#A Rose For Ecclesiastes

[smbhax]

Illustrations by Gray Morrow

Info from ISFDB

[lemongrad]

In reviewing my personal quilting tag, I realized I never posted photos of my Tiffany appliqué quilt, based on the window "Magnolias and Irises" in the Met's collection.

This was the first large-scale attempt at a project of this type, and while I'm overall pleased with the result, there are definitely things I would do differently were I to attempt something like this again (starting with using a machine with a much better satin stitch...)

[canoncanidae]

what they don't tell you is seminal works are famous for a reason

[noirscript]

05; the washing

Pairing: Yandere!Priest x Reader Description: You are not his lover—you are his altar, his sacred ruin, the pulse beneath every prayer he’s ever whispered into bloodstained hands. To Enoch, devotion means worship through possession, and he would rather see the world burn than let anyone else touch what he believes is divinely his. Warning/s: Yandere | Obsessive Devotion | Home Invasion | Implied Poisoning | Religious Delusions | Emotional Manipulation | Implied Kidnapping | Psychological Horror | Implied Noncon Note/s: Enjoy reading! Also, I fucked up a bit irl and behind some bills. Dark Roast is still on sale until end of the month. Also, commissions are still open. Either send me an email or message me on discord (noirscrypt) if interested.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off

You feel the roses before you see them. Not the soft, powdered perfume you’d expect from a bridal bouquet, but something heavier—dense and humid, like breath trapped in a crypt. The scent clings, viscous and sweet with decay, steeped in overripe petals and the sharp sting of old blood. They’re waiting for you on the kitchen counter when you return from the final wedding tasting: twelve roses so dark they drink the light, packed in a box too tight, like wet organs stuffed into ribs.

No card. Just an envelope. Sealed.

The wax is unmistakable—red, cracked, pressed with the imprint of an ecclesiastical ring you last saw on the hand of a dead priest. You know that seal. You know that theft. You know who sent it before your fingers even dare to tremble over the parchment.

You were always the altar. I only ever wanted to kneel. Let me wash the dust from your feet, one final time. —E.

James asks who it’s from. You lie. Something about a florist’s mix-up. He hums an off-key tune as he pours wine and scrolls through reception playlists, his fingers brushing yours on the stem of the glass. But you barely feel it. Your skin still remembers the seal—still pulses from the echo of it. That wax might as well have branded you.

Enoch Saintclair.

You haven’t spoken his name in years. Not aloud. Not since you taught yourself not to dream about thunder and stained glass. Once, he was just the silent boy in church with a spine like a cathedral beam and eyes like holy water spoiled in a silver chalice. He smelled of old hymnals and myrrh, always one shadow too still. A former altar boy turned antique dealer with the uncanny grace of someone who never quite belonged to this century.

You sang in the same youth choir. You shared breath in the same confessional box. He once handed you a rose during Lent and carved your name into the wax of a votive candle. You laughed at something small during a storm once—just a joke—and he wrote an entire psalm about the curve of your mouth when you said the word forgive.

He didn’t see you as a girl.

He saw you as a sacred thing.

And instead of running, you smiled.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The night before your wedding, you lock the door. Bolt the windows. You place James’ wine on the nightstand and watch him drink too deeply, his lips loose with affection and slurred vowels. He falls asleep to the sound of your silence.

You don’t listen for footsteps. You listen for the places where silence folds in on itself. For the way the air changes when something holy goes rancid.

At 2:18 a.m., it arrives.

The temperature dips. The stillness thickens, syrupy and strange, like breath caught in prayer. And you know. Before you open your eyes, you already know.

He’s here.

And when your eyes do open, he’s standing at the foot of the bed—not entering, not arriving, simply being, as though he was never outside the room at all. As though he’s been sleeping somewhere deeper inside you, waiting for this moment like a sacrament.

Enoch stands in the half-light with a porcelain basin in his hands. Ornate. Victorian. Its rim is chipped, kissed by time, and filled with water so dark it gleams like oil. Steam curls from it in rich spirals. The scent of roses hits you first—roses drowned in something metallic, something older, something wrong. Like rust and salt and the slick sweetness of rot.

You don’t scream.

You sit up, throat tight. “You drugged him.”

He waits. Then, calm as candlelight: “He was unclean. He would’ve touched you without reverence. Without worship.”

He moves closer, slow and barefoot, robes of shadow swaying as he kneels beside the bed. The basin rests between you like an offering. He folds his long body into the posture of devotion—head bowed, spine bowed, hands trembling in the space between sin and surrender.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

He lifts his eyes to you, and it’s like drowning in sanctified ink. “You don’t believe that.”

Your pulse kicks like a trapped bird. “I’ll call the cops.”

“You won’t.” His voice is velvet, soaked in certainty. “You’re already wondering what’s in the water. Whether it’s holy oil, or rose water, or something redder. You’re wondering if it’s blood.”

You flinch. Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

He reaches for your ankle. You jerk back.

He doesn’t chase. He waits.

“Don’t touch me.”

“You said those words once before,” he murmurs. “And then you kissed my hand.”

“I was seventeen—”

“You anointed me.” His smile is the ghost of something unholy. “You touched me, and I bloomed into reverence.”

This time, when he takes your foot, you don’t resist. He dips it into the basin. The water is hot—intimate, obscene, like a mouth against your skin. You feel the heat ripple through you, feel it curl into places untouched. His hands tremble again, but not with hesitation.

With restraint.

He lifts a cloth. Begins to wash you. Slow. Painfully slow. His fingers trace over your arch, between each toe, up the soft skin of your heel like he’s mapping scripture. With every pass, the act becomes more than cleansing. It becomes adoration.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, voice rasping at the edges. “To carry someone in your mouth for years. To speak their name at dawn and dusk. To whisper it into your own skin. To kneel at altars and know—know—that none of them hold your divinity.”

His breath warms your calf. He presses his lips there, a kiss so slow it feels more like a vow.

“I would’ve torn out my tongue if you’d asked. I would’ve burned down every church that dared take your name in vain.”

“Why now?” The question cracks from your throat. “Why not let me go?”

“Because he doesn’t kneel,” Enoch whispers. “He fucks. I worship.”

He switches feet.

You don’t stop him.

The water has gone darker, laced with crushed petals and something thicker. When he lifts the cloth again, it’s already stained red. Beneath the surface, a shimmer of gold catches your eye—a bracelet. Yours. The one you lost your senior year. A single charm dangles from it: a heart, split and hollowed.

“I followed you to college,” he says. “Sat through lectures. Counted how many times you laughed. Knew when it was real. Knew when it wasn’t. I memorized the sound of your lies.”

He kisses your foot again. Slower. Deeper. His lips barely part, but the heat lingers.

“I made a shrine,” he breathes. “Books filled with your notes. Clothes that smelled like you. Hair I gathered from your brush. It was never desecration. It was sacred.”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m yours.”

He rises. The motion is fluid, reverent. His shadow drapes over you as he leans forward. Your back hits the headboard. There is nothing between you but breath and trembling will.

“You’re not afraid of me,” Enoch says, low. “You’re afraid of how right this feels.”

“I’m marrying him.”

“No.” A slow smile spreads across his lips. “He’ll sleep for days. The doctors won’t find a thing. And when they ask, you’ll say you don’t know what happened. Because you’re merciful. Because you’re kind. Because somewhere in you, I’m still the boy you never stopped blessing.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m in love.”

He leans close. You feel his breath in your ear—hot, humid, consecrated.

“I’ve worshipped you in silence long enough.”

Then softer. Deeper.

“Let me serve you in sin.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

He leaves before dawn. No threats. No chains. No rage.

Only stillness.

You sit there, unmoving, the sheets heavy with him. When you finally rise, your feet leave damp, red prints on the wood. You scrub them. Again. Again. Until your skin peels.

But they stay red.

His scent clings to the sheets—roses and rust and old churches. You light candles. You pray. You try not to tremble.

When you glance out the window, you see it.

A cloth tied to the iron fence.

White. Folded. Bloodied.

An offering.

You want to look away.

