedestal. I think after the Age of Imperialism England owned the most colonies (I think France is a close second), and like America with his modern-day “police of the world” status, I think lots of people knew about and admired/were jealous of England’s power (maybe they didn’t “look up” to him, but I think they certainly wanted his power for themselves), and being without an equal can make it feel pretty lonely at the top of the food chain.

Next part is the refrain, the new lyrics after that are: “I remember the lies/Caught up in building paradise/The angels were slaves and demons behaved/And everything was alright”

This could represent the propaganda England fed to his people at home to make them support colonization. I don’t think it would’ve taken much convincing, because of the “white men superiority” idea that were colonizers’ way of justifying colonialism and imperialism (actually called White Man’s Burden). However, even though that idea was prevalent, there are still historical propaganda pieces that glorify colonization; one example is called “ABC for Baby Patriots” (full text in link). It basically convinces people colonizing is good for the mother country, and I’d like to think England also told his people that to make them support it (“I remember the lies”). I don’t know how physically old England the character would be, but if he was still young and maybe not as cynical (unlikely but still possible), he could tell these “lies” to himself as well to justify his actions. I mentioned earlier about him wanting to make a better world by introducing British ways to his colonies, and maybe that was the version of “paradise” he envisioned. The last two lines strike me as a flip-flopped world where the bad are free and the good are punished, so maybe idk that was the actual situation, where England’s colonies were suffering instead of being helped, like he thought? Anyway this is getting into kinda political ugly history so...

Next! “I hear the crowds beneath me/I'm wishing they could reach me/But I'm on top of the world/Up here I'm dying alone”

Not really any analysis here, just another example of England being lonely ig as the leader of the imperial world. I feel like this part can be summed up in a more positive light by this

Next: “Inside the walls of gold/Outside of happiness/(It's all been a show, too late to confess)/No room for heart and soul/No room for innocence/Innocence”

To me, this is England reminiscing when he still had compassion and when he was young. I feel like nations, like humans, get more cynical as they age; they stop seeing good in the world and start just seeing people as things they can manipulate, pawns on a chessboard who can achieve their own interest. In the context of England’s imperialism, this is basically him thinking back and thinking what have I done. Maybe he finally acknowledged negative impacts of his colonization, and wishes he could go back to the days where he was just a small nation, minding his own people, instead of forging an empire that stretched across continents. I guess the whole imperial episode is: “I thought this was a good idea, I thought it would bring me happiness and glory, I thought I could make the world better, but instead, it only showed me the worst in people, and the worst in me”. Idk, I still don’t know if imperial England deserves compassion (Aftereffects of colonization are still being felt today, eg. when original India was split by Britain into India and Pakistan. Britain never clearly specified the India-Pakistan border, and that led to a whole lot of wars and shit and people are still fucking tense about this to this day) But I guess this song and my consequential thinking about it gives him a bit of humanity in spite of his Sly Old Man status?

Ok that’s it! You’ve made it to the end of this long-ass post! I’m so conflicted about England’s character now! I’ve literally disliked him so much ever since I joined the fandom (I also don’t really like FACE fam in general) but bruh my head just warps canon so it’s more palatable for me I guess hhhh. What do y’all think? Feedback Appreciated!

#i'm so conflicted now i thought this post was a good idea but apparently not #aph #aph england #aph america #hetalia #hws #hws england #hws america #musings #song musings #arthur kirkland #long post #long ass post #headcanon musings

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fanderily-blog · 6 years

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Te quiero

Ask and you shall receive anon! I have some princxiety here for you!! A little bit of Patton angst peppered in there to!!

Warnings: crying, rejection (sort of) , unresolved feelings, angst.

If you think of anymore let me know!! 💙💜

Roman slammed the door open and threw himself face first into Patton’s bed. It was there that he screamed at the top of his lungs kicking and screaming the bed as he kept his face pressed against the sheets screaming. When he finally ran out of breath and energy he turned over on his back and laid there tired and defeated.

“What’d he do now kiddo?” Patton asked not even looking up from his drawing. Roman grunted and laid on his side “The idiot actually laughed! It wasn’t like the usual scoff that he normally did, I can handle that, but he actually started to giggle! He giggled Patton! Do you know how sweet and cute that is?!? It’s so innocent! Just think of the word giggle! Ugh!” Roman said covering his face with a pillow.

Patton did a little 360 spin in his desk chair so that he was facing Roman now he gave him a little simpithetic smile “I’m sorry sweetie, do you want me to go yell at him for you?” He teased. Roman rolled his eyes “this is serious Patton! How am I supposed to live in the same area with him when I can’t even meet his eyes without blushing?!” He asked

Patton rolled his eyes “well there are three things you can do here. One, you could tell him, two, you could tell him, or three, and this is my personal favorite, you could tell him.” Patton said counting off the options on his fingers. Roman swung his legs over the side of the bed sitting up “Patton I want to! I really do! B-but wh-what if he doesn’t like me back? What if he is weirded out? Then not only have I lost the love of my life, but I’ve also lost one of my closest friends in the world.” He sighed throwing his face into his hands.

Patton took Roman’s hand “Kiddo, Virgil is your best friend. He has been with you through everything, you wouldn’t ever loose him.” He said trying to console Roman. The creative side looked up at Patton, tears still forming in the corners of his eyes. He knew Patton was right, but Virgil was just so important to him. He couldn’t let him slip through his grasp.

He sat up and took a deep breath clearing his head “Okay, so what do I do? I don’t think I can actually tell him yet, I just need to take... little steps.” He confessed. Patton thought for a minute before jumping up. “I got it! You know Spanish right?!?” Patton inquired. “por supuesto” Roman said nodding his head. “Well, I don’t know what that means, but if you do then maybe you could tell him everything you want to say in Spanish! Virgil doesn’t know Spanish, so you can tell him how you feel in Spanish!! That way you could confess your feelings here, and then when you tell him in English it won’t be as scary!!” Patton exclaimed.

Roman’s eyes lit up as he realized the genius of Patton’s plans. “Patton your absolutely right!!” He said picking Patton up and twirling him. Patton squealed a little with a little giggle. “Okay, I’m going to start writing! I can’t believe this! It’s perfect!! Thank you Patton!!” He said with glee. Roman ran out of the room almost plowing Logan over as he entered moving to the side to let Roman through “MOVE IT NERD!! I HAVE LOVE TO WRITE!!” He roared as he ran down the hallway and slammed his door behind him.

Logan smiled “So you finally told him how you feel huh?” Logan asked sitting down at the end of Patton’s bed. “LOGAN!” He yelled as he closed his door behind the logical side. As he slammed the door. He put his back against it, sliding down until he was sitting down chest against his knees, face buried in his lap.

Logan gave Patton a soft look and came to his side, sitting with him on the floor as Patton tried to keep the tears from running down his cheeks. “Do you wanna to tell me what happened?” He asked tentatively. Patton pulled Logan into a hug. Still violently shaking from the sobs that were overtaking his body. Normally Patton would be much more conciderate and wouldn’t just touch Logan, he knew that it could bother him sometimes. But he was just so overtaken with grief and sadness that he needed physical comfort. “H-hes gonna tell him L-lo” Patton managed to stutter between sobs.

Logan wasn’t a fan of hugging, but he knew right now, Patton needed comfort more then anything else. He pulled Patton into a closer hug. He didn’t want Patton to suffer like this. “Why don’t you tell him how you feel Pat? Do t right now. He hasn’t told Virgil yet, this can be your opportunity.” Logan suggested. Patton’s sobbing became more violent “Logan! H-he loves Virgil! H-he doesn’t feel the same way about me and he would feel bad! I can’t do that to him!” Patton cried. He quickly buried his face into Logan’s shirt, trying to cry out all the pain he felt in his chest. Logan sat there, holding the moral side, only wanting to be the friend he needed right now.

—————————————————————

Roman spent the next two days in his room, writing, erasing, yelling and blowing up, and then writing again. On the third day, he had finally finished his letter. He was going to read it to Virgil today. He needed to tell Virgil everything he felt. He started to walk out of his room before he caught a quick glance of himself, his hair was greasy, his eyes had bigger bags then Mary Poppins carpet bag, and his clothes were more hideous then Logan’s dull sense of style. He laughed to himself a little “why don’t we get a little cleaned up first?” He asked himself.

About an hour later, he emerged from his room. He was wearing his finest red tuxedo dressed to the nines.... or to the tens in this case, Roman was no nine. He saw Patton coming down the hall when he pulled the the moral side into his room. “Patton!! How do I look?!?” He asked doing a little twirl.

Patton’s jaw dropped. “Y-You look.... like any man’s dream.” He confessed. Roman smiled “good! I want Virgil to fall for me here and now! Even before he understands!!” He squealed. Patton forced a smile and hugged Roman “You’re gonna knock him dead Ro, trust me.... you would sweep anyone off their feet.” He said trying not to cry. Roman took Patton into a hug one more time. He pulled away and straightened his suit. “Okay! grab your popcorn and pull up a chair! It’s show time!” He said running out of his room.

He finally found Virgil in the living room, listening to music so loud that Roman could hear it from his ear buds. Roman tapped on the anxious sides shoulder and motioned for hi. To take his headphones off. Virgil begrudgingly complied “what’s up Romano? Whatever it is it better be important to interrupt my music.” He said jokingly. Roman tooka deep breath. “I’m going to tell you something, so just wait until I’m finished okay?” Roman asked. Virgil cocked his eyebrows at Roman “is this a long winded insult? Because maybe you could just write it down for me to read later.” He said sardonically.

Roman took Virgil’s hand and made him stand up with him, holding his hand for a little bit of comfort.

