#imagine the nun whos been your friend for like 6 months saying that to your face. in front of your gf.

[notebooks-and-laptops]

Find it hilarious that Alistair is so insecure about not being good in bed and it's so sweet and cute and then immediately afterwards like the next day Leliana is like HEY DUDE HEARD YOU TRYING TO GIVE HEAD LAST NIGHT AND IT DIDNT SOUND LIKE IT WAS GOING SO GOOD WANT ME TO GIVE YOU SOME TIPS. I would literally have just thrown myself into the jaws of the arch demon then and there

[yoursecretsmutblog]

playing with fire II.

A/N: For my dear friend @littlefreya​ on her birthday. I hope you have a wonderful day and know that you are very much loved by me. Thank you for being you. 

A/N 2: This is how I imagined pwf. would end, so I hope y'all enjoy it!

Warnings: Unprotected sex, my bad writing

playing with fire.

My phone drops from my hand as I sit stock-still on his bed, staring at the empty wall in front of me. 

What have I done? 

“Jesus fuck, Faith, why did you do that? You just pissed off a senior officer and lost your job.” I groan, covering my face with my hands as I lay back on the bed. 

Rubbing my face with my hands, I groan some more, cursing myself for being so stupid. Everyone knows Agent Walker is not the forgiving type.

Picking my phone back up, I see it has been 30 minutes since August hung-up on me.

For 30 minutes I have been laying here debating if I should leave. But if I did, I know he would just find me. 

This is it. This is how it ends for me. No epic ending. Just sitting on the bed of my training officer scared and wet. But why am I oddly turned on by that? 

What am I going to tell my friends? Shit, what am I going to tell my parents? They were so proud when I got in.

Fuck it. I’m done waiting.

I stand and gather myself when the door slams open, the handle hitting the plaster of the wall just on the other side of the bedroom. Startled, I sit back down, pushing my skirt down my legs, trying to preserve what little dignity I have left. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” August seethes. His whole body takes up the door frame, all I could see was him, with no way to escape. 

I scoot back to the headboard, disoriented and heart pounding as my brain slowly catches up to the adrenaline racing through my bloodstream. “I … you told me not to go anywhere.” 

He stalks toward me, stopping at the side of the bed and tugs his tie loose with an impatient jerk. “You broke into my house--” 

“The door was open--”

“--and got onto my bed.”

“I… “ I look up at him, eyes widening. The energy changed the moment my eyes meet his. He was fully incharge now. He looks like he wants to kill me. How could I have been so stupid? I should have left after he hung-up. 

August reaches his hand out and instinctively I flinch back. But he surprises me by gently sweeping his thumb across my bottom lip. 

“I could have you arrested.” He says simply, tilting his head to the side as he watches me.

Meeting his gaze, I push up onto my knees, sliding my hands up his chest. “I didn’t know how else to get your attention.”

Moving his fingers to my jaw, he holds me in place with a steel-like grip, “You don’t think I notice you?” he growls. “Always up front, your eyes on me the entire time, the way your breathing changes when I come around, the way you fidget in your seat. Your lips so full and red all I can think about is how they would feel around my cock.”

I lick my lips, biting my lower one. “I can show you.”

He says nothing.

“I promise, I won’t tell anyone.” I plead.

August closes his eyes, jaw tight as he takes a breath. When they open again, he leans in, his grip tightening around my jaw and says, “If you think of this as rewarding you for breaking into my house…” 

Holy shit. He’s going to let me do it.

I want him so much I feel restless and urgent, this elemental need clawing at my throat. My nails dig into his shirt, making small balls in my fits as I try to keep him close.

But it’s all a ruse. He pulls free of my grip easily, leaning back to look at me with fire in his eyes.

“I had a lot of work on my desk when you called with your little show earlier.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Being near him makes me liquid, my insides slithering and molten.

His nostrils flare, “What do you think it did to my concentration, knowing you’re here thinking of me, touching skin that could be mine to touch?”

With his eyes holding mine, and to make his point, he slides his other hand under my skirt, pushes my panties to the side as two fingers find me soaked. “Who made you this wet?”

I don’t answer, instead I close my eyes, pushing into his hand before reaching his wrist and fuck his fingers if he won’t move. I’m on fire, everywhere and especially here, drowning with a clawing need to come, for him to make me come.

With a jerk of his arm he pulls his fingers from me and pushes them inside my mouth, making me taste myself. His fingers on my jaw curls into the hollow of my cheeks to hold my mouth open.

“Who. Made. You. Wet.”

“You,” I manage to say around his fingers before he pulls them back. “I thought about you all day. Not just when I called.” I stare into his eyes, his look taking my breath away. “I think about you all day long.”

I’m sure he can see the truth in my expression as his eyes drop to my lips and he pulls his hands away from my face, leaving me feeling empty from his loss of his touch.

“I don’t care about the rules. I want you.” So much honesty is spilling from me. What is he doing to me?

“Faith…” 

My heart turns, pounding so hard it’s no longer a safe rhythm. It is thrashing beneath my ribs.

This was a mistake. “Agent Walker… I--”

“Your body is for my pleasure,” he tells me, eyes dark. “You’re in my house, kitten. I’ll take whatever I want.” 

I nod as my hands work on pulling his shirt from his pants, my fingers teasing the line of hair leading down his belly button and into his pants. Impatiently, he tugs at my hair, pushing his hips forward, and grunts his approval when I quickly unfasten his belt, his zipper, and shove his pants down his thighs so I can free his cock.

Oh.

It juts out in front of me thick and warm; when I reach for him, he’s steel in my palm. I have to use both hands, gripping and sliding down his length, wanting him to let go of my hair so I can bend and suck on him with as much hunger as I feel.

I twist free from his hold, intending to lick him until he comes, but with a growl he pushes me back on the bed, bending to retrieve his tie so he can wrap it around my wrists and secure it to the headboard.

Wasting no time, August takes his shirt off before kicking off his pants and climbs over me, yanking my underwear down my legs and shoving my skirt up my hips. With his hands flat on my thighs, he spreads my legs, leans forward, and roughly thrusts into me.

 I can’t help but scream. I’m starved and satisfied, wanting him to stay just like this forever. But he doesn’t stay deep inside me for long. He pulls back and then slams forward, gripping the headboard for leverage and taking me so roughly each thrust forces air from my lungs and my teeth to clatter.

It’s wild, and frantic, his body over mine, my legs clamped around his waist so tight I wonder if it hurts him. I want to hurt him, in a sick dark way I want to pull every sensation to the surface, make him feel everything all at once that I have felt in the last 6 months. The lust and pain and need and relief. 

“I wanted to get things done tonight,” August hisses, hands clamping around my thighs. He pumps hard and fast, fucking me so roughly, sweat trickles off his temple and lands on my chest. His anger is terrifying and thrilling. “Instead I need to come home and deal with a naughty kitten.” 

“Please make me come,” I beg.

I want his approval, I want his anger.

“Please,” I whisper. “I’ll be good.”

“Bad kittens don’t get pleasure. I’ll take and take and you can watch me instead.”

He’s moving so hard the bed is shaking, groaning beneath us. I’m afraid it just might break. 

“Watch me come.” He commands, jerking from me and gripping his cock. His hand flies down and up his length and he curses, eyes on me.

God, he has never looked so sinful.

The first pulse of his release lashes me across my cheek, and then my neck, my breasts. I’ll never be able to imagine a sexier sound than the deep groan August makes when he comes, the way he growls my name. He bends, sweaty and out of breath; his eyes move over my face and down, inspecting how he’s decorated me. Climbing up my body so his hips are level with my face, he presses his cock to my lips, ordering, “Lick it clean.”

I open my mouth and lick around the tip, and then suck down, along the velvet-soft skin.

Nothing has ever tasted as good as he does.

“August…”

“You like this,” he murmurs. “Pleasing me.”

“Yes.”

He watches me for a moment, as if debating something before climbing off the bed.

“Once I untie your hands, you will have 30 seconds to leave. Tomorrow during your training you will keep it professional unless you want to face the consequences of disobeying me in front of the entire HQ.” He reaches for the tie but stops. “Or disobey if you want, I will have more fun if you do.” He smiles wickedly as he makes quick work of the knot. 