But your eyes find the words, stitched in bruised thread along the fraying hem:

Blessed are the broken things... ...for they bend easier to worship.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya

← Previous | Next →

[tilebytiles]

infallible beliefs - a.t. (part 2)

summary: as it turns out, professors are actually capable of feeling things, and alex feels more things for you than he'd like to. word count: 5.2k warnings: age gap (reader is 21 and alex is 30), mentions of violence, physical abuse, sexual assault - implied and written a/n: this is LONG awaited and for that i sincerely apologize. i'm testing out writing in all lowercase to see if i prefer it ... it is easier than manually capitalizing everything but we'll see part 1

you silently wished there was some great instruction manual for how to navigate conversations with your professor after having him discover the nature of your abusive relationship. you wished an angel could descend from the heavens, give you a good slap for how you'd let things play out in that stupid dingy bar, then fill you in on mr. turner's exact schedule so you could avoid him at all costs and never speak to him one-on-one again. you even stared down at the beige coffee that filled the plastic cup in your hands, a personal heater for your dreadfully chilly palms, waiting for the streaks of frothed milk to form the answer. but, of course, nothing came — and maybe you were actually insane for expecting anything at all. you were beginning to think god only kept you around because you amused him.

your ecclesiastical theory was only compounded by you nearly running into the wall — a door, actually. you quickly steadied your coffee cup in your hands and looked up, peering at the small name plaque attached to the door. alexander turner, ph— oh, of fucking course. you wondered how much time you had before he would notice your presence, and your left foot was already turning away, your brain drafting up yet another panicked signal to get you the fuck out of there, but it was too late. you locked eyes with him through the tall glass window on the right side of the door, and you watched as he took a whole of 1.5 seconds to register who you were before setting his pen down and standing up from his chair. goddamn it.

the door creaked open, and you were quick to slap on what was, at best, an only semi-falsified smile. it wasn't like you had anything against him, you just ... really didn't wanna see him. "mr. turner!" you said a little too loudly, a nervous laugh serving as punctuation. "fancy seeing you here!"

"this is my office." he rose an eyebrow at your abnormally skittish behaviour. "you were standing outside the door."

"oh. was i?" you laughed again, silently begging someone to run down the hall and shoot you already.

to your relief, mr. turner didn't say anything else on how strange you were acting. he leaned against the doorway, eyeing you for a moment, then asked, "did you need something?"

advice. your schedule so i can never see you again. a gun, maybe? "nothing ... in particular. just, um ..." you glanced to your left, then to your right. the hall was empty both ways, but paranoia still curled up in the recesses of your mind, a slumbering serpent waiting for the right time to strike. "could i come in?"

"of course." he pushed himself off the doorframe and stepped back, giving you enough space to slip past him into his office.

now that you thought about it, you weren't sure if you'd ever been in here. the door gently clicked shut behind you, and mr. turner stepped around you and back to his desk, sinking back down into his chair. all things considered, it was a nice office, at least to you; it wasn't cramped, like you'd always seen in movies, and there were a number of personal touches scattered about the place. the bookshelf against the back wall was full, although the books all seemed to pertain to literature ... or teaching ... teaching about literature ...

a picture on one of the shelves caught your eye, and without giving it much thought, you walked over and reached up, picking up the frame. you held it between both hands as you examined the photo, eyes narrowing. there were two people pictured, a man and a woman, and they had their arms around each other, smiling brightly for the camera. it was a sweet scene, but neither of the people looked particularly familiar, and honestly, you wouldn't put it past your professor to not be arsed with taking the stock image out of the frame. you stared a little longer, pondering where on earth you'd seen those big brown eyes before, when it suddenly clicked — the puzzle came together, and your brain cells rejoiced at their first victory of the day (one that was sorely needed, as far as they were concerned). "is this ... you?"

you looked over at mr. turner for confirmation, and it took him a second to look up from the paper on his desk. you turned the frame in your hands and held it out so he could see what picture you were talking about. he leaned forward, squinted a little, and then nodded. "yeah, that's me."

"you had long hair?"

he smiled sheepishly. "it wasn't that long."

you held the photo up beside his face for comparison. maybe compared to other hair lengths — yours, for example — it wasn't that long, but compared to the length his hair was at now, it was a noticeable difference. "why'd you cut it?"

"did you only come here to judge my past decisions?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, but there was a teasing lilt to his voice. "i cut it because it didn't suit me anymore. plus, it seemed a bit dated. i was about to start teaching, and i didn't need my students making fun of me on my first day, now, did i?"

you mulled it over and shrugged, then set the frame back up on its rightful shelf. "when'd you start, anyway?"

"oh, about ... seven or eight years ago? it's all kind of blurred together at this point, honestly. i went for my doctorate a couple of years in." his eyes followed you as his spoke, watching as you settled into the chair on the other side of his desk. your bag hit the floor beside you with a muted thump.

you wondered if he was just exceedingly disinterested in talking about his own hair, or if he'd been able to see through you before he'd even opened the door. as soon as you appeared to be settled in, he asked, in a lower tone, "how have you been recently?"

you immediately stiffened in your seat. foolishly, you had hoped he would've been able to just forget everything that'd happened — or, better yet, he would pretend he'd never seen anything, pretend he hadn't brought you down from tears in that stupid fucking bar, pretend he hadn't driven you home and given you his phone number as goddamn insurance. you could pretend, too; you'd taken a drama class in high school once with a friend. sure, it'd been for fun, but you had learned a few things, and how hard was it to act, really? on top of that, you were a literature student, and writers were destined to be pathological liars with all the shite they made up for a good story. you could both pretend and have no trouble at all, and each glance thrown at one another, each conversation shared, each accidental touch, wouldn't weigh half as much as they all did now. if you would both just pretend, then maybe you would know peace.

but it was never that easy, was it?

"i've ..." you looked down at your coffee, still in your hand, and wondered if it would unveil its great secrets now. the frothed milk still did not move. his office, spacious as it'd seemed just a few minutes ago, now felt increasingly small, like its walls were closing in on you, threatening to crush you and compact you down into one of those trash cubes from wall-e. "i've been alright," you finally replied, your voice dropping down to a pitiful mumble. conviction had packed its bags and declared an indefinite vacation, and you weren't allowed to come with. "just been ... busy, you know. school and work and all."

"busy," he echoed, as if that was the one, the word that would allow him to sink down into the depths of your psyche and sort through what was really going on. "and how's your boyfriend?"

"he's alright, too."

"just alright?"

"yeah."

"you know you can tell me anything, y/n." you knew — how could you not? how could you forget the day he'd first seen that bruise on your wrist and everything started to crumble? he'd told you his door was always open if you needed to chat, and although your short-term memory had quickly discarded the dialogue, your long-term memory swept it up out of the garbage, dusted it off, and stored it on a shelf way near the back of your mental archives, hellbent on never truly letting you forget it. maybe that was how you'd ended up at his office to begin with; your subconscious had taken the reins and decided you were long overdue for that little chat.

you sighed and took a long sip of your coffee. perhaps the froth would only tell you its secrets if you consumed it. "he's ... mostly forgotten what happened at the bar, i think. he — he acts like there's something wrong, like there's something he's supposed to be mad at me for, but he can't remember exactly what. i think maybe, deep down, he knows? it's little things he does, like ... whenever i mention your class, his mood sours, and he immediately changes the subject." i think he's jealous of you, you thought, but you kept it to yourself. that idea — the possibility of your boyfriend seeing your professor as a competitor for your heart — was one dreadful enough to give you a migraine. imagine how the professor in question would feel!

mr. turner nodded slowly, seeming to mull over your words. eventually, he asked, "has he ... put his hands on you again?"

"once. i'd accidentally smashed his fingers in the door, and he got pissed and said he needed to make it even."

"jesus christ. did he break anything?"

"no, no, he was fine. there was some bruising, but his fingers were all intact. i came out of it with a couple of bruises, too, but ..." you shrugged. "what can you do?"

he let out a long sigh and ran a hand over his face, glancing up at the ceiling as if to plead with god for answers the same way you'd done. you wondered if he was already sick of being a part of your secret. you couldn't blame him, honestly. "are you going to break up with him at any point?"

your gaze wandered off to the photo on the shelf again. now that you thought about it, you were pretty sure that was ms. chung next to him. "i don't know."

"i'm not saying you have to do it today —"

"i know."

"— or even tomorrow, for that matter —"

"i know."

"— but at some point. this relationship is killing you, y/n."

"i know, mr. turner."

you knew, better than anyone.