“Las palabras no pueden describir cuanto te amo virgil. tu eres mi mundo entero Escribí esto tantas veces tratando de encontrar las palabras adecuadas para decirte. pero la verdad es que nunca podré encontrar una palabra más perfecta para usar el amor, porque eso es todo lo que siento cuando te veo. te amo con todo mi corazon virgil.”

(words cannot describe how much i love you virgil. you are my entire world. i written this so many times trying to find the right words to tell you. but the truth is that i will never be able to find a more perfect word to use the love, because that is all i feel when i see you. i love you with all my heart virgil.)

Roman looked into Virgil’s eyes smiling. He felt so much better, he felt free from the burden he’s been holding with him over his love for his friend. Now that he said it, he felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. Roman was pulled out of his daze when he felt Virgil’s lips smash against his own. His eyes went bigger then dinner plates. He didn’t hesitate to kiss back. He wrapped his arms around Virgil’s hips pulling him close. He felt Virgil’s arms reach up and wrap around his neck.

When they finally both pulled away, struggling to breathe Roman looked up in confusion. “Wh-what? Why did you-“ Roman was cut off with another kiss from Virgil’s lips. The anxious side pulled back slowly. “You’re and idiot” Virgil whispered. Roman rolled his eyes “I’m sure you’re right but why?” He asked. Virgil giggled a little bit, “you are aware that I know the language Latin right?” He asked. Roman shook his head. Virgil rolled his eyes again “well I do moron. And do you know what the base language is for Spanish?” Virgil’s lips getting dangerously close to his own. “W-what is that” Roman asked. Virgil kissed his lips lightly and giggled again “Latin”

Romans face immediately went a shade of red that would make a tomato jealous. “S-S-So you know what I said” he managed to stutter out. Virgil pulled Roman into a big hug “ I got the basics of it. I got enough” he said burying his face into Roman’s suit. He looked up with a tear rolling down his cheek. “I-I love you too” He said sweetly.

Roman’s heart Did backflips. He was so happy he was pretty sure that he was going to cry. He pulled Virgil into his arms and then spun his around and around until he felt like he was going to be sick. “A-are you serious?!” Roman asked. Virgil laughed again shaking his head “yes I’m serious Sir. Sings-a-lot!” He said. Roman pulled Virgil into another hug so tight Virgil made a little squeaky noise “h-honey, to much.” Virgil said trying to breath. Roman immediately let go “sorry” he apologized.

Roman’s eyes immediately lit up “OH MY GOD WE HAVE TO TELL THE OTHERS!! PATTON!! LOGAN!!” Roman screamed. The two sides emerged from the hall to see Roman and Virgil standing together holding hands. “Guys! We have a big announcement! Virgil and I are dating!!” Roman announced louder then he had originally planned. Virgil giggled and smiled.

Patton and Logan both smiled and congratulated the two. Logan was happy for Virgil and Roman but he knew that this must be killing Patton inside. Patton felt cold in his chest. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to tell Roman everything he felt in his heart. But then he looked at Virgil and Roman, he saw their smiling faces. He took a deep breath and smiled. Giving them both huge hugs. He knew that if he really loved Roman, that he wanted him to be happy.

Virgil made him happy.

As Roman and Virgil went to start planning their first date, Roman stopped for a second and turned around running into Patton’s arms giving him a hug. “Thank you so much Patton. You’re the reason why this happened. Your the reason that I am this happy. I love you so much.” He said

Patton just smiled feeling tears well up in his eyes as the words escaped his lips.

“I love you too”

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #patton sanders #thomas sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #fanderily finds #love it #roality #princxiety #angst

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meginoi · 6 years

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Take Back The Kingdom - Chapter 1

The kingdom the Sanders family ran was prosperous, a monarchy that was loved by its people. When a terrible tragedy struck, prince Roman was left orphaned with his corrupt uncle as king. But rebellion stirs, and when Roman is found without any memory of who he is by a mysterious stranger, the rebellion might just have chance they were waiting for…

Warning: mentions of death, poisoning

King Declan stared out over the city below. Tiny figures were bustling about in the still falling snow, their inane babbles dying out long before it would reach his ears. He wondered what they found to talk about, didn’t they live the same boring life every day?

He sighed loudly and turned away from the window, walking across the stone floor of his chamber. His footsteps echoed loudly as the sound bounced off the walls, somehow making the room seem cold, despite the roaring fire that crackled and danced in the corner and the red drapes with gold trim that hung from the bed, windows, and walls. The deep winter that the kingdom was under required a fire to be in the fireplace day or night, or else they risked succumbing to the elements.

He turned and stared into the orange flames that flicked and waved in front of him, letting his mind wander over his plan. His brother and sister in law’s deaths had been…a tragic accident, but his nephew’s wouldn’t be. A grotesque grin stretched across his face, sending a malicious look to dance in his eyes.

A knock at the door and a quiet voice, announcing that the court physician was waiting for him in the throne room, snapped him out of his thoughts. He composed himself, wiping away his grin with a mere thought and letting a sense of cold detachment settle in his eyes.

Declan flung open the door, ignoring the meek girl that stood there as he strode down the hall. People parted at his presence, dipping into deep bows or curtsies until he had passed. He saw no sign of Roman on his way, although his usual raucous laughter was easy to hear as he passed the gardens; the boy frequented the place, even in the cold weather.

As he stepped into the throne room, the heavy door slammed shut behind him, eliciting a dull thud. The throne room was more like a large ballroom with high, arched windows on either side and a floor of well polished wood. An elegant throne sat on an elevated platform at the other end of the room, framed by rare jewels that made up the coat of arms on the wall behind. A plush, red material was stretched over the seat and arms, framing the gold coloured metal that made up the rest of the throne. Intricate designs had been carved into the legs and back of the chair, images of woodland vines and mythical creatures curled up the legs and stretched over the back, too delicate to be seen unless you were up close.

A middle-aged man stood in the centre of the room, holding a small vial. He turned at the king’s entrance. “Good morning, Your Majesty. A fine day, isn’t it?” He asked, bowing low as he spoke.

“Is it done?” Declan asked, ignoring the question.

“It is. This will knock the prince out long enough to dispose of him in the woods, like you requested. However, it will not kill him.”

“Good, I don’t want his death to be as easy at that. Did you add the failsafe, like we discussed?”

“I did, sire. If something goes wrong, Prince Roman will lose his memory. I am unsure how long that will last though, I have no way of telling.”

“I will make sure it won’t come to that, he will be long dead before the potion has a chance to wear off.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty. Is there anything else?”

“Just one more thing. If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone I will kill you myself, is that understood?”

“Y-yes sire.”

“Excellent. You may go,” Declan announced, watching as the physician hurriedly bowed and scurried from the room. At the quiet click of the servant door, Declan smirked. The best way to rule a kingdom was for your subjects to live in fear. With a swish of his fur lined cloak, he turned and strode from the room.

—————

The kitchens were operating in their usual, barely controlled way. People rushed from one station to another, lighting fires and carrying bowls of hot food. As Declan’s footsteps echoed across the floor, the entire kitchen seemed to freeze. Conversations quickly died off until you could hear a pin drop. The king scowled, letting his gaze move over the servants, many of them dropping their gazes to the floor.

“Get on with it, then,” Declan spoke, breaking the silence. The kitchen jolted to life again, the staff jumping out of their feet-freezing-fear at the order. The tense silence remained though, devoid of the casual chatter it held before.

The king paid no attention, swiftly making his way towards the head cook. Declan made no attempt to glance down and learn the man’s name, he had no need to. The cook turned away from his stock-taking, placing the parchment on a nearby table before bowing deeply. “What can I do for you, my king?”

Declan remained stoic, the grunt of approval he gave the only sign for the cook to rise. He opened his hand, revealing a vial no bigger than his palm, a clear liquid inside it. “This needs to be put the prince’s food as a matter of urgency.”

The cook hesitated for a second, eyeing the vial cautiously. “Forgive me for my curiosity, my king, but what is this concoction? I am hesitant to add it to the prince’s meal without this knowledge.”

Declan’s expression morphed from bored detachment into something darker, something hard to place. “Do you not trust your king?”

“Oh sire, that was not my intention at all! Please accept my-”

“Then do not stand there grovelling, do what I said. It was not a request, it was an order. I did not expect to be challenged over a mere tonic, you would make prince Roman suffer muscle aches after a long day of sword fighting?”

“Not at all, your highness! I’ll make sure it is prepared for this evening!”

“Then get to work, evening is quickly approaching.”

“At once sir!” The cook agreed, sweeping into another low bow. Declan didn’t reply as he turned and strode from the room. That had been close, the cook would have to go. The peasants who worked in the castle were all too stupid, and he wanted to keep it that way.

The deep winter bought with it dark evenings; nights that would have been spent outside, enjoying the sunshine, were now spent huddling around the fire for warmth. Prayers for survival ‘til spring was a heavy burden on the people of the kingdom, which was a worry that was kept far away from the prying eyes of Roman. As they boy grew, Declan could see he held the same foolish heart his father had, one that would take money from his gambling fund and give it to the people. That was something Declan wouldn’t stand for.

Yet, it was something that would happen if Declan didn’t take action. So, when he sat for dinner with his nephew that night, he prayed to any god that was listening, asking that his plan go ahead without a hitch.

As he took his seat at the dead of the table, he could hear his nephew loudly greeting anyone he passed from all the way down the hall. To Declan, this was stupid, insolent! How would anyone obey his orders if they thought he was their friend?

“Good evening, uncle!” Roman exclaimed as he entered the dining room, striding forwards confidently and taking his usual seat at the table.

“Good evening, nephew,” Declan replied, greeting Roman in his usual detached tone. He observed Roman cautiously, planning out the last minute details of his plan. Roman had come to dinner in his formal regalia, as always. That would have to be destroyed, it would be too easy to recognise if his body were to be found. Yes, some trousers such as the peasants wore would do just fine, but a shirt would not be necessary, he would freeze quicker without one.