Once the material falls from my wrists, I jump off the bed, adjust myself quickly before rushing to the door.

“Oh, and one more thing Miss. Collins,” He calls out, making me stop just short of the front door. “Be here at 9 pm sharp tomorrow. You don’t want to be late.”

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[horrorkingdom]

Horror story 👻

Creepy Things Kids Say

Creepy things kids say to their parents. An internet forum posed a question: “What is the creepiest thing your child has ever said to you?” The responses were scary, spooky, disturbing and chilling:

A friend of mine’s child told him, “Daddy, I love you so much that I want to cut your head off and carry it around so I can see your face whenever I want.”

My 3-year old daughter was standing over her newborn baby brother, looking at him. Then, she turned to me and said, “Daddy, it’s a monster… We should bury it.”

My cousin used to freak he mom out as a child. Whenever her mom would ask her why she did something mean or wrong she would whisper, “The devil told me to do it!”

I was babysitting for a little girl and she asked where I had parked my car. I pointed out the window to my car across the street. She looked at me and said, “Go to it without looking both ways.” I asked her why and she replied, “I want to see someone die.”

One night, I was tucking in my 2-year old son. He said “Goodbye, Dad.” I corrected him, “No, we say goodnight.” He replied, “I know… But this time it’s goodbye…” I had to come back and check on him a few times during the night to make sure he was still there.

My 3-year old son was cuddling with his grandmother. He took her face in his hands, and stared straight into her eyes and said, “You’re very old and you will die soon.” Then he made a point of looking at the clock.

My little girl went through a phase where she would just constantly say ‘Hi’ to things. “Hi hi hi hi hi hi” One day, it sound sounded strange, so I asked her, “What’s that you’re saying?” She turned to face me and just whispered “Die die die die die diiiieeeeeee…….”

My niece was sleeping over at my parents’ house one night. She had all the lights on in the spare bedroom. I asked her if she was afraid of the dark, and she said, “No. I am afraid of what is in the dark.”

My 5-year old daughter said, “Mommy, when you die I want to put you in a glass jar so I can keep you and see you forever!” My 6-year old son laughed and replied, “That’s stupid. Where are you gonna find a jar that big?”

My 3-year old daughter was holding her newborn baby brother for the first time. She looked up at me and asked innocently, “So, I shouldn’t throw him in the fire?”

My sister was pregnant and we were having a conversation at the dining room table. My 4-year old son asked my sister if there was a baby in her belly. She told him there was. He slid out of his chair and headed for the kitchen, saying, “We need to get it out. I’ll go get the knife.”

When my son was little, I would sometimes hold him down and pretend to eat his face, saying, “nom nom nom.” One day, he said, “I’ll never eat your face, Mommy. I’ll cut it off and wear it as a mask…”

My 5-year old cousin drew a picture of a hideous, black monster. Then, she looked up at me and said, “He told me to draw this… He’s coming for you… You better hide…”

When I was about 3 years old, our cat had kittens, but they all died. I asked my father if we could make crosses for them, which he did. As he was making them I asked, “Aren’t those too small?”

Dad: “What do you Mean?”

Me: “Aren’t we going to nail them to them?”

(Several moments silence)

Dad: “we’re not going to do that”

My mom loves to tell this story: Apparently when I was 5 or 6, I told her that aliens had stolen her real son and replaced him with me, an exact copy. I said that someday, I would return to my home planet, but she shouldn’t be sad, because her real son was having a good life in our zoo.

My little cousin was thrown out of a Catholic preschool because he took off his shoe and told one of the nuns, “Shut up or I’ll take out your eye with my shoe, because I’m the son of the devil!” Apparently that was the last straw.

I was awoken from a deep sleep at around 6 AM. My 4-year old daughter was standing over me and her face was inches from mine. She looked right into my eyes and whispered, “I want to peel all your skin off”. For a few seconds I was terrified. In my sleep addled state, I didn’t know if I was dreaming or what was going on. Then, I realized what she was talking about. I had been sunburned the previous week and my skin was starting to peel.

My niece was sitting on the couch with a weird look on her face. I asked her what she was thinking about and she said, “I’m imagining the waves of blood rushing over me.” As it turns out, they had just come back from a local science museum. There was an exhibit on the circulatory system of blood in the human body.

My 3-year old son was telling me there was a man in his room. “Mommy,” he said. “The man has big yellow eyes and he is looking at you.” I tried to tell him there was no man and my son just told me, “Oh he is hiding now.” Two minutes later, he said, “Oh no Mommy, you made him very mad. Now he says he will come when you are sleeping.” Some time later, he told me, “I’m not going to be four. I’m doing to die and you will put me down, down, down in the hole.” I assured him that wasn’t true and asked who had told him that. He got very quiet and replied, “The man told me. But I will be scared, so after three nights you will die too and come with me.”

I was in the basement of my friend’s house with her 2-year old son. He took my hand, led me over to a brick chimney that had a rusty metal door on it and said, “That’s where the dead babies go…”

I was looking at houses with my brother and his 3-year old son. As we passed the school, the little boy said “If you buy a house here, that’s where your kids will go to school!” Then, we passed a pool and the little boy said, “And that’s where your kids will go to the pool!” Then, we passed a cemetery and he said, “And that’s where you’ll bury your kids!”

One night, when my daughter was 4, I overheard her talking in her room. I poked my head in and asked if she was talking to me. “No,” she replied. “I was talking to the little boy who lives in my closet… He’s dead.”

I jokingly asked my little cousin, “What’s the best way to get a girlfriend?” His response was, “Tell her to be my girlfriend or she’ll never see her parents again.”

One day, totally out of the blue, my 5-year old son said, “Before I was born here, I had a sister, right? Her and my other Mom are so old now. They were OK when the car was on fire, but I sure wasn’t!”

One day, my 3-year old son hugged my wife and said, very seriously, “Mom, I promise I won’t ever chew on your bones…”

My 5-year old daughter had night terrors and she would sometimes scream in her sleep. One night, I said “Mommy’s here. It’s OK.” She looked right at me and screamed, “Mommy? But who is that behind you?”

A few months ago, my 3-year old daughter was playing outside in our backyard. My wife was sitting on the back step and my daughter came up and asked her if she could play with the little girl on our slide. My wife said, “I don’t see any little girl” and my daughter said, “She’s right over there on the slide, Mom. Can’t I play with her?” My wife said, “I don’t see anyone” but my daughter kept insisting, “She’s on the slide and she is blue. Can I play with her?” My wife was freaked out said, “Let’s just go inside and get a snack.” For the rest of the day, my daughter kept looking out the back door, telling my wife that the little blue girl was lonely.

When my brother was very young, he was sleepwalking. My mom was trying to get him to go back to bed. He said, “I would, but the devil is behind you…”

One day, my 4-year old son said, “My brain is telling me to do things I don’t want to do.” I just hope his brain wasn’t telling him, “Burn them! Burn them all!”

As a child I would tell my parents daily that they were not my real parents and that my real parents died in a train accident. At first, they thought it was cute, but after a few months of this, they had to put a stop to my story.

Out of the blue, my 2-year old daughter said, “If you’re quiet you’ll stay alive.” I still have no clue where that came from.

My daughter and her friend were talking about dinosaurs. I asked her, “If you were a T-Rex, what would you eat?” She got very serious, looked me right in the eyes and said, “Children… I’d eat children.”

Last week, my 5-year old son asked me, “What do you see through the black circles in my eyes when you’re controlling me when I’m at school?”

My 5-year old son gave me a card he’d made at school. On the front, it said, “How you see yourself”. He had drawn a picture of me walking in a meadow. I was surrounded by blue skies, a blazing sun, green grass and butterflies. There was a big smile on my face. Inside, it said, “How you really are”. There was a picture of me in a jail cell, gripping the bars and crying.

I work in a preschool there is a small toy kitchen in our classroom that the kids use for playing house. There was one little girl who was playing with a baby

, rocking it back and forth and singing to it. Suddenly, she shoved it into the toy oven, slammed the door shut, turned to me and said, “Sometimes bad babies go in timeout!”

My mother told me that when I was a little girl, I saw some guy at the grocery store and started screaming and crying. It was so bad we had to leave and when we got back to the car, my mom asked what was wrong. I told her he took me away from my first mom and hid me under his floor and made me sleep for a long time until I woke up with my new mom. It totally freaked my mother out.