•••••

you felt it before it came. it was in the loose thread that'd cropped up in your favourite jumper that morning; the defiance of your bedsheets as you changed them, refusing to be perfectly flat against your mattress; the forecast in the weather app on your phone, predicting heavy rain starting at 8pm that night; the lead in your mechanical pencil that kept breaking, taunting you, like you weren't applying the same amount of pressure you always used when you wrote. it was the beginning of the end, a maelstrom of disaster with each incident piling onto one another, one after the other, until the stack went so high it hurt to crane your neck that far back. you tried to go about your day as normal — you brushed them all off as coincidences. you turned a blind eye to it all, walking away from the wreckage, because as far as you were concerned, it couldn't be anything real if you didn't pay any mind to it.

but you felt it. long before it forced you to look.

a thunderclap served as the dramatic entry music that accompanied john's arrival back to your flat. you had been curled up in bed, reading a book you really should've finished ages ago — your "to be read" list was so long, it was embarrassing. as soon as you heard the door shut, you were quick to mark your place, scramble out of bed, and slip out of your bedroom and into the living room. john had always hated it if you didn't greet him; you never really understood why. maybe because it made you feel like a housewife?

"welcome back," you said, giving him a kiss on the cheek that made your soul wither. "how'd it go?"

his answer came first in the form of a burp, one he did a half-assed job of covering with his hand. he didn't even bother excusing himself. "went fine," he muttered, shrugging his coat off. rain droplets clung to it, desperate to get an insider look into your flat. how disappointed they must have been. "it was good seeing 'em all again. 's been too long, you know?"

"yeah." you didn't know — you had no friends anymore. there was a slur tugging on his words, making each syllable a little longer than it needed to be, but he was a grown man and he could drink if he wanted to and you didn't feel like saying anything about it and starting a fight. "did you have dinner yet?"

"no, i'm starving. we still got some of that pasta?"

"we do."

"could you make me a bowl, please?"

"of course." as you stepped away from him to retreat into the kitchen, a firm hand landed on the curve of your ass, making you stiffen. a deep chuckle followed. it would be one of those nights, then.

just a few minutes later, his bowl of pasta was reheating in the microwave, and as you waited and watched the timer slowly tick down, green numbers morphing into each other in the blink of an eye, you leaned against the counter. you'd already eaten at least an hour ago, so he would have to eat alone. eventually, you felt his presence behind you, strong arms looping around your waist as he pressed himself against you. when he wasn't being the violent, angry, possessive kind of drunk, he was the clingy kind of drunk. although maybe the possessiveness explained the clinginess. "i missed you today," he mumbled, his nose brushing your hair out of the way so he could kiss your shoulder.

you almost snorted, but you quickly reeled it in. "you did?"

"i always miss you, babe." he shifted, and his growing erection pressed up against your ass, eliciting a soft groan from him. one of his hands slipped underneath your jumper and travelled up to your left breast, giving it a soft squeeze through your bra. "missed these, too."

normally, you would have just gone along with it; you two had done this rodeo several times before, and you had always been the one to topple off the bull. john was the one that had taken your virginity, and since he was your only point of reference for what sex was supposed to be like, you had just come to the conclusion that sex was fucking terrible and no one should ever do it. it was not fun, it was not enjoyable for both parties, and it was rarely ever consensual. john had quickly given up on trying to seek out your consent early on in your relationship. it was never about your pleasure, only his. and you, in all your stupidity — because you firmly believed you were just a giant idiot — had believed that this was how things were supposed to be. it was never meant to be about you.

you didn't know what possessed you to wriggle out of his grasp, to lightly push him away from you and force his hand out from underneath your top. conviction had just come back from its vacation, and with a renewed vigor you were entirely unfamiliar with, it spoke for you. "i don't feel like it tonight, john."

he froze, staring at you for a few moments, unblinking in a way that greatly unsettled you. "you don't feel like it?"

you shook your head. "i-i'm sorry."

he sighed and shook his head, running his hand through his hair. "no, no, don't be sorry, y/n."

was it really that easy? you felt like a fool for not standing your ground sooner, and you could practically hear your brain cells cheering, preparing the festivities for what they considered to be the greatest accomplishment of the modern age. maybe john wasn't the worst person ever — maybe he could listen to reason, and it was just your fault for not trying to find a compromise, some middle ground you could both stand on without resorting to a shouting match. not even he was susceptible to good communication!

his hand descended upon you, faster than you could predict, and you had no time to move out of the way before you were slapped across the face with a force that sent you straight to the floor.

he scoffed. "when have i ever cared if you don't feel like it? did you really think i'd just let you go like that?"

the microwave began beeping. his pasta was ready. "john, i —"

"shut up!" he roared, grabbing you by the hair and slamming your head against one of the cabinets beneath the sink. for a moment, you were sure your ears were ringing. your scalp burned as his fingers tightened around the strands. the world became a blur of colour as he pulled you up onto your knees, then sank down with you as your face was slammed down into the floor. "fucking bitch — can't do fuck all —"

"stop!" you screamed, the word contorting into a wail as you reached up blindly and clawed at his hand, trying desperately to get his grip to loosen. nails dug into flesh, tearing through layers of skin, and he finally eased up with a howl, letting go just long enough for you to scramble up off the floor and dart out of the room. your head was already pounding, and you felt disoriented, but you didn't give a damn — you needed to leave.

you slammed the door to your bedroom shut and locked it, then began rummaging through the closet for an old suitcase. when was the last time you'd gone travelling? a pink one was the one you found first, and you sized it up for a moment before deciding it'd have to do. you could always get new clothes later. as you stumbled around the room, grabbing whatever you deemed essential with one hand and tossing it onto your bed, your other hand made quick work of your phone, calling the only person you could think of.

riiiiing. riiiiing. riiiiing. click. "hello?"

"mr. turner?"

"y/n?" you heard the rustle of fabric on the other end of the line. "are you okay?"

you bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, trying not to burst into tears in the middle of the call. "no." your voice wobbled a little. "do you still have my address?"

there was a beat of silence, as if he had to take a moment to process the weight of your question. finally, he said, "i'll be there as quick as i can. find something to defend yourself with."

click.

the next five minutes were spent trying to stuff as much as you could into that measly suitcase while also trying not to vomit everywhere. to your surprise, john hadn't come trying to bust the door down — you couldn't really hear him at all, actually. that terrified you.

you unlocked the door and took a deep breath before slowly pulling it open. john was standing on the other side, arms crossed and gaze unforgiving. his hand was still bleeding. "where the fuck are you going?"

"away."

he snorted. "you think i'll just let you go? huh? you'll fucking come crawling back, anyway, y/n."

"no, i won't. we're over, john."

"like hell we are."

maybe that angel had finally come to save the day. his hand shot out, reaching for you, and instead of succumbing to his grasp as you had so many times before, you lifted the suitcase up and poured all of your strength into shoving it square against his chest, knocking him back — and out of the way. you slipped past him and practically bolted through the living room, fumbling with the lock on the front door for only a second before swinging it open and running out of your flat. his flat, now, you supposed.

you had never run so fast in your life.

the lift took you down to the lobby of the block of flats you lived in, the soft music coming from the speaker jarring in nature compared to the sliver of hell you'd just experienced. with a dinging noise, the doors slid open, and you stepped out of the metal prison, suitcase in tow. at least there wasn't anyone else to see you here, not anyone except the oddly dressed fellow by the front —

wait.

"miles kane?" the sound of his name made miles turn, a smile tugging at his lips, as if he'd expected to be meeting a fan. when he was instead met with you, the girl from the bar that now had a busted lip, a bloody nose, what was sure to become a black eye, and a number of yet-to-bloom bruises that not even you were aware of, the smile dropped like a fire being extinguished.

"bloody fuckin' hell, what the fuck happened to you?" he asked, rushing over to help you; you looked like you were on the brink of collapse. an arm came around your shoulders, a tender touch you were entirely unfamiliar with, as he led you over to a nearby sofa, easing you down onto the cushions.

you sighed and tilted your head back, staring up at the lights overhead. "is it that bad?"

"can you not feel it?"

"i can't really feel anything, if i'm being honest." you watched out of the corner of your eye as he settled down next to you. "what are you doing here?"

"i live here. al told me you'd need some help. texted me a few minutes ago and said he's almost here."

you wanted to cry at how thoughtful mr. turner was being — how considerate they both were — but you were too buzzed up on adrenaline to cater to any emotion at all. "i'm ... sorry."

"what for?"