Roman aimlessly recounted his day as they ate. Declan let himself look like he was listening, while he retreated into his own thoughts.

‘What was the best way to announce Roman’s death? How short should the official mourning period be without raising suspicions? A search party will be sent out tomorrow to make sure he has truly perished.’

“Uncle, I think I might retire early tonight,” Roman murmured, aimlessly pushing his half eaten food around his plate.

Declan looked up from his own meal. “Oh, is something the matter, nephew?”

“I seem to be feeling a little under the weather all of a sudden. May I be excused?”

“You may.”

No sooner had the words left Declan’s mouth than Roman was standing and stumbling out into the hallway.

Declan watched him leave, fighting to contain his joy. Everything was going according to plan. He was itching to follow Roman, to see his handiwork, but he stayed seated. It was better not to raise any suspicion.

The dining room was blissfully quiet without Roman’s overwhelming presence, and it was a peace that Declan could get used to very quickly. No sooner then he was sure that he had given Roman enough time to stumble back to his room was he out of his chair, under the guise of ‘concerned uncle checking on his nephew.’

The halls were fortunately empty, so Declan’s guise stayed firmly locked away. Roman’s room was barely a five minute walk from the dining hall, reassuring Declan that the ten minutes he had given Roman was more than enough time, even if Roman’s world was nauseatingly turning, as the physician said it would.

He came to a stop outside Roman’s door, listening for any signs of passerby before slipping into the room and sliding the lock into place.

Roman stood on the other side of the room, one hand braced against the wall as he clutched his head with the other. His expression was contorted into one of pain and he lifted a worry filled gaze to his uncle as he heard him enter.

“Uncle, I think I may require the healer, something is not right.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you see the healer, Roman.”

“What? W-why not?” Roman grimaced, gritting his teeth. His eyes were slowly closing as he physically fought to keep them open.

“Because that would mean ruining my own plan, and after all the work I put in that would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?”

“You poisoned me? You monster, you fiend!” Roman pushed away from the wall, fighting to stay upright.

“Poisoned is such a harsh word, nephew.”

“Okay then, tried to murder me!” Roman retorted, stumbling as he took a step towards Declan.

“I think you’ve said enough. Sleep now.”

“I will not! You will not get away-“

“-Oh I already have. I’m bored of this back and forth. Goodbye, Prince Roman,” Declan spat, letting that grotesque grin stretch across his face as he kicked Roman’s legs out from under him.

Roman was unconscious before he hit the floor.

#Take Back The Kingdom

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dailyaudiobible · 3 years

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9/14/2021 DAB Transcript

Isaiah 15:1-18:7, Galatians 1:1-24, Psalm 58:1-11, Proverbs 23:12

Today is the 14th day of September, welcome to the Daily Audio Bible, I’m Brian. It’s great to be here with you today and today and every day. Every day is a new day, every day is another step forward together, every day is a chance to come around the Global Campfire and be together as we take that next step forward so it’s great to be here with you today and every day. We are working our way through the book of Isaiah in the Old Testament. So, that's where we’ll be today. When we get to the New Testament, we’ll be moving into some new territory. Paul's letter to the Galatians and we’ll talk about that when we get there, but first Isaiah chapters 15 through 18.

Introduction to the Book of Galatians:

Okay, that brings us to the beginning of the letter to the Galatians and Galatians, as with all of Paul's letters, is well known. Galatia was a province in the Roman Empire where Paul did his ministry all over the Roman Empire. Now Galatia’s in the modern country of Turkey back in Paul's time and in previous times, the Galatians were known as Galls or Celts. This is kind of the lay of the land. Galatia isn't a city it's a region and in this region of Galatia, there are at least five churches named in the New Testament that we know about from the first missionary journey of Paul. So, churches in Posidea, Antioch, Acconium, Lystra and Derby, and since the letter to the Galatians is addressed to the churches in Galatia then that's how we would safely assume that at least those five communities were recipients of this letter, there may have been, we don't know, there may have been more communities of faith that were established. But this is what we know and so we can assume that those five churches received the letter to the Galatians. And we’ll see as we get into this why it is honored in the study of New Testament theology, but were also gonna see similarities because this same kind of thing Paul was dealing with in his letter to the Corinthians is happening in the church at Galatia. So, people had come to the churches in Galatia after Paul had established them and they taught what Paul thought was a nuanced or a different gospel and in specific, the Galatians were being taught that they needed essentially to convert to Judaism and then follow the Jewish law, the Mosaic law and the Jewish customs, including circumcision and the law and all that goes along with it, in order to follow Jesus and we've seen this before, and we've talked about this before. We talked about it quite a bit when we were reading second Corinthians about the super apostles. So, the same kind of things going on in the region of Galatia and Paul wants nothing to do with it. He's completely against it, because Paul's understanding of Jesus is that Christ fulfilled the law and established a new covenant through Jesus and His ministry and His coming, the world, everything had changed. Now when we…we will remember here that we've already read through the book of Acts and we did see that this issue was in the early church and we did see a council, the first council known as the Jerusalem Council to work through the issue of whether or not Gentiles were able to be included in…in following Jesus, and if so how. And we remember that it was decided that Gentiles did not have to obey the Mosaic law. Even Jewish people were not able to adhere to it and so they were going to burden people who had no background with the Mosaic law to learn this a whole new system. So, we’re not, I mean, it’s a matter of long-running debate among scholars whether Galatians was written before or after the Jerusalem Council. So, if…if Galatians was written before the Jerusalem Council, then we have people coming from the Jerusalem church or thereabouts, visiting these churches that Paul is establishing and undermining the message, trying to set the record straight that no, in fact, you do have to become Jewish, convert to Judaism and then you can follow Jesus. Of course, Paul finds out about this and he’s not happy. And it will be these kinds of things that inspire the Jerusalem Council. If that's the case with the Galatians then, Galatians is one of the earliest Christian writings that there are and Paul's writings are the earliest Christian writings that we have but Galatians would be one of the earliest of the early writings that exist. If the Jerusalem Council had already happened then Paul is using the letter to the Galatians just to simply reiterate what it already been decided at the Jerusalem Council. Although it seems like maybe be there would be some sort of reference to that document or that counsel in the letter. So, this is why we don't know. The bottom line though, that they were wrestling with that we see in these letters is this kind of Jew/Gentile rub where Judaism is an exclusive religion for the Jews and Gentiles weren’t part of that. So, if we have this faith in Jesus who was a Jewish rabbi in a Hebrew context and Gentiles can…can be included, all they have to do is believe, then it's not an exclusive thing anymore. It's a incredibly inconclusive thing that everyone in the whole world is invited to so, we can understand why there's the tension. And we’ll see some of this unpacked in the letter to the Galatians, things like the gospel of freedom, justification by faith, the doctrine of grace. Some of this is unpacked in Galatians, in the context of this kind of rift or this tension going on in the early church. So, we begin Galatians chapter 1.

Prayer:

Thank You father for Your word and thank You for the Council of the Proverbs; apply your heart to instruction and your ear to words of knowledge. So, we open ourselves asking Your Holy Spirit to plant what we've read today in our lives and to give us a heart that is open to instruction and ears that are open to words that bring us knowledge. As we continue our journey forward into this letter to the Galatians in the coming days. Come, Holy Spirit, we pray, lead us into all truth. We ask in the name of Jesus. Amen.

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And of course, if you have a prayer request or encouragement, you can hit the Hotline button in the app or you can dial 877-942-4253.

And that's it for today. I’m Brian, I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Prayer and Encouragements:

Hello family this is Anne calling from Arizona, this is September the 9th and I’m praying for Lisa. Lord, I pray that you would heal Lisa. Lisa who called in feels that she’s a burden to her family. She has medical bills that her family are paying for and that she’s concerned about. She’s also very concerned about her illness Lord, and she is feeling desperate. Father, I pray Lord, that you would comfort. First and foremost, I pray Lord, that your Holy Spirit will be a Spirit of comfort and that You would heal her Lord. We believe Lord, that You are able to heal so Father we ask for that healing upon her body. I also ask Lord that you would reassure her of Your Love. That Father, through her family that she would know that she is loved, that she’s not a burden, that’s she’s a precious child of God. And that Lord, You’re with her in this situation Lord. You’re with her through this illness Lord, so, I pray Lord, that this be a miracle that we may be able to rejoice and praise you Lord and exalt Your name as we see her being healed. Lord, so Father, I reassure her Lord today that all is well and that You are with her. In Jesus name. Amen.

Hello, this is Landa from New York and I just wanna say that I'm so grateful for this site, listening to the Bible every day. I am learning so much. But what really touched me so much were the people that were leaving encouragement and prayers. I just sat there quietly and I said Lord, You must be so glorified right now, and then I realized, I go Lord, this is the church. It’s all of us from all over encouraging one another, praying for one another, in raising your name and giving You glory. Thank You Jesus, thank You Jesus for this app, thank you very much and I love you all who are listening. Again it’s Landa from New York. Thank you.

Greetings to the church at the Daily Audio Bible. I’m just calling in because I just heard Dr. John’s call in when he was talking about just being grateful for this community and for our prayers and for the miracles that happen because we love one another. So, I just wanted to tell you guys I love you all, this is Delta Alpha Foxtrot, calling from the Central Texas Front.

Hello from beautiful Cincinnati, Ohio. This is your brother Daniel Johnson Junior, God bless you. Hey, I wanted to share something specifically for you today. I want you to know that whatever it is that you are dealing with right now that you are highly loved, highly favored and cherished. I want you to know that God holds you in his everlasting arms and that you are so loved. Yes, so loved even in fact that long before you were even created or even thought of, God thought of you. And He said, I want to make a way for you to be a part of my family and so what God did is He came down in the flesh and lived among us, and died just for the very hope that one day you would respond and listen to what He has done so that you could have eternal life in Him, and even though whatever it is that you're going through right now is intense. Every day is filled with its own struggles, but every day, even right now it is brand-new. We have turned a blank page. Everything is clear. Everything is brand-new. There is new mercy for you. That is why every day, it is called the present a special divine gift for you and so from beautiful Cincinnati, Ohio, it is your brother Daniel Johnson Junior, I do love you make it a great day.