My daughter told me that there is a woman in her bedroom who watches her and sleeps on the ceiling above her bed. She also says the woman doesn’t like me and wants to eat my heart.

A few days after my dad passed away, my mother and I were awoken in the middle of the night by a furious banging noise. We went downstairs to find my little sister desperately trying to open the back door, yelling, “He wants back in! We have to let him back in!”

We had a small fire in the backyard and my baby cousin picked up a branch, lit it on fire and stared at it for a few minutes, muttering “burn…..burn….BURN!” Eventually, as the whole stick caught fire he started laughing maniacally and yelling in a deep demonic voice, “BUUURRRNNNNINNNGGGG! BUURRRNNNINGGGG! BUUURRRNNN!!!!” It was terrifying.

My mother told me that, when I was a child, I asked her what it was like to die. When she said she didn’t know, I told her not to worry because I’d find out when I was 21.

My aunt was very sick and my wife and I were talking about the cost of making arrangements for the funeral. Our 4-year old son walked in and said, “Why don’t you just set her on fire?” As it turned out, that’s how he thought cremation worked.

We were collecting my mother-in-law at the airport. While we were waiting, my husband picked up our son and joked about tossing him over the railing. On the way home in the car, our son spent the next 3 hours making a booklet titled, “All the Times My Dad Has Tried To Kill Me”. There were illustrations showing him in all sorts of peril, including being flushed down the toilet by my husband. My mother-in-law was horrified.

I was making dinner and my 5-year old niece casually walked through the kitchen and said, “I’ll get you, and I’ll make it look like a bloody accident”. It scared the heck out of me, but later I found out she was quoting a line from The Cat in the Hat.

I asked my 3 kids what they wanted to do when they grew up. My 10-year old said, “I want to be a teacher!” My 8-year old said, “I want to be a writer!” My 6-year old said, “I want to run the machine that cuts the heads off chickens!”

I was giving my 6-year old daughter a bath and she a couple of Barbies in the tub with her. One of the Barbies had no head. The head was floating in the water. I asked her to reattach the head because it was creepy. She responded, “Why Mom? It’s not REAL. If it was real, the bath would be full of blood, and THAT would be creepy…”

One night, I was reading my 3-year old niece a bedtime story and I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark and eerily silent. There was a nightlight on. I turned over and saw my niece. Her eyes were wide open and she was staring at me. Then, she whispered, “How did you get out of your box?”

I asked my nephew what he was drawing and he replied, “A skeleton-making machine”. On further inspection I saw that he hadn’t drawn a skeleton making machine but rather a flesh removal machine, complete with screaming naked men and a channel for the blood. Creepy.

My wife and I were giving our daughter a bath one night, when all of a sudden, she said, “You humans brought me here!” It took us four months to figure out that it was a line she heard in a movie.

Late one night, I was sitting at my friend’s kitchen table when her daughter walked into the kitchen and said, “Mommy, when I was older I crashed the car and died. Can I have something to drink?” My friend calmly gave her daughter a glass of milk and sent her off to bed. It gave me the chills, but my friend didn’t want to talk about it. She started crying and told me never to bring it up again.

When I was 6 years old, we moved house. I said my mother, “The lady who use to live here told me that she hates the wallpaper and you are covering up her note.” She just thought it was childish rambling and forgot all about it. Twelve years later, my mother was redecorating the house. She took down the wallpaper in the attic and found a suicide note scratched into the wall.

When my mother was pregnant, my little brother came into the room and pointed a nerf gun at her stomach. “Oh, no! Don’t shoot me!” my mom said playfully. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he replied. “I’m not trying to kill you, I’m just trying to kill the baby.”

A friend of mine brought her 3-year old son over to my apartment. I asked him what his favorite holiday was. He replied, “I like Halloween because I like candy and death!”

I was minding my own business, working in the garage when the door creaked open and my 2-year old son popped his head in and asked, “Daddy, are you dead yet?” I replied, “No…?” and then he just slowly closed the door.

I was at a friends house when his 4-year old cousin was getting ready to go to bed. He walked around, giving everyone a goodnight hug. I said to him, “Sweet dreams!” He stopped at the top of the stairs, turned around and with a very serious face said, “I’ll control your dreams and make them nightmares…”

My son was 4 and his sister was almost 2. I had to go to a meeting and I couldn’t read them a bedtime story. I promised I would read them two the following night to make up for it. My son said, “It’s ok, Mom, Auntie Tracy will read to us”. I felt the hairs go up on the back of my neck. “Who?” I asked. “Auntie Tracy, Mom,” he said. “She looks just like you. After we go to bed she reads and sings to us”. I had never told them that I was an identical twin and my sister died at birth. Her name was Tracy.

My wife was making a sandwich for our 4-year old son. He was watching her really intently and she asked what he was doing. He replied, “I’m watching you make a sandwich… so I know how to do it when you die.”

While I was cooking dinner one evening, my 4-year old daughter came in and wanted to help. “You’re not going to touch the stove, are you?” I asked. “No,” she replied. “Do you know why you shouldn’t touch the stove?” I asked. She looked at me and, in a very serious tone, replied, “Because I might get burned and die and then you’d have to eat me.”

I was blowing my nose into a tissue and my 6-year old daughter asked if she could see it. I said no and she responded with, “I promise I won’t eat it”.

[sabraeal]

Seven Swipes for Shirayuki, Chapter 1

Prologue

Obiyuki AU Bingo Medical Drama AU

Here it is guys, the modern AU version of Seven Suitors for Shirayuki that you all asked for and I thought I would never really write. Obviously the chapters for this will not be 1:1 with parallel content-- I think we ALL would like to avoid another Chapter 6-- but here at least is the beginning of what I’m sure will be a stupidly long journey.

Plink. Plink. Plink plink plink--

“You know.” Shirayuki sets her hands flat against the keyboard, the surest way to keep them from becoming fists. “I really don’t think the janitorial staff will appreciate having to get those down.”

Obi turns wide eyes on her, striving for an air of innocence she doubts he’s possessed since long before his voice dropped. “What do you men, Miss?”

He twirls a pen between his long fingers-- cheap ones, little blue Bics that hardly scratch out a solid line since the hospital cut down on frivolous spending-- and flicks his wrist. It flies unerringly upward, lodging itself firmly in the particleboard of the ceiling.

At least it won’t be lonely with all its friends to keep it company. “They can’t just leave those up there, Obi. It’s probably a fire hazard.”

At least, she thinks so. Considering how EHS feels about anything being on the floor besides furniture and feet, she can only imagine they have strong opinions on ceilings too.

Obi scoffs, languidly kicking his legs over the arm of his chair. Anyone else would look ridiculous, but with his long limbs and cunningly tailored suit, Obi just looks dangerous, like a panther behind glass.

“Don’t worry, Miss.” Another projectile unerringly hits its mark. “They’ll come down on their own.”

Her mouth flirts heavily with a frown. “So I can look forward to a pile of pens on my floor next Monday?”

“Nah.” Teeth flash between his lips. “It’ll be all cleaned up before you get here.”

Shirayuki stifles a sigh, turning her attention back to her notes. Exasperation only encourages him. “I’ll be done soon. If you want you can wait in the hall--”

“Miss.” He presses a hand to his chest, affronted. “Would I ever leave your side? What if something happened to you while there was this one, flimsy door between us? What would Master--”

“Don’t let Zen catch you calling him that.”

“--even do to me if some terrible fate befell you while I turned away for just one moment?” He blinks, far too innocent to be earnest. “You wound me, Miss.”

She lets out a huff, flyaways fanning out around her face. “Considering how many bags of Funyuns you’ve fished out of the vending machine the past year, I think it’s safe to say that nothing will happen to me if you choose to harass Higata down at the nurse’s station instead of me.”

His smile sits stiffly on his lips, pen stilling between his fingers. “It did happen, once.”

Her heart gives a single, loud pound in her chest. “Obi--”

“Anyway.” His smile slides into a smirk, sitting more comfortably on his face. “We’re back on days after this, aren’t we?”

Her fingers roll back into their rhythm, keys tacking pleasantly beneath them. “For a little while at least. Why, do you have exciting plans?”