"that you have to put up with this."

he shook his head. "'s no trouble at all, love. just be safe, yeah?"

safe. what did that even mean anymore?

as the adrenaline wore off, you became increasingly tired, and you would have fallen asleep on that (rather stiff) sofa if it weren't for miles jumping up and announcing to an audience of one, "he's 'ere!"

you jolted up from your seat and turned, locking eyes with mr. turner as he stepped through the doors. the sight of you made him falter, and he opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it and quickly snapped it shut. he glanced at miles, who nodded and wrapped his arm back around you, grabbing the handle of your suitcase with his free hand and leading you both towards the doors — towards salvation.

it was pouring buckets outside, and with the hurry he'd been in, mr. turner had failed to bring an umbrella. the suitcase was passed off to him as miles ushered you towards the car, popping the passenger door open and helping you inside. the door shut, and you were left alone, any conversation the pair were having being drowned out by the thunderous patter of rain against the top of the car. a part of you was still on high alert, expecting john to burst through the doors at any moment and try to reclaim you, but the rest of you wished so desperately to fall back into the pool of peace.

eventually, the driver's door opened, and mr. turner slipped into the seat, thanking miles one last time before shutting the door. miles waved at you through the window with an apologetic smile, and you waved back, watching as he retreated inside. with a sigh, mr. turner turned the keys in the ignition and let the car roar to life.

you didn't know how long it took to get to his flat; you had, more or less, lost all sense of time. you wondered if john had given you a concussion, but tried not to think on it for too long. you were barely aware of the car parking outside his block of flats; of the passenger door popping open as he offered you a hand to help you out; of the ding of the lift as it arrived on your floor, and the second ding as it deposited you onto the floor mr. turner lived on; of his keys jingling as he unlocked the front door of his flat; of him ushering you inside and muttering something about getting you into some warm clothes and putting water to boil for tea.

it was only when a hand landed on your shoulder that you snapped back to reality, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, whipping around to face him. his other hand landed on your other shoulder, steadying you, and he seemed to hesitate briefly before letting his arms slip around you, drawing you into an embrace that was equal parts warm and comforting and soothing and heartbreaking. "it's over," he murmured into your hair, lips ghosting over your ear.

you had felt it before you had seen it, and now, in the calm of mr. turner's flat, you couldn't run from it any longer. it seized you, peeling your eyelids back and forcing you to gaze upon its existence. you weren't aware you were crying, not until you finally let out a broken sob and succumbed to the emotions that had been building up inside of you like the world's most unsteady jenga tower. you sank deeper into his embrace, wrapping your arms around him, clinging to him like you were afraid he'd let go. he wouldn't — of course he wouldn't. "shh, shh, it's okay," he whispered, beginning to slowly rock you from side to side.

a part of you wished he would be repulsed by your emotions; wished he would pull away and send you back out to face john on your own. it would be easier to resign yourself to that fate than to face ... this. everything. the mess you had become, the mess john had made you, the mess mr. turner had recognised since he'd seen your bruised wrist, the mess you had chosen to remain oblivious to because admitting to it meant admitting that something was wrong, and you hated the thoughts of getting pulled down into that dark and ugly whirlpool and being left with nothing to confront but yourself — and you knew, you knew that you would wash up onto shore and the sky would be grey and there would be nothing, and your chest would be cracked open and your ribs splintered apart so everyone could see your heart, bloody and raw and ugly, as it beat the tune of your secrets to the world.

"do you want to shower?" he murmured. tendrils of vulnerability wrapped around you, tugging at your hands and ankles and forcing you down into the whirlpool against your will.

"no," you whispered.

"okay. let's get you changed, at least, and — we can try to blowdry your hair. it got a bit wet in the rain."

you didn't wear your own clothes that night; he gave you some of his, fresh from the dryer. they were warm and a bit big, but that added to the comfort, didn't it? you wondered why he even had a hairdryer, but maybe his hair was like yours and could never dry in a timely manner when he needed it to, making such a tool an essential in his bathroom.

you were sitting on his sofa now, wrapped up in a blanket he'd given you, cradling a warm cup of tea in your hands. you watched as steam wafted up into the air, dissolving as quickly as it'd come into existence. "i'm sorry, mr. turner," you said quietly."

there was a beat of silence. "alex."

you looked up at him. "what?"

"alex," he repeated, his elbow digging into the back of his sofa as he propped his head up in his hand. "i want you to call me alex."

requesting he call you by your first name was one thing — he'd only called you your last name for formalities, after all, a general air of politeness that followed him wherever he went. but this — this was its own beast, loaded with enough implications to give you several migraines. they were all implications that you, for the time being, chose not to think of.

"okay." you looked down at the mug again. "i'm sorry, alex."

he sighed softly beside you. "don't be."

"but —"

"but nothing, y/n. i was more than willing to help, and i still am." you hated how unused you were to generosity like his.

the pair of you fell into silence that stretched out for the span of a few minutes, broken only by you adjusting your position in your fabric cocoon and mumbling, "it was because of the starry night kit."

he rose an eyebrow. "what was?"

"that bruise on my wrist. we'd argued about it, and he ended up pushing me so i fell and hit the table."

"the fuck did he do that for?" now it was your turn to raise an eyebrow at him, and he smiled a bit sheepishly when he realised what he'd done. "sorry."

"no, it — it's okay." you offered him a meager smile in response. "it's nice to hear you drop the professional tone."

"i'll keep that in mind. but — really, why'd he do that?"

"it was too expensive for him, and he called me ungrateful, among ... other things."

"how much is it, anyway?"

"a couple hundred pounds, at least."

"hm." he glanced off to the side, staring at something you couldn't exactly pinpoint. you wondered what he was thinking about.

given that you'd lost all of your fight, you didn't think twice about agreeing to his giving you his bed for the night while he slept on the sofa. the pair of you exchanged goodnights, and you slipped beneath the covers, relishing in the softness of his pillow and the warmth provided by the blanket. it didn't take you long at all to fall asleep — and it was possibly the best sleep you'd ever gotten.

you remained blissfully unaware of a wide awake alex on the sofa, sitting in the dark as he ordered the starry night set off the lego website at 12am.

tags: @saintfrancis-ofassisi / @sagegreensimmr / @billyseye / @supernaturalandpain / @not-a-big-slay / @captainwans

[trb752]

Stained Glass Window in the Boston Avenue Methodist Church, Tulsa, Oklahoma, USA

Completed in 1929

It is considered to be one of the finest examples of ecclesiastical Art Deco architecture in the United States.

Designed by a team, including architect Bruce Goff, of the Tulsa architectural firm Rush, Endacott and Rush, and Adah Robinson.

It was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1999.

Image via Waterford Rose

[ecclesiasticallatinfest]

Join us!

In our first ever Our Flag Means Non-English Fanworks Fest!

Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it.

As we all know, the Our Flag Means Death fandom community is spread across the globe (Awesome map set up by the RenewAsACrew team and filled in by the fans!)

So how about we celebrate how international we are and focus on non-English languages with a fanworks fest that will run from the 7th of February 2024 until the 15th of February!

And by fanworks, I mean:

Fanfic

Fanart/fancomics

Fanvids

Meta on translation/subtitling/dubbing choices!

Schedule and rules under the Read More:

Schedule:

7th & 8th of February: Write fic in a non-English language OR translate a fic into a non-English language. (If you want to do the latter and translate someone else's fic, check the fic author's profile to see how they feel about translations!)

9th & 10th of February: Make fanart or a fan comic in a non-English language.

11 & 12th of February: Make an OFMD fanvid to a non-English language song. (Hard mode: Don't use Con's French version of La Vie En Rose. Bonus points if you make a supercut of all the different dubs of Oh Daddy for some multilingual awkwardness)

13th & 14th of February: Write meta on the translation choices made when it comes to dubbing and subbing to a non-English language you speak, OR write about meta about the use of non-English in the show.

For example, here is some meta from a while ago on the German dub and how it handles the formal and informal form of address, and here's one that does the same with French.

15th of February: Catch-up day and also AO3's International Fanworks Day!

This is both a catch-up day for posting fanworks mentioned above OR catching up on commenting on those fanworks! And obviously you can also comment on non-English fanworks that were posted outside of the fest!

Rules:

All characters and pairings welcome.

All ratings welcome.

All non-English languages welcome - AO3 supports the following languages.

Please post your fanwork to the AO3 Collection (if possible and if you like) to make it easy for everyone to see the fanworks made for the event.

Please use either Ecclesiastical Latin Fest and/or EcclesiasticalLatinFest if you post about it on Tumblr or Twitter or elsewhere to make it easy for everyone to see the fanworks made for the event.

You can use a few sentences of English in your fic here and there, same as English fics often have Jim saying some words or sentences in Spanish.

You can start posting your fanwork when it is the correct day in your timezone.