Hi, this is Victorious Soldier just calling to pray for some of the DABers. My heart really went out to my precious sister named Lisa. She said she was going through some desperate times and I wanted to pray for her because she said she was feeling like she was a burden to her family. And it seems like the enemy is trying to steal her joy and I say Lisa, I pray for you my sister because God has a blessing for you and you are the blessing by just your appearance just your being there is a blessing. And I want to let you know that you are somebody special. That you are a child of the King. You have, we all have the same Father who loves us very much and He loves You with all His heart. And Lord, I pray for my sister Lisa, I ask You to let her begin to praise You and begin to thank You for the victory, Lord. The victory is already hers. Lord, let her begin to praise and pray and pray and praise You and let You know that You come in the midst Father. Let her see you in the midst and know that You are God that can do anything but fail. That You are a God of joy. That You are a God of peace. That You are a God of victory. Oh Lord, let her begin to pray for the victory and I pray right now for the victory in her life and the life of our DABers, Lord. In the name of Jesus, oh Lord, this is Your precious, precious victory Father we have victory in the name of Jesus. Lord, You bless her, You strengthen her, You guide her, oh Father in the name of Jesus, You take away the wicked, You take away the, she draws nigh to You. Lord, we ask You to bless her in a mighty and special way. You lift her Lord, You lift those who are going through Father, You lift those who are feeling like they’re not important. But You also important that while we were yet sinners You died for us. Oh Lord, and I thank You.

Good morning family it is 426 on October 10th 2021. I’m sitting here watching the dry lightning. I live in Northern California. Over a year ago, on August 18th we had to evacuate from our home for 10 days due to the fires. They came within two miles of our home. The smell, the air, you’ll never smell anything like it again unless you live around here. And I just ask for your prayers, I beg you for your prayers. I’ve been praying to our Father, every single day, to bless His earth with rain. To bless the United Western United States with rain. We desperately need it. The trees are dying, we live amongst the Sequoias, the Redwoods around here. The most…the oldest trees on earth. We don’t want it to disappear. In the mighty name of Jesus, please pray for rain for the Western United States. And please pray that the dry lightning that is going on right now, that it will not start any new fires. I know our prayers are heard. I know this is a powerful family, I love you all. And God bless you all for your prayers. Please pray for rain. This is Kim in California. May you all be blessed.

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cielizzydefencesquad · 6 years

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Any ships hmm~ then can I have a Lizzy x Finny pretty please?

Ohhh goodness—Lizzy x Finny??! The ultimate sunshine couple! Can the world even handle their combined adorableness??? XD

Who is more likely to catch a cold? Finny—no one can match Lizzy’s superhuman immune system lmao but Finny thinks being sick when Lizzy’s around is probably one of the best things ever. Lizzy cocoons him in blankets before cuddling up next to him, volumes of fairytales and poetry in hand. Finny can’t read that well and has never heard of some of the works Lizzy loves so in the beginning he was horribly embarrassed that he might look a fool in front of this beautiful sunshine princess. (“W-would you mind teaching me?” Finny asked in a rush, face heating up in embarrassment. “I—I’d like to be able to read with you. To talk with you about something you’re so passionate about, Miss Elizabeth.” —> to which Lizzy, after taking Finny by the hand, smiled warmly. “It’s Lizzy,” she insisted softly, “please call me Lizzy.”) Now, one of Finny and Lizzy’s favorite things to do when he’s sick is to have Lizzy read out loud to him as he cuddles next to her, a mug of orange blossom tea in hand.

Who hogs the blankets? Lizzy. She’s not used to sharing a bed but once she found out she was pretty much leaving Finnian in the cold she was horrified but Finny just smiled, “It’s not bother, Miss Eliz—er, Lizzy. In fact, I could just hold you when we sleep, that way we’ll both keep warm!” (Cue Lizzy blushing madly because Finny’s hands are so much bigger than hers and he likes tracing patterns on her arms and shoulders when they’re lying down. She loves the feel of his calloused fingertips on her rosy-pale skin.)

Who kills all the flowers? Neither! In their eyes this is damn near sacrilegious lol Finny likes to surprise Lizzy with new bouquets every day and sometimes helps braid flowers into her hair. (He’s good with his hands.)

Who eats all the candy before Halloween? Well Finny used to but after kissing Lizzy for the first time declared, “I don’t need candy anymore. I just want your kisses. They’re the sweetest things I’ve ever tasted.”

Who takes the longest showers? Lizzy! She definitely needs time to unwind after a long day of training, studying, and social responsibilities. (Finnian’s taken to decorating the bathroom hallway with vases of orange blossoms because Lizzy once mentioned their scent helps her relax.)

Who goes to bed at 5am but wakes up at 8am? Neither—they both head to bed at 10 PM and wake up at 7 AM.

Who makes sure the other has a healthy breakfast? Finny :) this sweetie pie worries that Lizzy might not be eating enough to keep up with her strenuous training regime so he built a little fruit patch near their flower garden, that way Lizzy could always have fresh strawberries and pears every morning.

What pets do they have? They have a white canary named Boudica (after the Iceni warrior-queen who led an uprising against the invading Romans in 60 AD). Finny found the injured canary in the nearby woods and took it home; he and Lizzy nursed her back to health together and Boudica’s stayed with them since.

Wedding

Who proposes? Finny does. —> With Bard, Mey-Rin, Snake, and Sebastian’s help Finny built a little rose cottage near the border of the Phantomhive domain with white washed walls, a sloping grey roof, and a front garden filled with roses and strawberries. A white picket fence surrounds the area while rose vines climb the brick chimney and white walls. It’s here that Finny prepared a light, simple meal for him and Lizzy to share just as the rose bloom dusk is giving way to starry lavender and hints of dark blue. With trembling fingers and a rapidly beating heart, Finny got down on one knee and confessed, “I know I don’t deserve you Lizzy but I—I love you. I love you and just want to make you happy for the rest of your life. Won’t you please marry me?”

Who actually enjoyed the planning? They both did! Finny was pretty indifferent to everything except the flower arrangements—he and Lizzy chose wild roses, baby’s breath, and blue hyacinths.

Would their wedding be small or grand? Small! A countryside wedding in the backyard of their rose cottage with only immediate family members and close friends in attendance.

Which guest was happiest to see them get married? Ciel. Even though he’ll never admit it, all he’s ever wanted was to see Lizzy like this, joyous and laughing. To know that she was happy and safe, free from the burdens and dangers of the world, encased in light and smiling by the still-blooming roses.

Children

How many children would they have? 2-3. Both Lizzy and Finny love children so they’ll definitely have more than one.

Would they adopt or have them naturally? Naturally.

Who is the strictest parent? Lizzy. She wants her children to be well-educated and responsible, to care for and be able to protect one another later on.

Are their children in homeschool or public school? They attend a private school in London alongside their cousins.

Who is the favorite parent? They both are! This is the sunshine couple with their sunflower children—they adore one another equally. (It’s probably the healthiest family in all of Kuro lmao)

Who checks on the kids in the middle of the night? Finny. Dropping a kiss on Lizzy’s shoulder, he gets up to check on their sons and daughters, seeing them and feeling an overwhelming tidal wave of love rushing through him.

Who decorated the nursery? They both did! Since they live in a rose cottage the walls are already white and their floors are made of dark rosewood. They have beautiful garret windows that let in white sunshine and the fragrance of wild roses. The furniture is satinwood; Finny hand carved roses and rambling vines on them and on every available surface there are vases of red roses in pale blue milk jugs.

#this was just too cute to write XD #finnian #finny #elizabeth midford #ciel phantomhive #black butler #kuroshitsuji #asks #replies #mod Nina #these are so much fun to do lol