“Miss.” His expression wilts like a plant left in the maintenance closet. “That’s what I’m asking you.”

She blinks. The answer is simple: lounge around in her scrubs-turned-lounge wear and catch up on The Great British Baking Show while eating a staggering amount of Thai food. But he should know that; it’s what she does every weekend after she’s been on nights, and he’s usually right there beside her, making inappropriate comments about Paul Hollywood’s piercing eyes and speculating if he comes by the last name honestly or whether he had a stint in the adult film industry.

(”It’s the future, you know.” She waggles his smart phone; hers is still in her bedroom. As nice a gesture as it was from Zen, she’s never quite gotten used to keeping it on her. “We could just google it.”

“No.” He turns to her, affronted. “I appreciate the thought, Miss, but there are some things you don’t google.”

She arches a brow, tucking her feet under his butt on the cushion. He lets out a put-upon grunt, but allows it. “You just don’t want to find out it’s some old, perfectly respectable English last name.”

“It’s not that,” he snips as Netflix rolls through to the next episode, promising nun-shaped pastries. “Knowing things ruins the mystique.”)

“I mean,” he sighs, “are you going out with the boss?”

“Oh!” She stares, helpless. “I don’t...know? He hasn’t said anything to me.” She gives the keyboard a few cursory pecks before asking, “Has he said anything to you?”

His expression only falls flatter. “Has he said anything to me about your theoretical romantic plans?”

Her cheeks prickle, the sure sign that a blush is starting to dawn. “Well, you usually know before me!”

“I...wish I could say that isn’t true,” he sighs, rolling until he’s sitting properly in his seat-- or at least, as properly as Obi ever does, slouched so low that his chin is level with the ankle crossed over his knee. “But it is. And no, I haven’t...heard of any plans.”

“There you have it.” She waves a hand and turns back to her work. “No plans. Just us, some Thai, and a bunch of decorative but delicious meat pies.”

“And Paul Hollywood’s piercing eyes,” he says with more relish than anyone should. “But you’re all right with that?”

“What? Of course.” She shrugs, clicking down to the last field. “He’ll call if he has time. And if not, there’s always next week.”

Obi arches an undeservedly dubious brow, in her opinion. “Next week?”

“Sure.” She barely pauses as she says, “Zen’s a busy man. And I’m a busy lady! I don’t need to see him every weekend. Or every week!”

“Right,” he huffs, “but you, you know, presumably would want to see him more than you did when we lived three thousand miles away.”

“Obi.” Shirayuki shoots him a warning look. “We see each other plenty, and certainly more than every six months--”

“Ten months.”

“Fine, ten months.” She shrugs, gazing fixing back onto her screen. “Still. We saw each other just last week.”

He blinks. “Last week?”

“Yes, last Saturday.” She tilts her chin up, chuffed she’s remembered it. “We went to the Getty Center to see the Monet exhibit.”

“Miss.” His mouth twitches. “That was three weeks ago, and you were bored out of your mind.”

Her jaw drops. “I-- I was not!”

“You kept calling him Manet, blamed it on your Portland ‘accent’--” Obi does some vigorous finger quotes she does not appreciate-- “when the curator corrected you, excused yourself halfway through and then speculated whether drowning was a peaceful death while we stared out at the Pacific.”

Her lips pull thin, and she pointedly shifts her attention back to the screen. “I need to finish this.”

Obi raises his brows, rucking up the silvery slash above his eye. “You were bored.”

“I’m not the biggest fan of art, no.” Her fingers hesitate above the keys. “Three weeks?”

He nods. “Three weeks.”

She grimaces. “All right, let me just get the notes for this discharge written up for Garrack, and we can head out.”

“Oh, the discharge?” Obi’s looking far too pleased with himself. “You mean the ultrasound girl?”

“Yes?” His sudden interest is unnerving, to say the least. “Third trimester pregnancy, lots of blood and cramping, thought she was losing the baby, ended up just having a ruptured luteal cyst.” She stares at him, brows drawing down in confusion. “Did Ryuu tell you about it?”

“Mm-hm.” If it was possible to look like those little mischievous kitty emojis he sends her, he’d be doing it now. “And that you held her hand through the whole sonogram dealie.”

“Well, yes. No one was with her.” The girl had been so pale she nearly matched the sheets. “I wasn’t going to let her find out she had a stillbirth by herself. That’s just cruel.”

His eyes melt from gold to amber. “Of course you wouldn’t, Miss.” In a breath that softness is gone, replaced by his Cheshire Cat grin. “But are you sure that’s all?”

“W-what else would it be?”

“Ryuu said you were very interested in that baby on the screen.”

“I’m an obstetrician, Obi--”

“No need to deny it, Miss,” he assures her. “I understand completely. After all, some of that may be in the cards for you, soon.”

Shirayuki stares at him. “A luteal cyst?”

Obi heaves a sigh. “No, Miss! Maybe you have--” he waggles his narrow brows-- “baby fever.”

“What?”

“It’s only to be expected, after all,” he says with a shrug, as if this were a done deal. “You and Master have been together for six years.”

Shirayuki nearly balks, nearly suggests that he takes a walk down to the pediatrics ward and ask to check out their number line--

Until she does some mental math of her own. It has been six years. “But I-- but we-- we haven’t--”

Obi’s brows lift in a terrible cross between amusement and curiosity. “You have talked about this, haven’t you?”

They most definitely have not, which didn’t seem like an oversight until just this moment, and now--

“Shirayuki.”

She jumps, eyes darting to the door. “Dr Gazalt! I didn’t-- I didn’t expect you.”

Garrack blinks, brows raising. “Yes, me. The one who is waiting for your shift notes. Higata tells me there’s a discharge I have to sign for?”

“Oh, yes. I--” she glances at the empty notes field-- “I’ll get that done right away. I was just, ah, finishing up now.”

“Hm,” Garrack grunts, gaze shifting to where Obi is contorted in his chair. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping you.”

“Why, Chief,” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “You can’t possibly think I was being anything but the most helpful for Doctor--”

“Oh, I know what you were being.” There’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth, and a spark in her eye as she reveals, “A nuisance.”

“Chief.”

“I’ll be done in a minute!” Shirayuki interjects, too shrill. Both of them turn to her, brows raised mildly, and she adds, “Just, ah, give me some quiet.”

“You heard the lady, big boy.” Garrack grins. “Looks like you’ll be shadowing me.”

Obi’s expression rings with alarm. “Oh, I think I’m supposed to--”

“Oh no, you’re not escaping this time.” She reaches in, getting a good grip on his tie, and tugs. “I got some heavy things that need to be lifted.”

save me pls Miss

I’m almost done

Miss she wants me to help rearrange the stock room PLS hurry

Five minutes

im wasting away i can feel the life leaving my body

We’ll get breakfast This will go faster if you stop interrupting me

the angels are calling me home theres a light at the end of the tunnel Miss

Walk towards it This is probably your only chance at heaven

M I S S

It’s no use, Obi. I may be an optimist, but I’ve seen your search history

Touche

It’s not until she’s in the elevator that it hits her: she’s forgotten something.

Her brain is, as usual, coy with the rest of the information. Did she forget something important on her report? Did she leave her keys back on her desk? Does she have some appointment this evening that will keep her from getting confused every time someone says biscuit in the tent?

Nothing comes to mind, the answer hanging frustratingly out of reach. She’d have better luck trying to get Obi to talk about his past than she will trying to brute force this memory.

Shirayuki sighs. Time to check everything.

She’s wearing clothes-- check. They’re not her scrubs-- also check. Shoes match-- double check.

Her hand sweeps into her purse. Keys-- ouch, yep, check. Wallet-- check. Phone--

Buzzes hard against her palm.

Shirayuki blinks. It’s quick, only lasting a beat before it stops. Just a text, but-- it’s eight in the morning. Even with all her early-rising, day-shift doctor friends, this is well before their first morning coffee has kicked in. This is--

Weird. Worryingly weird. She drags the phone out of her bag, waking the screen to be greeted with 12 MISSED CALLS.