You can participate if you're a native English speaker, so break out your best secondary school/Duolingo German/French/Spanish! There's no foreign language practise like reading and writing fic.

Don't be a dick.

[whencyclopedia]

Mamikonian Dynasty

The Mamikonians were a powerful clan group who were influential in Armenian political and military affairs from the 1st century BCE onwards. They rose to particular prominence from c. 428 CE to 652 CE in the half of Armenia ruled by the Sasanian Empire when marzpan viceroys represented the Persian king. One of the dynasty's most famous figures is Vardan Mamikonian who fell at the 451 CE Battle of Avarayr fought against Persia to defend Armenia's cultural and religious independence.

Fall of the Arsacid Dynasty

The Arsacid dynasty ruled Armenia from 12 CE and had managed to keep their balance on the diplomatic tightrope strung between the great powers of Rome and Persia for four centuries. By the 5th century CE, though, the Sasanian Empire had begun to expand its influence into areas previously contested between the two Empires. Armenia had already been formally divided between Persia and the Eastern Roman (Byzantine) Empire in 387 CE. The last Arsacid ruler was Artashes IV (r. 422-428 CE) as the Armenian crown, unable to repress the pro-Persian and anti-Christian factions at court, was abolished by Persia in their half of the country (sometimes referred to as Persarmenia). In 428 CE the marzpans were installed, a position which was higher than satraps and more akin to viceroys. Representing the Sasanian king, the marzpans had full civilian and military authority in Armenia and the system would not change until the mid-7th century CE.

The dynasty that now ruled the roost in Armenia was the Mamikonians whose heartlands were in the northern province of Tayk. Their earliest recorded member is Mancaeus who defended Tigranocerta in 69 BCE against Roman attacks. Long a powerful clan group, the Mamikonians had been particularly successful in the military thanks to their ability to raise cavalry forces of 3,000 knights. By the end of the 4th century CE the hereditary office of grand marshal (sparapet), who led the armed forces of Armenia, usually had a Mamikonian lord in the position. Amongst the other noble families the Mamikonians had been only second in importance to the Arsacid royal family itself, indeed two members had even served as regents: Mushegh and Manuel Mamikonian.

Once the ruling house of Arsacid fell, the Mamikonians were left to dominate both Armenian politics and military affairs within the limitations imposed by their Persian overlords. One of the most powerful early Mamikonian princes was Hamazasp, who married Sahakanyush, the daughter of the First Bishop Sakak c. 439 CE. The marriage unified the most prominent feudal and ecclesiastical families in Armenia and the vast territories of the Mamikonians with those of the descendants of Saint Gregory the Illuminator (d. c. 330 CE). Over the next three centuries, seven Mamikonian princes would rule Armenia.

Continue reading...

[accord-vn]

Major Players in the War Against the Firmament

The Republic of Stauros

The Republic of Stauros is a global superpower that controls the Americas and much of eastern and southern Africa, its imperialist agenda funded by the exploitation of abundant natural resources. This influx of resources means that they have been able to rapidly advance technology, particularly in bio-science, engineering, and materials science fields, and their advanced technology in turn makes for political capital with which they can bully nations into being subsumed by the Republic.

Stauros is a meritocratic oligarchy with republican structures, and presents itself as being a place where the best can rise to the top. It is centrally governed in its capital of Etorios, by a council of (what were originally) six departments that oversee facets of government such as treasury, military, agriculture, etc. These department heads are chosen from among a democratically elected parliament that makes up the upper levels of each department by the previous council. In short, the system rejects change very stubbornly as those who are eligible to lead have been entrenched in the system for a very long time. This entrenchment means that the Republic, while founded on progressive ideals, has now fully embraced the authoritarian streak that has haunted it since its inception.

Most prominent in Stauros's war against the Firmament is the ExoCorps, the executive arm of the Department of the Exterior. The Dept of the Exterior was created in order to protect Stauros's offplanet interests, however in the decades since they have come to rival the power of the Dept of Military, even surpassing it in many instances. The most notable example of this power imbalance is in the ExoCorps' development of Synaptic Transfer technology and the resulting Janissary program.

The Sophic Church

The Sophic Church originated as part of the Third Awakening, a reactionary revival in religiosity coupled with anti-Christian sentiment and strong undercurrents of paranoia brought about by a sharp rise in conspiratorial thought. What were several grassroots Gnostic revival movements came together to form a single ecclesiastical society, united in their desire to dismantle current institutions and build something new. These movements, originally different sects, syncretized their beliefs, though after several decades of transformation, their doctrine has evolved into a largely ahistorical conflation of Valentinianism and Sethianism alongside some entirely new ideas.

The Sophic Church played a key role in the formation of the Republic and rose alongside it, shaping it in the process, and as a result, within Stauros there is a strong presumption that most residents of the Republic are a part of the church.

Naturally, due to this relationship the Church has amassed a large amount of wealth and influence, and has invested this wealth into a number of corporate assets. The most prominent among these is Ascension, a corporation with child companies for mining, manufacturing, logistics, pharmaceuticals, and many other industries.

As a result, the Sophic Church has control over a substantial amount of the economy not just of Stauros, but the rest of the world as well.

The Stereomatos

In 2068, Olympia, Stauros's first permanent Martian research base, collapsed due to mismanagement. Due to the nature of the Stauros Dept of Research's control over the research base, while researchers lived permanent lives on base and even raised families there, leadership was not only appointed from a bureaucracy located on Earth, but also frequently rotated. As a result, most Directors of Operations viewed the position only as a temporary station, and ultimately failed to carry out their duties.

This culminated in 2067, when a failure in the water system caused dozens of people to become ill and 14 deaths. Civil unrest had already started to stir, but now was in full swing.

A nearby ExoCorps detachment was then stationed inside the colony to dissuade uprising, but the additional strain on resources that they caused served only to exacerbate discontentment. Before any violence broke out, the base was declared no longer fit for human habitation and disbanded, its residents either returned to earth or stationed in other colonies. The base was leveled shortly thereafter.

A mere two years later, Synesia was founded on Olympia's ruins. Synesia was intended to serve as a colony and an experiment in autonomous government, as well as a center for Stauros' civic operations offplanet. This quickly expanded into a semi-autonomous satellite state, granted nominal independence by Stauros in return for serving as the governing body for bases and offplanet stations too large and too distant from Earth in order to be effectively managed by a planetary bureaucracy.

In practice, the Stereomatos is a puppet state. Most of its leadership is either beholden or sympathetic to Stauros, and lives under constant threat of dismantlement. Stauros maintains exclusive trading rights with the Stereomatos, and uses the leverage of their monopoly on space infrastructure as means of controlling the nation.

The Firmament

The Firmament is a revolutionary movement across the Stereomatos with the ultimate goal of eliminating Stauros control over space.

The movement is comprised of several cells across both inner sphere and outer sphere colonies and stations, which frequently work together to improve the living conditions of Stereomatos citizens, smuggle goods and resources across planetary boundaries, and wage asymmetric warfare against Stauros.

The Firmament's immediate strategy is to hold Stauros at resource-point through piracy and targeted attacks on military installations so that they'll agree to several key conditions:

The right to self-govern independent of Stauros control, including reforming the government from a parliamentary republic into a syndical state.

Better access to tertiary industry, including the means to utilize synaptic transfer tech

Access to Stauros trade networks in order to carry out trade with other nations with minimal interference

The Stereomatos as a whole may be generally divided in their opinion on the Firmament's methods, however it is an unspoken rule to side with them whenever possible, because the Firmament represents hope for a freer future and an end to overcrowding and military police actions. Even those ideologically opposed tend to avoid speaking out, because the members of the Firmament are ultimately members of their community. A number of Stereomatos politicians have direct connections to Firmament leadership, and work to achieve the movement's aims through diplomatic means.

On Earth, however, the opinion is generally much more divided. Typically the details of their actions are largely reduced to the effect that they've had on Stauros, and are branded terrorists due to civilian casualties from their attacks. Within Stauros, media is sufficiently skewed that those who are aware of them despise them. Outside of Stauros, the Stereomatos is shown more sympathy, and even those who skew more conservative are open to the idea of free trade with the Stereomatos.

Federated Oceania

As climate change ravaged the global south, Aotearoa (formerly New Zealand) successfully pushed back the encroaching ocean with a sea wall, reclaiming additional land in the process. Having secured their new position as a safe haven for climate refugees, they pushed Australia into adopting a similar strategy. As a means of allowing displaced people to retain their sovereignty as well as protect against the threat of a subjugation-hungry Stauros on the horizon, the bloc of Federated Oceania was formed.