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davidjjohnston3 · 3 years

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Facebook Insomnia 7.25.2021 1. I am still sad to conceptualize life in terms of fiction and the condition of fiction rather than Christianity undivided. Today I had a lot of images of Japan in my mind. I heard the phrase 'Japanese Breakfast' which is the rock-star name of the author of 'Crying at H-Mart' a famous book. I remembered someone who once dated someone who became my enemy. This person I respected I now realize and I am happy that I didn't say anything excessively stupid that would have implied I look down on her, saw her as easy, saw her as 'material to work on,' someone to have a plan for etc. I asked her once for help getting someone to interview at Deloitte for consulting only this person was in Accounting. I never really saw this person as in my league or anything to me except as a 'Curriculum Developer' I guess I outranked her and so wasn't shy of talking to / with her in official functions. Later we drank together and I said a few random things like that I stress- / binge-eat apples, like 5 apples a night. My friend once did a funny imitation of her that in retrospect sounded a little like my Taiwanese ex-girlfriend's imitation of Kaori Mochida from Every Little Thing; the funny thing I now realize is that he too had lingering affection for her despite everything. I feel he became anti-Korean racist and I don't know where he is now but in retrospect he definitely never crossed a line with her that I know of except for asking questions I would never ask. He called her by her Asian name which was something I never did in those days feeling it pretentious. 'The mysterious maiden of the Moon...' - It's a line from Yi Kwangsu's 'The Soil' in which a married man is comparing his wife with someone else like his former student. In good Korean custom since his former student once had a puppy-crush on him and gave him some corn, when her husband finds out, he kicks her to death in her pregnant stomach and this is why I oppose many things in principle such as tribalism, marriage, and for all intent and purposes the nuclear family. Yi Kwangsu is a problematic figure and as a Christian or aspiring Christian / 'Christianist' I don't recommend it. It has incredibly exquisite descriptions of women that could make you brain-dead. Yi Kwangsu also supposed Japan's occupation of Korea so that to this day talking about Yi Kwangsu can get you crucified. I also seem to recall something like '_ _-ya, you got run over by a train you one-legged prostitute; now you have to love your husband even more.' But I don't remember the context. Ironically or not 'The Soil' is the title of a Knut Hamsun novel the author of which supported Hitler; I do not. I wonder where she is now. This person got shot at a lot and I regret adding to her burdens with my sin-eater-type confessions or just shooting my mouth off when stuff happened. I had a crush on someone else and started saying I was sad I lost my virginity in college; IDK why I said anything. This person also had high alcohol-tolerance - extremely high for a female Asian - and although I could also drink a lot I always did bad self-destructive things. In the Middle Ages one form of 'trial by ordeal' was to reach your hand in to boiling water to pull out a pearl and if the boiled skin healed well you were exonerated or sth. She must be 'somebody's everything; my impossible girl.' IDK why she talked to me and I made fun of her and all my fictionalized versions of her and theories of her were derogations. Like me she played the piano. She once said '_ _ is popular' which was a burn I appreciate since I'm anti-popularity and anti-personality-cults. She went to a school part of which is Victoria College where a literary critic I admire(d) taught for many years. I am stuck in America, hounded by Satan through the personages of my Maoist biological family and 'family tree' of America torn between past and future, un-death and life; due in large part to my excessive tendency to defend myself, to lash out, to wash my hands on the outside without cleaning my 'interior mentality' to paraphrase the 'Da Xue,' or to blaspheme the Spirit in some respects, I feel. I regret talking about her and at the same time why would I talk about lesser maidens? IDK what her favorite piano-piece was as I never endeavored to enage her in discourse about art or aesthetics given she is not a 'kisaeng' or 'geisha' and I am not a museum-curator or whatever. Other people would be like 'Oh! You lke the Grande Valse Brilliante; I know you spent the summer of 2003 teaching yourself repeat-notes.' Everyone wants to drag everyone in to their mud or graves these days. Am reminded of Endo Shusaku's 'Silence' about why Jesuits would apostasize in medieval Japan. His conclusion was that the 'swamp of Japan' was too full of sensualism, the Portuguese Jesuit wanted a Japanese mistress or wife. I once yelled 'swamp f-ggot' at someone due to their tendency to emotionalize and 'contextualize' everything which was an underhanded way of trying to make me change my sex as well. In an effort to mitigate some of the tempting evil pornographic things I said about KR over the years I said a few more but this is a person, whose name means 'Pearl' as in 'the pearl of great price for which oe sold everything else.' It is said that AAPI Twitter, America, house-slave Am-Kor own-goal Korean self-exploitation honor-killing squadsters, etc. want to these people in the trash. I found my Gideon Kor-Eng NT Psalms with the 'victory song' that sounds like Mandarin in its Revelation, that I had worried I'd lost. That might be the 'most grateful' thing that 'happened.' I also remembered what my Mandarin name used to be though I had many in different classes I took. I was going to say many things, but in the end: the mystery of Charity.

I never considered the full implications of socialism or mental socialism till today. I assumed that it was valid mitigation. Some are born rich, some are born poor, it's wrong to let the latter starve on principle alone. I don't even know how to say this. I remember during the Iraq War being struck by how much the government - like my mom - was asking outsiders for advice about how to fight. Dick Cheney got in trouble. Years later I was skeptical of the F-35 because a lot of idiots with no skin in the game wanted to build it here or there. Wisconsin wanted to build the 'Littoral Combat Ship' which who cares. It made people worse and worse. The only thing is, the CCP - who ultimately serve I dare not even say whom, but clearly not the ghosts of Karl Marx or Vladimir Lenin or perhaps even Mao Zedong - figured out awesome killer ways to troll Republicans like Scott Walker w/ their 'FoxConn Fallujah hokey-pokey' whereby they got an avowed capitalist to promise socialists something that actually came from-post-hyper-anti-socialist hyper-capitalists with a plan to kill all white people or something. My father used to talk about the University of Chicago School of Economics all the time and it made me sulkily ask myself why 'Poor Dad' is talking so much about stuff that supposedly makes people billionaires while Jacob's English major dad is Bloomberg's 'chief of staff.' I say again it's just like Biden saying all the right stuff, 'knee on the neck of the American soul, bone of our bone, winter of peril, hey dumbfuck, articulate, they're killing people.' Writing grant-proposals to the government to fund private research in to brain-injury that is itself applied by the government to veterans sent to get brain-damaged by a government that said good things and did retarded things based on their readings of the good things they said a bit like Karenin in 'Anna Karenina.' I remember when George W. Bush said 'I'm the decider.' I once told my dad to get out of my face so he got really sloshed up and vapored, 'I'm in your face!' I'm not even saying that to defame someone but welcome to reality. Every so often every male seems to try to man up then they defend themselves like, 'No that is not the way in which I meant that I was manning up.' You could call this 'self-draft-dodging.' It's ancient history but if I had been wiser I would have tried to predict the future for myself rather than visualize it as an abstract spectatorial notion. At day's end mental socialists can literally not understand why it is wrong to steal. Stealing is compulsory under socialism - I again come back to 'Pearl' since her ex-suitor and I used to reflect on how Korean collectivism drove people into themselves. Similarly mental socialists cannot but hoard 'capabilities' so that in the end they'll falsify anything, steal anything; the only limit I guess is living with themselves.

I keep giving myself to fantasy and coping of all kinds like a 'mental Changrae Lee novel, mental David Guterson novel,' or ultimately Vergil (Virgil). There has to be a new music, a new dream, something, a new city, though it is odd to think about pre-Christian times and a legend of what came before Rome in a Christian moment amid realignment in 'late Roman history.' My favorite YAL book still perhaps is 'The Giver' since it deals with the uses of history, with abortion, and with escape or exile. I was going to say a while back something about 'Light in August' which relates to escape - as well to complacence - and to interracial relationships, pregnancy, the right to live. I was in Minneapolis but mind was on Japan, on all these swords, not the Olympics but histories of swords and strange armor, halberds. There was a huge sword called a 'field sword' in translation. I don't even want to see these people again; I sincerely pray the Japanese Prime Minister, the men and women of their armed forces, Tokyo's apparently amazing counter-terrorism and response capabilities for NBC / WMD / etc. attacks since the Aum Shinrikyo Sarin subway attacks and maybe their counter-nuclear or ability to respond after a nuclear blast will be enough. People in America are trying to live by a little of the old, a little of the new, but it seems utterly impossible. When people abuse me I get really dreamy. I read Virgil in high school; I was thinking of 'post-Covid YAL' or so in which people are just on the run, harrowing themselves, not even nostalgic for Babylon or anything in it. It is almost like 'the meaning of the soul.' I realized that in addition to new churches and new government laws Covid will engender new birth-defects and there will have to be new medicine. Japan is a country that I said bad things about especially when in Korea but she never did anything bad to me - I remember playing 'Final Fantasy' and thinking someone out there loves me; they made an investment in children worldwide. The only thing is I'm too old for such adventures and I fall apart quickly. All these birds in Japan, colors of red - people get obsessed with the Otherness of Japan and want to abnegate Belial-like (a demon or fallen angel of sensualism, to my understanding).

I took so many notes and voice-notes yesterday that I devoutly hope my visions will pass to someone. The future is going to be so beautiful for somebody but I have lost so much faith in my ability to mitigate or restrain evil. Those who I had thought were simply stupid but were diabolically opposed to my existence - whom I did not wish to understand and whom I had 'fancied' I could placate or appease through offerings - turned out to be radically evil, unconditionally evil. I feel that my father (biological) would steal my soul if he could; would eat it in a way. My mom is always sitting on the porch and gives a look of hope like I could change her mind but it'll never happen. I want to kill myself; I think things worldwide will get worse before they get better; I don't trust Biden or anyone who says the right things without showing exactly what they are doing. Christians seem so petty sometimes like melanin, hairy legs, in Japan this therefore that, Native American Indian manhood rituals. I just want to know which pastor has the 'batting average' I can believe in but it has to be John MacArthur doesn't it?

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carschronicle · 3 years

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It’s free to be free and be OK w/ it

Salvation from burdens found in this life and from hell itself is free. It was given willingly and now made available by our Loving, Good GOD Dearest JESUS CHRIST.

You cannot buy health from a hospital, get a peaceful sleep from store-bought pills, buy a home sweet home from an agent, or get assurance from an insurance company.

So why do highly recognized individuals don’t preach about JESUS? Why do they spend their precious time and effort trying to discover about the cure for incurable diseases, the depths of this world, or the next world to live in?