Shirayuki stares. That can’t be right. She’s kept her phone on her all shift, only tossing it into her bag when she’d stopped by her office to log her notes. There’s no way she’s had that many calls in an hour. And texts--

Well, that number is staggering. Her screen shows only the last one, a very cheerful, ill kill him and hide the body so well hell get famous as cold case from Yuzuri. She grimaces. Whatever Suzu’s done now, he’ll spend the whole day regretting it.

Well, that’s not exactly fair. It could be Kazaha, or even Shidan if he’d made her work down in the pharmacy hard enough. But...

It’s definitely Suzu.

She traces the appropriate squiggle onto her phone to open it and her homescreen unfurls before her. Her thumb hovers right above the little speech bubble--

A bright ding lets her know she’s arrived at ground level, and the entirely unamused bodyguard leaning against the doors lets her know that she’s late.

“Well,” she says, tipping the phone back into her bag. “You’re looking...hale?”

“I was promised breakfast,” he reminds her in a pleasant, if displeased rumble. “This is a thing that is happening.”

She makes sure to infuse some extra bounce into her step as she exits the elevator, earning a weary scowl. “Doctor Gazalt must have worked you hard.”

“Doctor Gazalt has some definite opinions about how her office should be arranged.” He raises a hand, rubbing pointedly at his neck. “What do they make the furniture out of here? Bricks?”

“Concrete, probably,” she agrees. “Pancho’s?”

He nods. “Spicy sauce. Extra spicy sauce. I’ll get the car.”

She grins. “Sounds like a deal. Meet me out font in ten?”

He lets out a huff. “I’ll meet you out front whenever I manage to lug my broken body across the parking garage and into the driver’s seat.”

“You poor baby,” she deadpans, patting his arm.

“I’ve suffered,” he tells her, affronted. “And don’t forget! Extra Spicy!”

The hospital is a cool cocoon, it’s temperature scrupulously maintained for the benefit of the labs and supplies inside, and so when Shirayuki emerges into the bright, May morning--

The heat hits her like a wall.

The air is oppressive; with each step it weighs her down, like a body laying across her back, and oh, she cannot wait until Obi gets here with the towncar, because there is no way she can last more than ten minutes without air conditioning.

Shirayuki has to laugh at that as she trudges down the granite stairs. She, who had spent her summers in a stuffy attic of an old Victorian house with only a single circular window to allow air in, happily devouring book after book as she laid on her bed with little more than underwear on, to whom air conditioning was a ridiculous luxury--

And now she can’t live without it. Probably couldn’t bear to sleep in a tiny twin bed either, with a mattress last changed out when she stopped wetting the bed. Not now that she’s experienced queen size and memory foam. Zen’s truly made sure she can never go home again.

Not that it was an option, anyway.

She oozes onto the pavement, taking a moment to really feel how sweaty twenty steps and thirty seconds can make her, and turns, goal blessedly in sight. Pancho’s lime green paint glistens in the morning sun, and the smell of meat cooking on the griddle inspires her to make the last three yard push. Well, that and she’s absolutely sure that Obi won’t let her in the car empty handed, not after he had to move Garrack’s desk.

“Good morning!” Shirayuki manages. “Two breakfast burritos. One...al pastor...extra spicy. The other...veggie? Mild.”

The vendor peers down from the counter-- it’s the dark-haired one, Shiira. Good. He won’t scream if she passes out in front of him. “Doing okay there, ma’am?”

“Never better,” she assures him, knuckles white where she grips the metal. It’s the only thing keeping her upright “I love heat. So much.”

His mouth curves into a faint smile, ringing up her order. “Boston thinned your blood, did it?”

“I’ll get used to it.” It’s been a year, sure, but it will happen at some point. It has to. “I did it before.”

He barks out a laugh, mouth opening to say more until his gaze catches over her shoulder. “Oh, can I take your order, sir?”

Shirayuki steps off to the side, her shoulder bumping hard into the magazine rack hanging off the window. It wibbles hard, metal banging against metal as it vibrates against the side of the truck. She catches it with a grimace, stilling it before it can make more of a racket, and glimpses the name WISTERIA on the front page. Her hand hovers, ready to grab it--

And catches the National Enquirer above it. Her hand jerks back like it’s been scalded. She doesn’t need to see any of that, thank you. Probably just more articles about Izana’s philandering ways.

She huffs out a laugh. Anyone who wrote about his wife crying in bed, unable to stand from grief has clearly never met her. Yuzuri’s probably read it already, with bullet points ready to bitch about, and--

Oh! Yuzuri. She digs into her bag, fishing out her phone. 12 MISSED CALLS sits bright on her welcome screen, nagging at her. As much as she wants to know just what ridiculous scheme has gotten Suzu in trouble now, she can always catch up later.

With a flick of her thumb she summons her call screen, and there it is, twelve calls missed, and all of them--

All of them are from Yuzuri.

Her heart pounds loud in her ears, the sound of the street around her muted. The screen won’t stay still, making words blur as if she’s trying to read in a dream, as if any moment they’ll drip off the page.

But it’s no dream. She’s had twelve calls from Yuzuri in the past hour, and her hands are trembling.

Something must have happened. Suzu’s hurt, or Kirito’s sick, or-- or--

What had her text said? She swipes a thumb, ready to find out, but--

Her phone buzzes, right in her hand. Shirayuki stares at it, dumb. She must have forgotten to turn on the ringer.

YUZURI it reads, and her heart skips a beat.

“Is everything okay?” she breathes the moment the call connects, one hand clenched in her collar.

“No, nothing is okay,” Yuzuri snaps, voice crackling in that way that means both danger and most probably homicide. “I will fly out there and help you hide the body. There are lye pits everywhere, Yuki.”

She blinks, head jerking back from the whiplash. “Excuse me?”

“Or I’ll do the job myself, if you want,” she continues, undaunted. “I’m sure a rich kid like him has a lot of enemies. We’ll never get caught.”

“Yuzuri.” She shakes her head. “Who on earth are you talking about?”

“Wha--? Zen!” she says, exasperated. “You mean he hasn’t even told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Oh my god,” Yuzuri breathes. “I can’t-- you haven’t even seen the news?”

“I was on nights.” She turns to the rack behind her, riffling through the magazines. “I didn’t really have time to-- oh. Oh my.”

WISTERIA WEDDING BELLS TO RING AGAIN! the tabloid boasts, showing Zen right on the front, his hair tousled as he steps down from the private jet. She’d laugh it off, just like she always does-- she’d lost count of the number of times they reported his engagement to Kiki before she got married, and Obi made a habit of buying anything that reported them having an affair so he could snapchat it to Kiki at his leisure-- but this-- this--

(”Is everything all right?” She picks her head up from his shoulder, but beneath her palm she can still feel his heart racing. The movie keeps playing on the screen, something fraught and in French, and when he stares down at her, she can see the white all around his eyes, shining in the dark.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” His arm wraps tighter around her, and he gives her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. She’s never realized how much he looks like Izana until now.

She raises a brow. “You seem tense.”

“Ah.” he shifts beneath her, gaze flicking back to the TV. “Yeah, I just-- have a project I have to finish up next week. Just...starting to really feel the deadline. You know how it is.”

A line carves a chasm between his eyebrows, worn by the inexorabe waters of worry. There’s never much she can do for him, the man who wears the weight of the world on his back, but-- but she can do this, sitting back on her knees, fiddling with the watch around her wrist.

“Here,” she says, pulling it tight around his.

He stares down at it, confused, and she smiles. There’s something perversely gratifying to giving a man who has everything something so second-hand it still has the heat from her body. “What--?”

“My lucky watch.”

He tilts his eyes up to watch her, so blue in the dim. “Is this the one I gave to you?”

“After I broke yours?” She nods, smile tilting ruefully. “And now I’m lending this to you. Bring it back safe.”

His fingers brush it, almost reverent. Zen may not let her bear any of his burden, but she can make it feel lighter, even if only for a while. “I...will.”)

Her watch gleams from beneath the cuff of his blazer, visible as he holds out an arm to help a pair of shapely legs behind him. The cover creases in her hands, cracking under her grip, and--

“Are you going to buy that too?” Shiira asks, somehow both pointed and concerned.

Shirayuki shakes herself. The tabloids are always quick to speculate, slapping fiancée over any woman he shared air with for more than a minute. This doesn’t have to mean anything.