With a vested interest in environmental sciences and sustainable energy, Oceania rose to prominence by implementing the first viable fusion reactor and selling off excess energy from successive plants. This paved the way to further successes until it became the non-Stauros leader in technology on a global stage, and served as the first country to challenge Stauros's self-proclaimed "monopoly on space".

As a staunch rival of Stauros, Oceania is one of the few terrestrial nations to openly provide support the Firmament.

The Archon Program

The disappearance of the Caesarea is a mainstay of conspiracy circles system-wide. From independent blogs hosted on the clearnet to chatrooms on planetside LITEs to forums and message boards maintained on Firmnet servers in the belt, no hushed whisper passes through the internet's lips without mentioning its name, and the Caesarea is rarely mentioned without the words "Archon program" in its wake.

However, there is little consensus on what those words mean.  

They say that Archon Program is run by the Dept of the Exterior— no, by the Sophic Church— no, it's the secret Dept of Suppression— as a psyop— actually, it's in order to crush unions (the IPU has NEVER been able to touch Ascension)— no, to serve as a counter to the Firmament's dark matter bomb— and eventually, to dominate the world— utilizing heinous machines that are larger than any Cataphract, that bleed, that drive their enemies and pilots to madness.

When asked for proof, however, the stories converge. A would-be whistleblower from Ascension Aerospace, killed when lightning struck her complex as she was uploading the leak, severing the connection and her life at once. All that was uploaded was the first gigabyte of a single file, titled Archon Program, completely blank except for the image of an A with an ouroboros divided into seven pieces.

Nothing more is known by the public.

[pharmaciacatholica]

No other institution is left standing which carries the mind back to the times when the smoke of sacrifice rose from the Pantheon, and when camelopards and tigers bounded in the Flavian amphitheatre. The proudest royal houses are but of yesterday, when compared with the line of the supreme pontiffs. That line we trace back in an unbroken series, from the Pope who crowned Napoleon in the nineteenth century to the Pope who crowned Pepin in the eighth; and far beyond the time of Pepin the august dynasty extends, until it is lost in the twilight of fable. The republic of Venice came next in antiquity. But the republic of Venice was modern when compared with the Papacy; and the republic of Venice is gone, and the Papacy remains. The Papacy remains, not in decay, not a mere antique, but full of life and youthful vigour.... Nor do we see any sign which indicates that the term of her long dominion is approaching. She saw the commencement of all the governments and of all the ecclesiastical establishments that now exist in the world, and we feel no assurance that she is not destined to see the end of them all. She was great and respected before the Saxon had set foot on Britain, before the Frank had passed the Rhine, when Greek eloquence still flourished in Antioch, when idols were still worshipped in the Temple of Mecca. And she may still exist in undiminished vigour when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's ... The Arabs have a fable that the Great Pyramid was built by antediluvian kings, and alone of all the works of men bore the weight of the flood. Such as this was the fate of the Papacy. It had been buried under the great inundation, but its deep foundations had remained unshaken, and, when the waters abated, it appeared alone amidst the ruins of a world which had passed away. The republic of Holland was gone, and the empire of Germany, and the Great Council of Venice, and the old Helvetian League, and the House of Bourbon, and the parliaments and aristocracy of France...But the unchangeable Church was still there.

Thomas Macaulay, sourced from Rev. F.J. Koch’s Manual of Catholic Apologetics

[camisoledadparis]

Standing Cup and Cover Supported by an Enchained Turk

Date: ca. 1705–11

Culture: German, perhaps Frankfurt-am-Main

Medium: Jade (nephrite), aragonite, chalcedony, banded agate, gold, silver gilt, diamonds, rubies, garnets, enamel, and paint.

This domed cup supported by the figure of a bearded Turk is richly decorated in many precious materials worked in a variety of techniques. The carved alabaster figure, enchained in jewels, bears a jade cup and cover surmounted by an elaborate finial. Pierced gold hunting figures, trophies, classical statues, birds, and beasts radiate from the center of the cup and lid, all enframed in garlands and blossoms. Eight chalcedony male and female busts, some with rose diamonds, rubies, and enameled coronets, encircle the cup and its base. The finial has a circular medallion of chalcedony and gold that displays the double eagle of the Habsburg empire. The coat of arms of three ecclesiastical electors appears on the opposite side of the medallion. The front and back of the cup also display the arms of electors: Brandenburg, Hanover, Bohemia, and Sachsen, Pfalz, Bayern, respectively. The base is jade with pierced gold ornament, the whole enriched with cameos, rubies, and rose diamonds.

The nine electoral arms in the cup's decorative scheme suggest that the piece was made at the turn of the eighteenth century, as an official gift to be presented on the occasion of an imperial election in Frankfurt am Main. It was there that Holy Roman Emperors were elected and crowned. Indeed, as so many specialists were called upon to complete the cup, it was certainly made in a prosperous town like Frankfurt, where the finest goldsmiths flourished. The cup's style of decoration would suggest that it was made and held in readiness for the crowning of Charles VI as Holy Roman Emperor (r. 1711-40). Casting the supporting figure as a Turk, enslaved and encumbered, signifies the proud imperial defeat of the Turks at the close of the seventeenth century.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Do Not Judge Your Brother

1 Receive him that is weak in the faith, but not for passing judgment.

2 For one believes that he may eat all things: another, who is weak, eats herbs.

3 Let not him that eats despise him that eats not; and let not him who eats not judge him that eats: for God has received him.

4 Who are you that judge another man's servant? to his own master he stands or falls. Yea, he shall be held up: for God is able to make him stand.

5 One man esteems one day above another: another esteems every day alike. Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind.

6 He that regards the day, regards it unto the Lord; and he that regards not the day, to the Lord he does not regard it. He that eats, eats to the Lord, for he gives God thanks; and he that eats not, to the Lord he eats not, and gives God thanks.

7 For none of us lives to himself, and no man dies to himself.

8 For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord's.

9 For to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be Lord both of the dead and living.

10 But why do you judge your brother? or why do you despise your brother? for we shall all stand before the judgment seat of Christ.

11 For it is written, As I live, says the Lord, every knee shall bow to me, and every tongue shall confess to God.

12 So then every one of us shall give account of himself to God.

13 Let us not therefore judge one another any more: but judge this rather, that no man put a stumbling block or an occasion to fall in his brother's way.

Do Good to Your Brother

14 I know, and am persuaded by the Lord Jesus, that there is nothing unclean of itself: but to him that esteems anything to be unclean, to him it is unclean.

15 But if your brother is grieved with your food, you no longer walk in love. Destroy not him with your food, for whom Christ died.

16 Let not then your good be evil spoken of:

17 For the kingdom of God is not food and drink; but righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit.

18 For he that in these things serves Christ is acceptable to God, and approved of men.

19 Let us therefore follow after the things which make for peace, and things with which one may edify another.

20 For food destroy not the work of God. All things indeed are pure; but it is evil for that man who eats with offense.

21 It is good neither to eat meat, nor to drink wine, nor anything by which your brother stumbles, or is offended, or is made weak.

22 Have you faith? have it to yourself before God. Happy is he that condemns not himself in that thing which he allows.

23 And he that doubts is condemned if he eats, because he eats not of faith: for whatever is not of faith is sin. — Romans 14 | King James 2000 Bible (KJB2K) The King James 2000 Bible, copyright © Doctor of Theology Robert A. Couric 2000, 2003. All rights reserved. Cross References: Ruth 3:14; Psalm 34:14; Ecclesiastes 11:9; Zechariah 14:21; Matthew 7:1; Matthew 12:36; Matthew 13:21; Mark 7:2; Mark 7:19; Luke 1:1; Luke 18:9; Acts 10:15; Romans 2:1; Romans 8:38; Romans 15:1; 1 Corinthians 8:8; 1 Corinthians 8:11; Philippians 2:10; Titus 1:15; James 4:11-12; 1 Peter 2:12; 1 Peter 4:5; Revelation 14:13

Notes: A judgment day is coming for Christians when Christ will examine all our works. He will determine which of our deeds were worthwhile and which were worthless.

Key Passages in Romans 14

1. Men may not condemn one another for disputable matters; 13. but must take heed that they give no offense in them; 15. which the apostle proves unlawful by many reasons.

[scribeforchrist-blog]

Is It Your Time? 

MEMORY VERSE OF THE WEEK

=======================

+ Ecclesiastes 4:5 Fools fold their hands

and ruin themselves.