Truth is, we’ve all been deceived, one way or another by the god of this world- satan. We’ve worshipped images, gods made by human hands, gods who don’t hear thus don’t answer, our own works, ourselves. We’ve been under this curse brought by the enemy of GOD and so we care so much about the goodness that we think we can do with our own capacity. Naturally, we are good because we were made by a Good GOD. However, we’re weak although The One True GOD, Dearest JESUS CHRIST is Strong and Mighty. While GOD gives strength, we were weakened by His enemy. So wake up, man! You actually have a beautiful life here only when You have JESUS CHRIST in you and you actually have a chance at Heaven only if you don’t let yourself be deceived anymore. Romans 1:28 And even as they did not like to retain God in their knowledge, God gave them over to a reprobate mind, to do those things which are not convenient;

Ecclesiastes 9:11 I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all. When you look for healing, you think of meds and hospitals; for change, you see therapy and rehab centers; or sometimes you just don’t care at all because you’re okay. But how can you be okay when after this life, whether you’ve enjoyed it here or not but you didn’t receive The Spirit of GOD, you’ll be there at the chasm? Be okay only when after you've received The Spirit of GOD, you still get to live your life here and you’re just on queue for your sure time in Heaven. JESUS JESUS JESUS

The Name above all names. You don’t need a degree to memorize His Name yet you forget it. You heard of His Name at some point in your life yet you ignore it. It was preached to you before but you didn’t feel anything nor get any good thing out of it (because your preacher was not from JESUS Himself) so you just don’t mind. But how could you forget, ignore and not mind the Only Name that can save you from all the works of evil that chains you? The Only Name that you can benefit from here and in the life after? The Name that offers you all goodness, mercy, love, peace, grace, understanding without a price tag for you now because He paid it all for you there at Calvary even when you weren’t here yet. Oh, how precious are you to Him! So again, wake up! You are His if only you will have faith in Him. Acts 4:10 Be it known unto you all, and to all the people of Israel, that by the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, whom ye crucified, whom God raised from the dead, even by him doth this man stand here before you whole. 11This is the stone which was set at nought of you builders, which is become the head of the corner. 12Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.

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glittergummicandypeach · 4 years

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If You Can’t Blame the Confederacy, Secede! | Abbeville Institute

American political theater has become the most entertaining show in town. Trump refuses to shake hands and Pelosi rips up his script.

This is red meat for the duly indoctrinated in the mainstream political parties, but in case you thought that Trump’s impeachment and subsequent acquittal would calm the waters and draw the final curtain on a five-month Greek comedy, the woke lunatics and their Girondist media allies have decided the show must go on.

And who can we blame? Why the Confederacy, of course, the fly in the ointment of good American government. If it wasn’t for those dastardly traitors of 1861 and their political progeny, America would be a glorious City Upon a Hill.

CNN’s John Harwood seems to think something nefarious is afoot from below the Mason Dixon:

While he clearly doesn’t know basic American geography or history, he certainly knows that the Confederacy is behind whatever problems ail America. How could these modern Confederates be so blind to the necessity of John Bolton’s important testimony, the same John Bolton whom leftists consistently called an untrustworthy warmonger until he had some dirt on Trump? They held the right opinion of Bolton before the show required a plot twist making the enemy of their enemy their friend. Except every viewer knew the end of the story before it showed up on the small screen. These people telegraph their punches like a drunk itching for a bar fight.

But Harwood’s geographic determinism thinly veils his real motivation: these Republicans who voted against his wishes are racist just like their ancestor traitors to the United States. And people wonder why Southerners still cling to the War, God, and guns.

The left won’t let them forget, except if they want to pack up or demolish a few hundred statues and remove the Confederate flag from every public space in the South.

“Hey deplorable, the War is over, except when we say it isn’t over.”

Of course, we all know that an independent South would be a vastly different country than the United States. The late Bill Cawthon did a splendid job explaining how several years ago.

And some leftists get it. The failed impeachment process has brought these woke secessionists out of the closet:

I’m all for it. “Jesusland” would be a pretty nice place to live and would be freed from the burden of being constantly overruled by some Yankee self-righteous do-gooder. It does, however, makes you wonder if “kim” realized that Trump is a byproduct of the U.S. of Canada? Maybe all these loving people north of the border are just bombastic jerks after all. Nah. That would make them Yankees, and Yankees are supposed to be the good guys.

Several hundred thousands dead Southerners would tell a different story, but what do they know? They were the ones who had the backbone to let the North go in peace in 1861 if they just sent the bluecoats back over the Mason Dixon. They tried “Jesusland” but were blown to pieces by Lincoln’s cannons. If they had their way, “kim” would already be living in a separate country.

And while the founding generation worried about the prospect of secession, very few would have wanted to go to war to prevent it. Patriots don’t kill other patriots, especially those who understood that self-determination is the bedrock of the American political tradition.

So who are the real traitors to America again?

Is Davis a Traitor? Or Was Secession a Constitutional Right Previous to the War of 1861? Albert Taylor Bledsoe, author, Brion McClanahan and Mike Church, editors Published a year after the war, it provides the best argument every assembled in one book for the constitutional right of secession. Everyone interested in the overall design of the Constitution ratified by the several States in 1788 should read this book.

Patrick Henry-Onslow Debate: Liberty and Republicanism in American Political Thought Lee Cheek, Sean R. Busick, Carey Roberts, editors A public debate carried on by President John Quincy Adams and Vice President John C. Calhoun under the pen names of “Patrick Henry” and “Onslow.” This important, but little known debate, about the limits of federal power is arguably more salient now than when it occurred.

Defending Dixie: Essays in Southern History and Culture Clyde Wilson A Collection of insightful essays on how Southerners think of themselves in the light of how they are perceived by outside cultural elites.

The Enduring Relevance of Robert E. Lee: The Ideological Warfare Underpinning the American Civil War Marshall DeRosa DeRosa uses the figure of Robert E. Lee to consider the role of political leadership under extremely difficult circumstances, examining Lee as statesman rather than just a military leader and finds that many of Lee’s assertions are still relevant today. DeRosa reveals Lee’s awareness that the victory of the Union over the Confederacy placed America on the path towards the demise of government based upon the consent of the governed, the rule of law, and the Judeo-Christian American civilization.

The Founding Fathers Guide to the Constitution Brion McClanahan An article by article and clause by clause analysis of the Constitution ratified by the founding generation of 1787 and 1788, a Constitution quite different from what the political class in Washington understands.

The Morality of Everyday Life: Rediscovering An Ancient Alternative to the Liberal Tradition Thomas Fleming Fleming (editor of Chronicles, A Magazine of American Culture) explains how the morality embedded in the ideology of liberalism leads to the decadence of morality in contemporary American society.

Forgotten Conservatives in American History Clyde Wilson and Brion McClanahan A study of thinkers who exemplify conservatism in a Jeffersonian idiom rather than a Hamiltonian.

In Search of the City on a Hill: The Making and Unmaking of an American Myth Richard Gamble A history of the "city on a hill" metaphor from its Puritan beginnings to its role in American "civil religion" today.

James Madison and the Making of America Kevin Gutzman Judged by Clyde Wilson to be the "standard" on Madison for sometime.

Nullification: How to Resist Federal Tyranny in the 21st Century Thomas Woods A readable, comprehensive treatment of the constitutionality of State interposition and nullification. Should be in the hands of every State legislator.

Nullification: A Constitutional History, 1776-1833. Vol. 1: James Madison, Not the Father of the Constitution W. Kirk Wood

Nullification, A Constitutional History, 1776-1833. Vol. 2: James Madison and the Constitutionality of Nullification, 1787-1828 W. Kirk Wood In this thoroughly researched and magisterial two volume work, Wood shows how nullification was an “American” constitutional principle (essential to republicanism), and not merely a Southern sectional one. And he explains how and why republicanism has been suppressed.

Rethinking the American Union for the 21st Century Donald Livingston Essays raising the question of whether the United States has become simply too large for self-government and should be divided into a number of Unions of States as Jefferson thought it should. (The book is signed by Livingston who wrote the "Introduction" and contributed an essay).

The Broken Circle David Bridges A historical novel (as close to historical detail as a novel can be), about Major James Breathed, an officer of horse artillery for JEB Stuart. Classically educated, deeply religious, and preparing for a career in medicine when his country was invaded, he reluctantly became a fierce warrior. He was wounded several times fighting from the very beginning to the end, in 71 battles. The Sons of Confederate Veterans recently awarded him the Medal of Honor.

Superfluous Southerners, Cultural Conservatism and the South, 1920-1990 John J. Langdale, III Explores the "traditionalist" conservatism that originated with John Crowe Ransom, Donald Davidson, and Allen Tate and continued with their intellectual descendants, Cleanth Brooks, Richard Weaver, and Melvin Bradford.

A Cautious Enthusiasm: Mystical Piety and Evangelicalism in Colonial South Carolina Samuel C. Smith Smith shows how Evangelical revivalism in the colonial South Carolina low country had origins in Roman Catholic mysticism, Huguenot Calvinists and German pietism. This disposition, usually identified only with Evangelicals, touched even high Anglicans and Catholics making possible a bond of low country patriotism in the Revolutionary era.

Fiddler of Driskill Hill David Middleton A collection of this prize winning poet’s work set in his home region of rural Louisiana, a place which views the world from a conservative, southern agrarian perspective. The fiddler is a figure of the traditionalist southern-agrarian artist.

Bourbon and Kentucky: A History Distilled Explores how distilling originated in Kentucky with it’s first settlers in 1775, and takes the viewer to the sites of Central Kentucky’s earliest distilling operations. Magnificent portraits and landscapes adorn the production.

The Southern Cross: The Story of the Confederacy’s First Battle Flag Chronicles the history of the design and creation of a flag that became the prototype for the famous Confederate battle flags. The hand-stitched silk flag with gold painted stars was borne by the Fifth Company of the Washington Artillery of New Orleans through the Battles of Shiloh and Perryville. The flag was designed and made for the army after the first battle of Manassas as a military necessity and wholly without the authority or even the knowledge of the Confederate government. Mary Henry Lyon Jones of Richmond, Virginia stitched the flag together. After Generals P.G.T. Beauregard and Joseph E. Johnston approved Ms. Jones’s flag, sewing circles of more than four hundred women in Richmond sewed 120 flags made from Ms. Jones’s original design.

Jefferson Davis: An American President The first and definitive documentary film on the entire life of patriot and president, Jefferson Davis. Across three beautifully shot and edited episodes, the full spectrum of Davis’ life comes into view: from his frontier origins and service to the United States as military officer, congressman, secretary of war, and two-term senator from Mississippi; to his rise and fall as Confederate President; through his unlawful two year imprisonment after the War; and finally covering his 25 years as a man struggling to find his place in a world in which it was no longer clear what it meant to be an American.