And it wouldn’t, not if she hadn’t already thought--

“Shirayuki?” Yuzuri prompts, alarm ringing through every syllable. “Are you--?”

“I’m fine.” It’s not a lie if she doesn’t know whether or it’s true. “I just have to-- I’ll have to call you back.”

She hangs up with Yuzuri mid-breath, doubtlessly gearing up to give her an earful of opinions. It’s rude, yes, but she can hardly think past the next name on her list, scrolling until ZEN WISTERIA lights up on the screen.

It’s a mistake, it has to be. It’s just some picture, out of context, slapped right onto the page like it means something.

Two foil-wrapped packages slide toward her. “That will be seven forty--”

You’ve reached the voice mail of Zen. Wisteria. Please leave a message at--

“This too,” she says, slapping the rag on the counter.

Shiira stares at her, wide-eyed.

She coughs, arranging it with slightly more care. “And, um, a horchata. Please.”

You’ve reached the voice mail of Zen. Wisteria. Please leave a message at the tone.

Shirayuki shifts her load to the crook of her elbow, nibbling at a cuticle. “Hi. It’s, um, me again. I just got off shift, and I--” she takes a long, hard breath, and switches tack-- “just call me. Whenever you can. I’ll keep my ringer on.”

A black sedan slips up to the curb, the passenger side door stopping right at her toes. The window scrolls down with a soft hum, and Obi stretches across the seat, his mouth rucking up in a smirk. “Come on, Miss, we don’t have all--”

His whole body stiffens, the warm amber of his eyes fixed to her face. “Miss,” he breathes, lips hardly moving, knuckles white where he grips the console. “Miss, what’s wrong. Are you--?”

She shoves the magazine through the window, crumpling it into his hands. “Miss, what--?”

He stares. Obi might not recognize the watch-- might not even know she had given it away-- but oh, he can recognize the ring.

“That’s Mrs Wisteria’s--”

“Yes.” She can’t even bear to hear it spoke. “Yeah.”

His brow furrows. “There has to be some explanation. You know how these rags like to come up with--”

“He won’t pick up.” Her voice cracks, but she can’t-- she can’t do this here, right on the sidewalk. Not in front of her hospital. His hospital. “Or Mitsuhide. Or Kiki. I don’t...”

Know what to believe. her lips catch the words before they slip out. If she doesn’t say it, it can’t be true, it can’t be real, this can’t be happening.

“We’ll figure it out,” Obi tells her, but his voice wavers, and his hands clench tight on her seat. “Just get in and we’ll--”

Her phone cuts him off. She jumps to answer it, glancing down at the screen to see--

Oh. Oh no.

IZANA WISTERIA, it reads.

“Oh,” Obi breathes. “Shit.”

[acequeenking]

Hadestober #6

6) Livin' it Up on Top - Hermes takes his sister back up, but her behavior worries him. (T; mention of Seph’s canon alcoholism.)

Of all his sisters, Persephone has always been his favorite. Always thick of thieves, the two of them, which seems only appropriate, given that thieves fall under Hermes' jurisdiction. Always had been, even as kids; if he dared her to do something, she would do it. If he challenged her to a race, she would run it. Thumb her nose at dad? 'Course she would. The other kids in their generation made excuses -- Persephone just set to beating whatever challenge was put in front of her. Made them quick friends, once upon a time.

Hermes used to joke that she and him  were the only ones who got a drop of daddy's wanderer blood; truthfully, they were just the two who had the most to prove, being the only two living in the mortal realm. Either way, they looked out for one another: Persephone never saw a bit of Hermes' tricks, least so far as any parental unit who might punish him for such was concerned; Hermes certainly never saw her off to the underworld for a midnight rendezvous with the biggest conquest. They've both settled down now, but Persephone, well, let's just say he still escorts her to and fro. 

Her little dalliance Hades may have been what turned her mamma's hair grey, but if she had known even half of what Persephone and her half-brother had gotten into in their travels together -- well, let's just say Miss Demeter's hair would be white if she had any left at all.

Which is, in short, to say: Hermes knows Persephone well. Knows just about everything a brother can know. So it's obvious, to him, when she ain't feeling too good. Not, he thinks, when she's mainlining three rum and cokes before the train even finishes it's first chugga up to the surface.  Barely said a word to her dearest brother before she's deep into the bar: another sign she isn't feeling too good.

"Slow down, green thang," he says, watching her slam back drinks. "Got a whole summer to drink your fill."

"Doubt it. He was early last time," she says. "And the time before that."

Hermes frowns; that much is true enough. Been a few days earlier and earlier every year. But Persephone had greeted him with a smile each time, and he'd let them go down with the last few days of summers still hidden in her bag, because he'd thought his sister would be a bit happier with her man. Hermes hasn't been married, himself; that life was never for him, but his sister, well, wasn't a secret she loved her man, and that her man loved her.

"He'll be early again, too." She smiles sadly, adds a little ice to her drink. Probably because Hadestown has been hotter than hell lately, because he certainly can't imagine she wants to slow down her drinking. "Be early a bit more every time. Give'em a few more years and he'll be picking me up in June." 

"He ain't gonna press it that far," Hermes says; Hades is unlikely to do anything that might ruptures the world order quite so badly. Always a balance between them, even if he tips the scale a bit. Hermes, being the god of rogues, cannot quite blame the man for trying to tip the scales a bit. Lots of times you can tip the scales without it quite being considered cheating.

"He will." She doesn't say anything more, and when he tries to offer her a bit of comfort in his words, she holds her hand up.

"Don't want to argue," she says, and there's an edge to sister-girl's voice, one he hasn't heard before. "Just pour another."

And so he does.

---

By the time they get up top, Persephone's had more than a few. Which...isn't so unusual; his sister has always been prone to her drink. She was never one for moderation, not in her drink and certainly not in her love life. He's sure that it must be hard for her,  coming home, as she does, every year, to a world that relies on her more and more and more, as the human population grows and grows, and leaving a man who resents her absence more and more. An inevitable position, the one his sister has found herself in.

"HEY!" She shouts as they step off his train. She's stumbling a bit, and Hermes puts his arm protectively around her shoulders. "Let's find a party, Hermes, bound to be one somewhere!"  Her volume is far too loud - alcohol working its charms, for sure.

"Why don't we go see see your mama?" He suggests  instead. Demeter has never been one to turn down a visit, regardless of her daughter's sobriety, though it's been quite some time since she's been so soused. Probably have words to say, but odds are Demeter will say them to him, and not to Persephone, and he's willing to take that lecture. 

"Do I look like I wanna be with my momma?" Persephone spits back. "I have been in hell for six months, brother, six months!" She grabs his hand with both her hands, the look in her eyes pleading. "I have been six months at his beck and call, and I ain't going straight to six months of being at hers. C'mon." She bumps his hips with hers. "I know you know how to dance, Hermes."

And Hermes is, indeed, a fabulous dancer. Doesn't mind tooting his own horn when it comes to the smoothness of his footwork. It wouldn't be the first time they'd gone dancing together, and Hermes knows damn well he's one of the few people who could dance with Persephone without her husband showing up in a jealous huff. He and Hades have worked together long enough that the man surely knows that for all he and Persephone have gotten along, they've never quite been tempted to turn their dancing horizontal. Neither of them has ever quite leaned in such a way.

"Please," she says, soft, and that sets all his alarm bells ringing, for Persephone has never been one to beg for anything. "I just gotta let off some steam." 

"Alright, alright," he says, giving in.  She laughs too loud, claps her hands in a childlike burst of drunken joy. "Alright," he says, alarm bells ringing in his head in seventy different percussive beats, all at once. But that said: it is unusual, but not entirely unexpected that she might want to blow off steam. Maybe it's been a rougher six months than it had looked. He'd talk to her about it, once she got some of that energy out.

He tilted his ear, listened for the best environment - ah. Found it. "Come on, sister girl," he said, strolling down to a bar where the booze seemed to be sweet on tap, and the jazz was, as was always his sisters penchant, lighter than air and darker than sin in its sound. "Good cabaret down the corner."

"Yes!" She pumps her arm in victory, and it reminds him of her younger self so much that his heart aches. He realizes, in that smile, just how rarely he's seen it, dropping off letters for the underworld's mister and missus, for the last couple of years. He swallows. Maybe this conversation is a bit overdue. But she's seemed to manage every other year so much better. Always got at least a smile out of her on the train, and a couple mimosas weren't anywhere near this six-whiskey-shots-and-still-going binge.