=======================

VERSE OF THE DAY 

======================

+ Matthew 24:37-39 When the Son of Man returns, it will be like it was in Noah’s day. 38 In those days before the flood, the people were enjoying banquets and parties and weddings right up to the time Noah entered his boat. “People didn’t realize what was going to happen until the flood came and swept them all away. That is the way it will be when the Son of Man comes.”

=======================

SUBJECT: Is It Your Time? 

======================

** SAY THIS BEFORE YOU READ; HERE’S SOME CHRISTIAN TRUTHS **

I AM READY 

I AM NOT AFRAID 

I AM BRAVE 

I AM CONNECTED 

======================

READ TIME: 8 Minutes & 4 Seconds

======================

THOUGHTS:

======================

  Many people are enjoying their lives and aren’t paying attention to what God is doing or trying to do in their lives, and that’s what happened in Noah's day. They were so fixated on banquets, parties, and things that they didn’t pay Noah any attention. They wanted to do what they wanted, and before they knew it, the flood came and swept them away. 

     That's what's happening now. Many people enjoy their lives in a way that isn’t acceptable to God. They are doing things that aren’t acceptable to God. They allow themselves to miss the biggest part in all this: salvation. Jesus died over thousands years ago and rose again, giving us all the opportunity to be saved, but it's up to us to be saved; it's up to us to want to reach and grab what he gave free to the world.

  Verse 40: Two men will work together in the field; one will be taken, the other left. 41 Two women will grind flour at the mill; one will be taken, the other left.

    Some of us are so busy with our lives that we won't notice the sudden change. Some will stay on this earth, and others will leave because God won't hold anyone back from coming to heaven just because someone else isn't ready. A lot of us are attracted to our friends, and we are attached to other people. We don’t see that sometimes, the people we are around can cause us to stay behind and cause us to act a certain way because they aren’t ready. I can say this, friends. If you have people in your life who aren’t ready, I ask you to pray for them and pray a covering over them, a submissive spirit for them.

  Verse 42: “So you, too, must keep watch! For you don’t know what day your Lord is coming.

  It tells us here to keep watch; a lot of us don’t want to because we want to live any matter way; the way people want to live their life is free from the direction, free from the love of God, but the longer they put it off, the more they will lose out on the perfect gift, this time of year people are looking for gifts and things. Still, the lord is the best gift, which is free. People can do all they can to put Christ last, but Christ will be first. 

    Every knee will bow. I can tell you that the biggest hurt in life isn’t a lonely life, not having what we wanted, but living without God; some of you are living right now without God in your life. You wonder why you feel alone, why you feel discouraged, why you feel so much pain; it is because you don’t have him in your heart; a lot of us are going through life without him because we want to, and we must not be this way we must stay strong in God and allow him to change us.

   Verse 44: You also must be ready all the time, for the Son of Man will come when least expected.

   We don’t know when the lord is coming back; a lot of us are so used to having our way, and we aren’t used to a disciplined lifestyle; we must have that to see the kingdom of God, and this is why we must always be ready not waiting for the very moment to get in the right hand of God. If God gives us a date, how many of us will be ready and wait until the very second to get it right? God is looking for a person with no spot or wrinkle. 

  Verse 50-51 The master will return unannounced and unexpected, 51 and he will cut the servant to pieces and assign him a place with the hypocrites. In that place, there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

   If we know Christ is returning without announcing himself, why won’t we get it right now? Why won’t we give him everything we can? It’s so many of us who don’t believe he’s coming back because we have heard it so many years, and we think he’s not, but he is; when he returns, those who aren’t ready will be placed in a place where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. It’s nowhere good when we are placed there. God wants to give us every opportunity to get it right, and some of us just can’t because we aren’t ready to leave our lifestyle. We keep thinking I got another day, I got another day, but another day isn’t promised to us. 

 The servant in this story had time to get it right that his master wasn’t coming back, and he continued his way verse 47-48  I tell you the truth, the master will put that servant in charge of all he owns. 48 But what if the servant is evil and thinks, ‘My master won’t be back for a while,’

  That’s what some of us think, but it’s a place that we will be going to; if we don’t get it right and no one can save us from we won’t be given another opportunity at all; the lord will allow us to experience this part of life because we every opportunity to place Jesus in our lives , we were told he was coming back, we have to stop playing games and get it right. Jesus is coming again; this time, he will judge us for every idle word and action, but it’s up to us to say I want to live for him; I want to get it right. 

  *** Today, we learned what will happen if we wait too long to serve God. We learned how he will place us where there will be pain, teeth gnashing, and weeping. This devotion is not to scare you but to get you to see what you are not adhering to. He’s given us each day to get it right, but it’s up to us to get it right. We can’t blame it on anyone else; if we don’t get it in, we must look at ourselves. 

   Matthew 25:23 His master said, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful a little; I will set you over much. Enter into the joy of your master.’

  God wants to tell us Well done, good and faithful servants; he wants to tell us how proud he is of what we did, but have you done anything in your life he will say this to you , or have you been doing everything you want and not caring about his return. Go to him today and say, Father, I need your help. I am not doing well, but he will show you how to correct your actions because he loves you so much!  ©Seer~ Prophetess Lee

======================

PRAYER

=====================

Heavenly Father, thank you for today, lord; we are so grateful for what you're doing in our lives; we ask you to give us more of you and understanding lord, help us through our day, help us not to be like this world but be more like you, lord we are so grateful we ask you to help us all get ready for your return we don’t want to be not be ready help us to give you our heart and mind, lord without you we can't do anything, we just thank you for what you have given us in Jesus Name amen

======================

REFERENCES 

======================

+ Luke 12:44 Truly, I say to you, he will set him over all his possessions.

 

+ Revelation 21:7 The one who conquers will have this heritage, and I will be his God, and he will be my son.

 

+ 2 Timothy 2:12 If we endure, we will also reign with him; if we deny him, he also will deny us;

======================

FURTHER READINGS 

======================

Proverbs 19

Psalm 107

Obadiah 1

1 Thessalonians 3 

Romans 10

======================

[sunstar706]

Hear me out: Bucky Barnes is 100% not Jewish.

I’ve been doing a lot of scrolling on Tumblr/Ao3 the past few days looking for other people’s opinions on the nitty gritty of Bucky Barnes’ background, and realized- a lot (a *lot*) of people headcanon him as Jewish, which I find really interesting. Judaism, on the whole, is an extremely interesting subject, as the only non-universalizing Abrahamic faith, the only ethnic Abrahamic faith, and the oldest Abrahamic faith (making it one of the oldest monotheistic religions ever to exist).

Let me present to you my speculation on Bucky’s religious background. First of all, we know Steve is Catholic. Just getting that out of the way.

Am I a geography and demography nerd? Yes, yes I am. And I also have a strange hyperfixation on names. That’s why this stood out to me immediately.

James Buchanan Barnes, born March 10, 1917, into a poor family in Brooklyn, New York.

James is a really ambiguous name, with versions in pretty much every Indo-European language, as far as I know. It’s the number one baby boy name in the United States of all time, beating out the second place name (Robert) by over 300,000. Honestly, this name tells me nothing. Moving on.

Buchanan. It’s Scottish. That says a lot. It was fairly common at the time for the eldest sons middle name to be the mothers maiden name, so we can safely say that Winnifred Barnes (née Buchanan) was most likely Scottish.

Now, this is where we get historical, and also where speculation starts. As many Outlander fans will know, things went south for Catholics in Scotland after the battle of Culloden Moor and the Jacobite rebellion, however… The Roman Catholic ecclesiastical hierarchy was reestablished in Scotland in 1878. Catholic emancipation occurred in 1829, and there was a revival of Papism in Scotland, along with an influx of Irish Catholic immigrants coming in (especially with the potato famine starting in the 1840s in Ireland), so, while Catholicism isn’t as popular in Scotland today (approximately 15% of modern Scots are Catholic), when Winnie was born (likely somewhere between 1897 and 1900, I usually put it at 1899) there would have been a good number of Catholics in Scotland. There’s a really good chance she was Catholic.

Now. Barnes. If there was ever an extremely English surname, it was Barnes. It’s pretty hard to provide reasonable evidence that George Barnes was not English, so, let’s run with that. While England today has high percentages of Islam, Hinduism, and even reasonable amounts of Sikhism and Buddhism, it was… very Christian back in the day. In fact, the only really established non-Christian religion in England was Judaism (England contained approximately 60000 Jews in 1880, a number which rose to 300000 by 1914. However, please consider that the majority of these people were fresh immigrants escaping anti-semitism in Eastern and Northern Europe, who would not have had the surname ‘Barnes’). Delving further into English Christianity- they were Anglican, pretty much.