This content was originally published here.

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madewithonerib · 4 years

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When Your Thoughts Attack | Steven Furtick [Elevation Church]

Odds are, if you really think about the way you feel, you can always find a thought that started it. If you're feeling insecure, did you compare yourself to someone else first? If you're frustrated, did you catch a thought of offense?

This one hurts: “What happened was I caught a thought of offense then I reaped an attitude of frustration.

I got offended the other day because I saw GOD blessing somebody that HE wasn’t supposed to bless.

Did you ever watch GOD just do something awesome for the wrong person? HE didn’t consult you.

So I found myself feeling insecure.

>> The reason, I felt insecure in myself, is because I caught a thought of offense about somebody else. Here’s what happens:

you become a victim of your own judgement

when you judge others that way, you judge you that way

so don’t be surprised when the judgement comes upon you

Psalm 50:6 | And the heavens proclaim His righteousness, for God Himself is Judge.

Hebrews 12:23 | in joyful assembly, to the congregation of the firstborn, enrolled in heaven. You have come to God the judge of all men, to the spirits of the righteous made perfect,

Psalm 96:13 | before the LORD, for He is coming--He is coming to judge the earth. He will judge the world in righteousness and the peoples in His faithfulness.

The less y’all are saying Amen, the more I know I’m preaching.

1.] I realized the thought I hold onto, never knew I could catch a thought, & I trace sometimes the weakness of my faith by asking:

“Where did that thought come from?”

It’s important where it came from: because where it comes from >>> determines where it leads to [GOD vs. devil].

1a] My issue is when I say I hear from GOD, I don’t hear HIM out loud.

“I’m not mad at you, unless you start using it to manipulate ppl by making up stuff that GOD told you. Cause GOD has 3-way calling, & HE can tell us both, so don’t tell me GOD spoke something to you that I’m not in agreement with, & try to get me to do something you want to do by saying ‘GOD told you to’ -- especially if you heard from GOD to quit your job, because you just tired of dealing with frustrated people. I don’t know if that’s GOD or you’re just tired & need to get some sleep & have a better attitude when you show up.

>> When you say GOD spoke to you: How do you know?

Great question, because I don’t hear GOD at an auditory level. So when I say I heard GOD speak to me, that can be misleading.

When Peter said, “JESUS spoke to me.” It was literal. I was fishing one night, I hadn’t caught anything, I was frustrated.. Luke 5:4 | When Jesus had finished speaking, He said to Simon, “Put out into deep water & let down your nets for a catch.” Then Peter thought: At first I was frustrated cause I thought, YOU’re a carpenter & I’m a fishermen--YOU do your job & I’ll do mine. >> YOU wanted my boat to preach from, I didn’t know YOU would try to drive it. But [watch this, Luke 5:5] because YOU say so, I will let down the nets.

GOD was showing me, that before Peter caught the fish, Peter caught a thought. But I don’t hear GOD out loud like that.. Before there was a seed, there was a thought/decision: (to obey/ignore GOD’s command) Psalm 50:16-17 | To the wicked, however, God says, “What right have you to recite My statutes & to bear My covenant on your lips? For you hate My instruction & cast My words behind you. 1 Samuel 15:22 | ..Behold, obedience is better than sacrifice, & attentiveness is better than the fat of rams. Psalm 51:17 | The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken & a contrite heart, O God, You will not despise.

So I connect with GOD (not in an auditory/sensory level); >> I connect with GOD on the level of thought.

1b] This would be fine if HE was the only one who spoke by planting thoughts. But I got this other joker, they call him the devil but when I say the devil tempts me or the devil discourages me.

I’m not talking about a guy in a hat/costume, or thing on our shoulder <flick>

>> When he attacks, the devil approaches us with a thought. The enemy is always speaking against what GOD told us.

ISSUE: We’ve got two-voices in our head; & we’re caught between a thought.

Case in point: GOD encourages us to do good, to stay in faith/humility/truth.

Psalm 45:4 | In your splendor ride forth in victory on behalf of truth & humility & justice; may your right hand show your awesome deeds.

Hebrews 11:6 | And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who approaches Him must believe that He exists & that He rewards those who earnestly seek Him.

GOD encourages us, your greatest years are still ahead of you (eternal reward/royal priesthood) The devil discourages us, “you’re washed up, you’ve already done all the good things you’re going to do. You better ride it out because it won’t be there much longer.” The devil twists spiritual truths, so we’ll be apt to see & accept it as confirmation to pursue temporal fleshly desires (sin/self/independence/pride/wealth/rebellion/destruction). To do GOD’s work, you need to accumulate a bank roll. To get others to accept GOD, first earn their admiration/respect. Those are lies, designed to twist GOD’s truth & fulfill selfish wants. Imitate Christ’s Humility: Serve others, prioritize GOD/things of GOD

Philippians 2:1-11 | Therefore if you have any encouragement in Christ, if any comfort from His love, if any fellowship with the Spirit, if any affection & compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being united in spirit & purpose. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or empty pride, but in humility consider others more important than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others. Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus: Who, existing in the form of God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself & became obedient to death—even death on a cross. Therefore God exalted Him to the highest place & gave Him the name above all names, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven & on earth & under the earth, & every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

Romans 12:9-16 | Love must be sincere. Detest what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love.

GOD reminds us of the truth, go ahead & step into it & believe for it. The devil deceives us into doubting GOD’s faithfulness. What the devil does best is short-sightedness, blurr the truth, get us to focus on immediate pay-off & shame. >> Amplify the pain to push us away from GOD, or >> Link empty promises w/ sin, to lure us towards disobedience. Hebrews 12:2 | Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author & perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, & sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. These are clearly the same tactics he deployed on JESUS in the desert (twisting GOD’s promises, then giving empty promises) & on the way to the cross (magnifying the pain & shame). This is why he’s called the father of lies, everything is a lie.

Luke 1:37 | For no word from God will ever fail.

Jeremiah 32:17 | “Oh, Lord GOD! You have made the heavens & the earth by Your great power & outstretched arm. Nothing is too difficult for You!

It is night & day, all creation can only give what we’re full of.

The devil is full of fear & death, so those are the things he will fill our lives with if we’re foolish enough to forsake GOD, fail to renew our minds in HIS truths, & give into the fear/doubt/desires of this world.

Romans 10:17 | Consequently, faith comes by hearing, & hearing by the word of Christ.

2 Corinthians 5:4-6 | So while we are in this tent, we groan under our burdens, because we do not wish to be unclothed but clothed, so that our mortality may be swallowed up by life. And God has prepared us for this very purpose & has given us the Spirit as a pledge of what is to come. Therefore we are always confident, although we know that while we are at home in the body, we are away from the Lord.

Psalm 50:23 | Those who sacrifices a thank offering honors Me, & to those who rights their way, I will show the salvation of God.”

Those who have changed their course of life.

Those who glorify GOD, gives GOD honour which HE prize & requires; and not those who loads GOD’s altar with a multitude of sacrifices. We glorify GOD most in obedience, as living proof of HIS goodness & transformative work on our old nature (bent on selfish ambition). We obey GOD when we love one another, & praise HIM continually by acknowledging HIM as our source & seeking HIS guidance. Proverbs 3:5-6 | Trust in the LORD with all your heart, & lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, & He will make your paths straight. 2 Corinthians 5:7 | For we walk by faith, not by sight. WHY? Did GOD have to say all these things? Why are we encouraged not to fear a zillion times over in the entire Bible??? Our immediate payoff is not pleasure, persecution is on the forecast for all believers who want to follow CHRIST. But what follows that is support from GOD’s Holy Spirit (more of HIM, less of us). It’s backwards, opposite to how we expect encouragement/growth to take place. We want a constant stream of positive encouragement for good behaviour, but GOD wants increasing good works & glorification of HIS Name through our dependence on HIM & higher esteem for HIS invisible attributes. All these life giving results occur upon death, when we knowingly: 1.] love/serve others who hate us, 2.] refrain from fighting for our rights (praise GOD for eternal hope), & 3.] continue to emulate & obey GOD, humbly killing off any desire for prestige/power.

John 15:18 | If the world hates you, understand that it hated Me first.

Matthew 10:22 | You will be hated by everyone because of My name, but the one who perseveres to the end will be saved.

Luke 22:42 | ‘Not My Will, But Thine, Be Done’

JESUS did not die for nothing, HE looked on us & saw our deep need for HIM.

Matthew 9:36 | When He saw the crowds, He was moved with compassion for them, because they were harassed & helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.

Don’t get caught up by the emotion, test that what you’re hearing measures up with the doctrine of CHRIST. HE suffered & promised HE’ll never leave us nor forsake us in the pain of following after HIM.

This world is passing, don’t let immediate pain push you away from chasing after GOD. HE has a plan & it is for the good of your eternal soul. ___________________________________________________________

>> Caleb & the other spies warn against entering the promised land [Numbers 13-14]; this is the proverbial the Kingdom of GOD.

Modern day Caleb does the same.

I got this thought that runs through my head all the time, that says it doesn’t matter..I could be doing anything.

Whenever you’re trying to do something...this idea pops up (it doesn’t matter)

“You’re not enough,” this thought attacks everyone, professional athletes too

When we think we’re not enough, we doubt GOD’s provisions. The disciples even told JESUS, there’s not enough food to go around, YOU need to send them away [Matthew 15:33; James 2:16]

How many times have we sent away something that GOD put in our life? Because we caught a thought from the wrong source

They wandered around the desert for 40 years [Joshua 5:6]. Joshua 5:6 | For the Israelites wandered in the wilderness 40 years until all the nation's men of war who came out of Egypt had died off because they did not obey the LORD. Not because of their enemy, but because of their thought/decision. [Philippians 4:8; Romans 12:2; 2 Corinthians 10:5; Proverbs 4:23; Colossians 3:2; Ephesians 4:22-24; Acts 17:10-11]

Philippians 4:8 | Finally, fellow believers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think on these things.