But he doesn't say anything. Just leads her to the club, where she disappears onto the dance floor. He joins her there for a time, but his bones - ah, they're old things now. Doesn't take long for him to slow down. The same can't be said of green young thang, however; she's still got energy for days in those legs. Makes sense, given how little she's been up top. Maybe Mr. Hades hasn't taken her dancing enough down there. Certainly seemed like he's been more than a little busy with his factories. Hermes tries to think of the last time he came in to them spending time together, and finds he cannot remember when it was.

"Save me a seat at the bar, handsome," his sister purrs, reading the furrow on his brow all too clearly.

"Let's talk when you tire out, sister." He gives her a look, and for a brief moment her composure breaks: the chin wobbles, the eyes look soft and wet for -- just a moment. And if he were not so good a friend, he doubts he would have seen such. He taps his eyes, and points toward her, turning the moment into a joke. The mood breaks, and she laughs and hits his hand in a friendly fashion, and he smile as he goes back to the bar.

He chooses his seat according to what Persephone tends to favor, and waits and waits for the little shoot to make her way over.  Seem simple enough. He'll let her tire herself out, and speak about her troubles in a space too modern for her mother to frequent and too loud for her husband to snoop on them.  But it takes Persephone a long time.

For a moment, his heart beats in hope as she comes closer; she comes to the bar, orders a vodka and cranberry spritz. Drops it down her gullet in one smooth move and winks at him, hoping back into the crowd without a word. His eyes follow her.

He watches her move on the dance floor - never really interacting with another else, but dancing so hard that she's sweating, like she can exorcise demons even her husband can't get out by moving herself on the floor.

"Your friend?" The barman asks, watching Hermes watch Persephone. He sees the concern in his eyes; Hermes looks a lot older than green thang, even if she's not any less ancient.

"My baby sister," he says; when the barman looks skeptical, he turns up the charm. Always has been a charmer. "Same father. Different mothers, obviously."

Bar man whistles. "Your daddy sure was punching above his weight, to get a girl like that at such an age."

True enough, and Hermes honestly laughs. "You don't know the half of it, brother. Not the half. My daddy could charm the wimple off a nun."

The barman laughs with him, and Hermes shifts his attention to flirting with the bar man, still keeping one eye out for his sister. Persephone keeps dancing, only runs to the bar to get another drink, and then another.

He keeps waiting for the talk, but before he knows it, the bar is closing, and the bar man's number is in his pocket, and Persephone is still dancing, still drinking and dancing, and he is very, very worried about her.

"Closing time!" She shouts into his ear; he winces.

"Sure is, baby." He squeezes her hand.

"Let's find another cabaret!" That's the thing about the big cities; never do sleep. He could certainly find her one.

"What about our talk?" He asks. "Besides, got to get you to your second home." She scoffs, and he ignores the scoff. "Orpheus has to be wondering where I am. You don't want to make him worry." Persephone has always had a soft spot for his boy.

But today she wraps her arms around his neck and gives him her biggest, widest smile. "Just one more, please?"

He frowns. He doesn't like the idea of not talking about whatever bug has crawled under her skin, and he doubts more dancing is gonna shake it out for her. Still, they are gods, and they have six months to have conversations, and there are plenty of less-charged times to have them. If there is one thing Hermes has learned, it's that they have time.

So instead of insisting on talking to her about her old man, about her new pains, well, he smiles, and says, "I suppose one more won't hurt," and he holds her hand, and they go dancing.

[lezliefaithwade]

David & Goliath

My grandfather, on my Mother's side, immigrated to Canada from Italy in the 1950's. For years I thought I was Italian until one day my Mother explained that her real father (who was Danish) had died when she was seven and that Ralph was actually my grandmother's “companion”. At seven I had no idea what a "companion" was, nor did I care. All that mattered was whether I would inherit his talent for cooking and gardening.  As a child, Italy seemed like a mythical land filled with beautiful palaces and amazing desserts.

When I finally had the opportunity to visit the land of my grandfather's birth, I made it a point to seek out all the places I'd heard about as a child. So, it was, that while I was in Florence, standing in front of the statue of David I was suddenly reminded of an episode in grade 9 when for three solid weeks I was bullied by a fellow student three times my size who I believed would destroy me.

In the Old Testament, the story goes that David, who is just a boy, takes down the 6'9" Goliath with nothing but a sling shot after King Saul, supposedly over 6' himself, is too afraid to challenge the giant on his own.

As I stood there examining the statue, I couldn't help wondering why Michelangelo had sculpted the boy to be so huge when Goliath was the giant?  At 17 feet, David stands three times larger than an average man. Is his size a metaphor for his bravery?

Growing up, I never considered whether I was brave or not until the summer before my thirteenth birthday when my parent's separation marked me (at least in my mind) as an oddity. I was the first one I knew of to come from a broken home, and to me, this was a truly embarrassing fact. I was ashamed of what I perceived to be a major failure on the part of my parents, and worried that everyone would think less of me because of it.  I wanted my family to be idyllic and though they were far from that, at least while we were all under the same roof, I could pretend. To save myself the embarrassment and shame of having to explain to kids I knew why I was no longer living at my old house on Belmont, and instead in an ugly apartment building across town, I opted to attend an all girl’s Catholic high school where no one knew me. For almost three months, I lied about where I lived. I pretended the apartment building I walked to every evening after school was where I babysat someone's kid. I never let on that my parents weren't together or that I was struggling with the reality that they were headed for divorce.

Catholic girl's schools, I soon discovered, harboured two types of young women. Those who longed for small classroom education among a female community of likeminded individuals, and those whose parents were forcing them to attend a school they hoped would reform them. Possibly attending Catholic school was a last resort ordered by the court. In any case, I was soon the target of gang terrorism brought about by answering questions in class – namely in English where I seemed to excel in understanding Shakespeare. Somewhere between The Merchant of Venice and Romeo and Juliet I became the object of abuse. Short and obnoxious, I was an easy target for a small but imposing group of girls who were significantly bigger and louder. The leader of this particular gang of delinquents was an overbearing, unusually tall girl named Susan Podansky. Susan had thick brown curly hair and a large set of yellow teeth that filled her face when she smiled. Not that her smiles were warm and generous. When Susan smiled, there was foreboding in the air.  She reminded me of the witch in Hansel and Gretel licking her chops as she prepared to eat everything in her wake. Her neck was thick, her hands were large and her voice was low. “Guess who’s going to die tonight?” she’d whisper in my ear as I scurried from Math class to Science. The whole time I was dissecting my frog I imagined my innards splayed across the grass beyond the school.

It occurs to me now, many years later and infinitely wiser, that there was nowhere for Susan and her gang to actually pommel me. The school was small and well supervised and the yard was too. Unless their aim was to be caught, there was no way they could beat me up and get away with it. At the time, this logic escaped me. Instead I cowered in classrooms, stayed late for extra help in things I was already excelling at, and volunteered for everything from library duty to bible study. If something needed to be scrubbed, painted, sorted or filed, I signed myself up.

There were rumours going around about Susan and her gang. They set fire to garbage cans. They stole from variety stores. One of them had a friend who’d been decapitated on the roller coaster at Crystal Beach. Each story was more shocking than the one before. What started out as careful avoidance, turned into full blown terror.

Ironically, I’d known Susan in grades 3 and 4 when I had attended Holy Family elementary. I was not Catholic, but the school was close to our house and my mother deemed it more convenient than the public school that was a good deal further away. My parents were never concerned about what rubbed off on us. During the day I learned about the Virgin Mary and the Holy Ghost and after school my mother played Rock and Roll albums and allowed me to read, Mad Magazine, and Creepy comics. Susan had been in my class back then. She was already bigger than the rest of us, but harmless. Once she even invited me to her house. I remember her mother was pleasant enough as she cooked something in the kitchen that smelled foreign and delicious.  Most of the kids at Holy Family were Irish or Italian, but Susan was Polish. To me that made her exotic. But then again, I was the daughter of Wasps attending a Catholic school. Everything was exotic to me. In the two years we shared a classroom at elementary school, we’d never clashed. In fact, in a childish act of solidarity, we both called Mrs. Flint, a substitute teacher, Mrs. Flintstone and were called to the office. We were equally contrite and that was the end of that. What prompted this new vitriol, aside from a seemingly innocent love for Shakespeare, I’ll never know. Whatever it was, her threatening demeanour was scary and all consuming.