Guess what? Protestants (ex. Anglicans like George) and Catholics (like Winnie) don’t like each other. While marriage between Protestants and Catholics wasn’t illegal in the uk at the time, it is extremely unlikely their families would have approved. So, Winnie and George moved to NYC. (Actually, this is how my very own great-great-grandparents ended up in New Zealand).

So, where does James Buchanan Barnes lie on the religion side of things? I can tell you The chances that he’s Jewish are very low. I’d say he’s probably Catholic, even if just to blend in- New York is extremely Catholic, even today. He could be Anglican. After all the shit Hydra put him through, he’s might’ve given up on religion all together. Or maybe he converted to Buddhism. A lot of people do that (Buddhism is the third largest universalizing religion on earth). I’m kidding, don’t take that seriously, he’s not a Buddhist.

I think he’s Catholic.

But hey, nothings concrete. I’ve read some really great stories where he’s Jewish. I’ve read great stories where he’s Catholic.

-Ranger616

[bendingwind]

Director’s cut of the second chapter of Courting Traditions?? :D?

Hehehe so. I didn't set out to write a second chapter, but I finished the first one and was like hm, there is more here. Additionally, I had been stuck pretty hard on 'they would never be able to marry' and I wanted to challenge myself on that and like, maybe somewhat on that assumption (yeah, i know, canon pretty well backs up that at a minimum a marriage would be extremely contentious, but you know what this is a case of fuck canon to me, Ashur is in charge of the whole Chantry he could probably make this happen, if not without repercussions!!!).

Plus I had spent the whole time I was writing the first part thinking about how Tarquin would have gone about this and what his gifts would have been so I was like: WhyNot.jpg?

The gift of jewelry is meant to mark the permanence and the seriousness of intentions re: the courting. So the snake ring was just "what's jewelry Ashur would wear that Tarquin would buy for him" with a little sprinkling of "teehee inside joke" re: the Viper between them, because I imagine Ashur would mostly wear jewelery in his role as Divine rather than as the Viper. In my mind I was picturing a specific ring that I have that seemed to fit the role.

The embrium was the first gift I had in mind, because as I was writing Ashur giving Tarquin the silent plains rose, I was picturing like what this gift was actually meant to symbolize growing together, and of course it's usually given with the intention that the couple will be moving out of their parents' households to start a new household of their own. It's always a perennial, never an annual, because of course there is still that echo of hope for longevity in the gift. This is obviously not the case with Ashur and Tarquin, but the role remains, and I think this one is maybe still pretty commonplace as a courting gift? But as Tarquin demonstrates here, it's almost always elfroot or embrium, maybe a flowering bush for the more romantic. Anyway Tarquin goes out, gets a normal gift, and somewhat exasperatedly gives it to Ashur. The silent plains rose is still alive and well on his windowsill tho.

The third gift is something sweet/sustenance (proof that you can Provide) and I explained this one in the fic--Tarquin gives Ashur oranges because that's what his grandparents did. I don't think his parents really followed the old rituals which were already falling out of style by then, though I think his father did get his mother a stalk of royal elfroot following the second gift tradition?

The fourth gift is always a statue of Andraste in tradition, intended to adorn the hearth of the newlyweds in their new home, and this tradition was the first to fall out of favor since the focus was on the Summerday wedding anyway. But Ashur didn't know that (and bent the tradition anyway). To me, Ashur is very faithful, and that's a big part of why he became the Viper and why he does what he does--his earliest memories are reading the Canticle of Andraste about how Andraste freed the slaves, about how the Maker loves all his children equally. Tarquin knows this, and also If He's Going To Do This Shit He's Going To Do It Right, so he gets Ashur the traditional statue.

And then of course they get married! I spent a lot of time waffling on this and how exactly it would go down. I think in my own headcanon the Imperial Divine is almost always married before he gets the post, and if you read ecclesiastical law the strongest argument would be in favor of the only person with the authority to officiate the Imperial Divine's wedding is the Imperial Divine himself (hierarchy being so important with in the Imperial Chantry) but I decided to disregard that for this fic. Father Caesium is an OC who in my mind was Ashur's religious tutor when he was a boy and remained a confidant and mentor as Ashur grew up, went to the Circle, rose through the Imperial Chantry ranks, and ultimately became the Divine. Ashur still visits him from time to time, and when he comes across orphans or other children without a home, it's Father Caesium he sends them too, along with the coin to sponsor their upraising within the Chantry. Anyway it's important to Ashur that Father Caesium be the one to officiate their wedding, in part because of their relationship and in part because he knows Father Caesium won't buckle under pressure and nullify their vows. And then they get married 🥰🥰🥰

[bantarleton]

King Charles III will reuse vestments which featured in the Coronation Services of King George IV in 1821, King George V in 1911, King George VI in 1937 and Queen Elizabeth II in 1953, including the Colobium Sindonis, the Supertunica, the Imperial Mantle, the Coronation Sword Belt and the Coronation Glove.

The Monarch is invested with the Colobium Sindonis after the Anointing. It takes the form of a white linen shift-like tunic, and a plain collar fastened with a single button, intended to represent a priests' alb. The King will use the Colobium Sindonis worn at the Coronation of his grandfather King George VI at Westminster Abbey on 12th May 1937, which was made by the robemakers Ede & Ravenscroft.

The Supertunica takes the form of a full-length, sleeved gold coat and is worn under the Imperial Mantle. The Sovereign is invested with the Supertunica following the Anointing and it is fastened with the Coronation Sword Belt.

Although this Supertunica dates from the twentieth century, the form of the Supertunica has changed little since medieval coronations. The design of the Supertunica is based on priestly and religious vestments.

Each side of the front of the Supertunica features an embroidered band with spiral threads, which take the shape of leafy stems using the goldwork technique. The embroidery was carried out in 1911 by the Ladies Work Society and, as part of the centuries-old tradition for the Supertunica, is based on ecclesiastical vestments from medieval times.

The Imperial Mantle is worn over the Supertunica and is more similar in design to a robe. The Imperial Mantle being used by the King at this year’s Coronation was made for the Coronation of George IV in 1821, and has been worn by King George V, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth II. It is the oldest vestment being used in the Coronation Service.

The Imperial Mantle is made of cloth of gold, gold, silver and silk thread, silk, gold bullion fringe and a gold clasp. The cloth of gold is woven with roses, thistles, shamrocks, crowns, eagles and fleurs-de-lis. The gold clasp is in the shape of an eagle, which can also be seen on the newly created Anointing Screen, and in the form of the Ampulla which will hold the Chrism oil.

The Imperial Mantle was made by the tailor John Meyer in 1821 and the Royal Goldsmiths to George IV, Rundell, Bridge and Rundell supplied the gold eagle clasp.

The Girdle, also known as the Coronation Sword Belt, is made of cloth of gold, and embroidered in gold thread with arabesques and scrolls. It is lined with dark red silk, with a gold buckle stamped with national emblems (roses, thistles and shamrocks) and a gold clip for attaching the Jewelled Sword of Offering in place.

During the Coronation Service, the Sword Belt is placed around the Supertunica. The Jewelled Sword of Offering is then 'girded' or fastened at the Sovereign's waist using the Sword Belt. The Archbishop presents the Sword to the Monarch while saying that it should be used for the protection of good and the punishment of evil. The Sword is then removed and placed on the altar in Westminster Abbey, before the Sovereign is invested with the Imperial Mantle.

Historically the Sword Belt is supplied new by the Worshipful Company of Girdlers for each Coronation. His Majesty has chosen to reuse the Sword Belt made for the Coronation of his grandfather, King George VI, on 12th May 1937.

The Coronation Glove or gauntlet is made for the Sovereign’s right hand. It was presented by the Worshipful Company of Glovers, made by Dents the glovemakers, and embroidered by Edward Stillwell & Company in 1937. This Glove has been conserved by Dents with support from the Worshipful Company of Glovers and re-presented by the Company ahead of the Coronation on 6th May.

The Glove is worn to hold the Sovereign's Sceptre during the Crowning and then removed before processing to the Throne Chair. At the Coronation on 6th May, the Coronation Glove will be presented to His Majesty by Lord Indarjit Singh of Wimbledon.