Romans 12:2 | Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test & approve what is the good, pleasing, & perfect will of God.

2 Corinthians 10:5 | We tear down arguments, & every presumption set up against the knowledge of God; & we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.

Proverbs 4:23 | Guard your heart w/ all diligence, for from it flow springs of life.

Colossians 3:2 | Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.

Ephesians 4:22-24 | to put off your former way of life, your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be renewed in the spirit of your minds; & to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness & holiness.

Acts 17:10-11 | As soon as night had fallen, the brothers sent Paul & Silas away to Berea. On arriving there, they went into the Jewish synagogue. Now the Bereans were more noble-minded than the Thessalonians, for they received the message w/ great eagerness & examined the Scriptures every day to see if these teachings were true.

___________________________________________________________

1c] Then even when things are going good!

I get this thought & I don’t know where it comes from..!? I don’t think it’s GOD, it’s hard to tell sometimes.

It all starts with a thought. [James 1:14-15; Mark 7:20-22; Genesis 4:7; Colossians 3:5-6; 1 John 3:4.]

James 1:14-15 | But each one is tempted when by their own evil desires s/he is lured away & enticed. Then after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; & sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.

Mark 7:20-22 | He continued: “What comes out of a man, that is what defiles him. For from within the hearts of men come evil thoughts, sexual immorality, theft, murder, adultery, greed, wickedness, deceit, debauchery, envy, slander, arrogance, & foolishness.

Genesis 4:7 | If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you refuse to do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires you, but you must master it.”

Colossians 3:5-6 | Put to death, therefore, the components of your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires, & greed, which is idolatry. Because of these, the wrath of God is coming on the sons of disobedience.

1 John 3:4 | Everyone who practices sin practices lawlessness as well. Indeed, sin is lawlessness.

Even when it’s going good, it won’t last. Then you sabotage the gift, you don’t feel secure because even while it’s happening you don’t think it’s real.

[Proverbs 23:7; Matthew 5:28; 1 Peter 1:13; James 4:7; 4:1-3; 2 Timothy 2:15; Colossians 3:23.]

Proverbs 23:7 | for he is keeping track, inwardly counting the cost. “Eat & drink,” he says to you, but his heart is not w/ you.

Matthew 5:28 | But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman to lust after her has already committed adultery w/ her in his heart.

1 Peter 1:13 | Therefore prepare your minds for action. Be sober-minded. Set your hope fully on the grace to be given you at the revelation of Jesus Christ.

James 4:7 | Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, & he will flee from you.

James 4:1-3 | What causes conflicts & quarrels among you? Don’t they come from the passions at war w/in you? You crave what you do not have; you kill & covet, but are unable to obtain it. You quarrel & fight. You do not have, because you do not ask. And when you do ask, you do not receive, because you ask w/ wrong motives, that you may squander it on your pleasures.

2 Timothy 2:15 | Make every effort to present yourself approved to God, an unashamed workman who accurately handles the word of truth.

Colossians 3:23 | Whatever you do, work at it w/ your whole being, for the Lord & not for men,

I’m not sure where it comes from, but I know where it takes me.

When I look back on the seasons of my life, when I was so deep in depression. Oh yeah, & I know the Bible verses, I know ‘em better than you. Let’s have a quoting contest: Rejoice in the LORD always [Philippians 4:4]

Well you can say it as many times as you want Paul, but I’m sad right now. And I can’t find my way out, so now I’m fighting on the level of my feelings.

But watch this, before it became a feeling, it was a thought.

Look even Paul, it wasn’t like Moses was a bad leader, even Paul had to fight against opposing voices & thought systems that undermine the essence of the grace of GOD & the gospel.

Even in the churches that he started.

Even in Corinth, he would write to them & what would happen to them was they would be led astray (deceived) by the power of suggestion.

>> He uses the example: Like Eve was deceived by the serpent. Did GOD really say? See how he introduces doubt into potential/possibilities of faith? Causing her to focus on what is not available rather than focus on what is.

Paul is concerned because there are these spies at the Church of Corinth, & they’re leading the Christians astray.

They’re doing it by the power of thought, they’re introducing the thought that you need something other than CHRIST to justify you.

[Ephesians 2:8-9; 2 Corinthians 5:21; 1 Corinthians 15:57; Romans 5:8; John 3:16-17]

Ephesians 2:8-9 | For it is by grace you have been saved through faith, & this not from yourselves; it is the gift of God, not by works, so that no one can boast.

2 Corinthians 5:21 | God made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God.

1 Corinthians 15:57 | But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!

Romans 5:8 | But God proves His love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

John 3:16-17 | For God so loved the world that He gave His one & only Son, that everyone who believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through Him.

He says I fear that you have been led astray from a pure devotion to CHRIST.

[Jeremiah 17:9; Psalm 69:5; Revelation 1:1-20; 1 John 1:8-10; 1 Peter 4:8; 1 Peter 2:24; James 5:16; Hebrews 10:26; 1 John 5:17]

Jeremiah 17:9 | The heart is deceitful above all things & beyond cure—who can understand it?

Psalm 69:5 | You know my folly, O God, & my guilt is not hidden from You.

Revelation 1:1-20 | This is the revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave Him to show His servants what must soon come to pass. He made it known by sending His angel to His servant John, who testifies to everything he saw. This is the word of God & the testimony of Jesus Christ. Blessed is the one who reads aloud the words of this prophecy, & blessed are those who hear & obey what is written in it, because the time is near. John, To the seven churches in the province of Asia: Grace & peace to you from Him who is & was & is to come, & from the seven Spirits before His throne, & from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn from the dead, & the ruler of the kings of the earth. To Him who loves us & has released us from our sins by His blood, who has made us to be a kingdom, priests to His God & Father—to Him be the glory & power forever & ever! Amen. Behold, He is coming w/ the clouds, & every eye will see Him—even those who pierced Him. And all the tribes of the earth will mourn because of Him. So shall it be! Amen. “I am the Alpha & the Omega,” says the Lord God, who is & was & is to come—the Almighty. I, John, your brother & partner in the tribulation & kingdom & perseverance that are in Jesus, was on the island of Patmos because of the word of God & my testimony about Jesus. On the Lord’s day I was in the Spirit, & I heard behind me a loud voice like a trumpet, saying, “Write on a scroll what you see & send it to the seven churches: to Ephesus, Smyrna, Pergamum, Thyatira, Sardis, Philadelphia, & Laodicea.” Then I turned to see the voice that was speaking w/ me. And having turned, I saw seven golden lampstands, & among the lampstands was One like the Son of Man, dressed in a long robe, w/ a golden sash around His chest. The hair of His head was white like wool, as white as snow, & His eyes were like a blazing fire. His feet were like polished bronze refined in a furnace, & His voice was like the roar of many waters. He held in His right hand seven stars, & a sharp double-edged sword came from His mouth. His face was like the sun shining at its brightest. When I saw Him, I fell at His feet like a dead man. But He placed His right hand on me & said, “Do not be afraid. I am the First & the Last, the Living One. I was dead, & behold, now I am alive forever & ever! And I hold the keys of Death & of Hades. Therefore write down the things you have seen, & the things that are, & the things that will happen after this. This is the mystery of the seven stars you saw in My right hand & of the seven golden lampstands: The seven stars are the angels of the seven churches, & the seven lampstands are the seven churches.”

1 John 1:8-10 | If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, & the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He is faithful & just to forgive us our sins & to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say we have not sinned, we make Him out to be a liar, & His word is not in us.

1 Peter 4:8 | Above all, love one another deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.

1 Peter 2:24 | He Himself bore our sins in His body on the tree, so that we might die to sin & live to righteousness. “By His stripes you are healed.”

James 5:16 | Therefore confess your sins to each other & pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man has great power to prevail.

Hebrews 10:26 | If we deliberately go on sinning after we have received the knowledge of the truth, no further sacrifice for sins remains,

1 John 5:17 | All unrighteousness is sin, yet there is sin that does not lead to death.

Pure is the right word. It’s that uncontaminated state that we access occasionally. Where you know GOD’s got this & that everything is going to be alright.

>> You ever just felt that & you had no reason to & you didn’t even have the fact to back it up?

What happens is the enemy deceived you; he can’t take what GOD gave you. You know that right?

I need to make sure you know that: he can’t take what GOD gave you. Romans 11:29 | For God’s gifts and His call are irrevocable But if he can get you to catch a thought that opposes it, he can keep you so weak that you will not walk into it.

...

you reap what you sow, proverb: you eventually have to face up to the consequences of your actions [Oxford].

Galatians 6:7-8 | Do not be deceived: God is not to be mocked. Whatever a man sows, he will reap in return. The one who sows to please his flesh, from the flesh will reap destruction; but the one who sows to please the Spirit, from the Spirit will reap eternal life.

1 Peter 3:9 | Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.

1 Corinthians 6:9-12 | Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor men who submit to or perform homosexual acts, nor thieves, nor the greedy, nor drunkards, nor verbal abusers, nor swindlers, will inherit the kingdom of God. And that is what some of you were. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified, in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ & by the Spirit of our God. “Everything is permissible for me,” but not everything is beneficial. “Everything is permissible for me,” but I will not be mastered by anything.

Psalm 50:23 | He who sacrifices a thank offering honors Me, and to him who rights his way, I will show the salvation of God.”

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#judgement #you reap what you sow #blessing for blessing #1 Peter 3:9 #Do not repay evil #inherit a blessing #Matthew 9:36 #Berean #Acts 17:11 #examine Scripture every day #James 4:1-3

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