At home, my mother couldn’t help but notice that I was at school later than usual. I’d enter the hallway out of breath, eat dinner, then retreat to bed. After a week of this she coaxed the truth out of me with cupcakes and before I knew what I’d said, she was on the warpath. This was exactly what I didn’t want. I’d been warned by Susan that if I snitched on her, she’d make my life even more miserable. I begged my mother to leave it alone, but she was determined. My mother had lived with an abusive step-father for a time before Ralph, and bullying wasn’t something she tolerated.

The next day I was called down to Sister Rita Mary’s office where two seats were arranged in front of her desk. I could see from half a mile away that large head of messy hair belonging to Susan. I timidly entered and sat down next to her. Sister Rita Mary smiled, “It’s come to my attention that there has been some nuisance between the two of you.”

Nuisance? Between the two of us? I could see where this was heading.

“It’s my belief that you just don’t know each other well enough, so my solution to this misunderstanding is to arrange for you to sit next to each other in all of your classes from now on.” Then, with a smile on her face she dismissed us from her office and closed the door.

Susan grinned, “This oughta be fun,” she announced. “Guess who’s gonna have a funeral?” And then she galumphed off to class.

Sitting beside Susan was excruciating. In math she broke my pencils. In English she poured ink on my assignment. But it was art class where she really crossed the line. I’d been working on a painting for several weeks and had almost completed my masterpiece when she and her gang “accidentally” spilled paint all over the canvas. “Oh, sorry!” she feigned, and then left me to absorb what had just happened while the teacher insisted I stay and clean up the mess.

Two other girls in my class – Vicki and Sarah shook their heads in disgust. “This can’t continue.” they stated. “That girl has to be stopped.”

“I agree,” I muttered as I crawled about the class on my knees cleaning tempra paint off the floor, “But how?”

That afternoon at lunchtime the three of us hunkered down at a table in the cafeteria to eat. No sooner had we settled when Susan came bounding over, knocked my tray off the table proclaiming me a moron and warning, “Better watch yourself tonight.”

I could feel my face flush and the bile rise in my mouth. I’d learned one thing from comic books, and that was how things were never what they seemed. The meek were often strong. The strong were often scared and bullies could be undermined. Before I knew it, Sarah was standing.

“What did you say?” she asked her.

For a moment I saw Susan blanch. She was shocked. This was unexpected. All she could manage to say was, “What?”

“You heard her, " Vicki demanded, also now standing. They looked like two Davids' to Susan's Goliath.

"What's wrong with the baby?" Susan taunted, "Needs other people to stand up for her?"

"No," I said rising to my feet, "I can stand up for myself."

She hesitated. Everyone was looking at us. Even the lunchroom nun was staring in disbelief.

“You'd better watch yourself.” Susan growled just low enough for my table to hear.

“Or what?” I asked

Susan just stared at me.

“Or what?” I repeated, “You’ll kill me? Beat me up? Hit me? Bury me? Why wait until tonight? Come on. Get it over with. Do it. Come on. You want to hit me? Hit me.” I was on a roll. Words were ammunition from my slingshot and I was on the attack. Next thing I knew, Vicki and Sarah chimed in.

“Yeah,” they echoed, “You wanna fight? Let’s fight.”  

Susan blinked. The cafeteria was eerily quiet. All eyes were on us.

“You’re not worth it,” Susan grunted, as she backed out of the lunchroom alone. And that, was the end of that.

For a moment, I felt 6' tall knowing that I had faced my biggest fear and somehow come out the better for it.

Vicki turned to me, "One Goliath down." she smiled. "Listen, I'm having a sleep-over this Friday. Ask your parents if you can come?"

This was the moment. If I could stand up to Susan, I would finally have the courage to say, "Just have to ask my Mom. My folks are separated."

I waited for the judgement that never came. Instead she simply said, "Cool. I'm adopted. Come by at 7:00."

[sevenseasofrog]

Lads ‘n Lasses

pairing: highschool!ben x fem!reader

summary: single sex schools are never boring

word count: 2982

a/n: wagwan gs, this might not be to everyone’s taste but i’ll see how it goes, this is the first time i’ve imagined myself as the reader while writing ?? not as someone else reading it ?? it’s also set in a manchesterish sort of place bc i had a major mind block trying to write about anywhere else other than where i actually live ,, that probably sounds weird idk aha, it’s defo an au where ben basically is still in education and all sorts of chaos takes place as the year moves forward ,, anyway ,, enjoy !! if you have any questions or likewise feel free to send an ask bc i see how it could be semi confusing ,, love u all a lotta :) ❤️

here’s also some stuff that could make it less confusing (especially if you’re not familiar with lingo from north west england, i’ll maybe add to this with each new chapter that comes out :)

St. Mary’s/ Mary’s- the all girls school the reader attends, quite middle class and full of students who like to make drama for their own entertainment, strong focus on languages and arts

St. Peter’s/ St. Pete’s - the all boys ‘brother’ school to St. Mary’s, very laddish with a focus on sports and science

Niamh & Maria - the reader’s two closest and longest friends

Tram/Met - British version of an overground subway?

Shout - another word for a houseparty

Snide - unfair

Swear down - saying you are telling the truth

also, the reader and ben are between the ages of like 17 and 18ish, the whole thing isn’t very accurate to the uk school system but it works a little better like that so yall are gonna have to go with it aha

ps, this chapter is spilt in two bc i got very carried away when writing it and tumblr has a word limit, hmph. however, that does technically mean that i can say i’ve written two chapters not just one ?? go me !!

Chapter 1: September

4th of September, the night before a new term, new academic year and a nearly fresh start. Your last year at St Mary’s had not been something you were dreading so to speak, and now it was finally here. Thanks to upcoming exams, you only had a little over five months to get through before freedom, and eventually, a completely clean slate at a new, far less intimidating school environment. Anticipation building, you called it a night

6:15am. You woke up to the painful sound of your alarm clock, early morning sun peeking through the split between the curtains. Eager to silence the blaring noise you crawled out of the comfort of the duvet and hastily clicked the stop button in the centre of your phone screen. You made your way into the bathroom, careful not to wake your parents, brushed your teeth and quickly got undressed before stepping into the shower, letting the cool water run down your back without getting your hair wet, since you had it cut and washed yesterday afternoon. Slipping on your school uniform you caught eye of yourself in the mirror and decided that you had nothing to lose by putting on a little makeup, you had time after all. It was about 7am when you made your way downstairs, the house still quiet with only you awake. These mornings were the ones you liked best, just you and your own thoughts, with no one to bother you other than the dogs. It was still relatively warm during the September days so you chose to leave your jumper hung over a chair in the kitchen, putting just your blazer over your crisp, white blouse. Throwing an apple and cereal bar into your bag for later in the day, you figured that you might as well also pack some paracetamol and chewing gum for good measure, knowing it would come in handy eventually. You headed into the hallway to sit on the bottom step of the stairs to put your shoes on, tying the laces as tight as you possibly could, slung the black tote over your shoulder and grabbed your set of keys, which were usually on a hook which your dad had attached to the wall earlier in the year.

The walk to the tram stop was pleasant enough. There was no real breeze and you walked with your hands in you pockets to the beat of the music. Skipping down the steps to the platform to buy a ticket for the week, the change rattled in your pocket, and you had to cover it to stop anything flying out. Once you had finally managed to get the machine to produce a ticket after it spat out the coins you tried to use a few times, you spun round and walked towards the sheltered seats down the further end of the stop. It was only 7:45 by this stage and there were still very few people around. Missing the school rush was certainly worth it for you, and it also meant there was time to grab a coffee on the way to school with Niamh and Maria, who both got on at later stops anyway. You pulled your phone out of your pocket, deciding to text your parents, as you did every morning to let them know you were okay. You skipped a few songs before slipping your phone back into your pocket and looking up to examine your surroundings, following a good few weeks of not coming to the somewhat grimy metro stop, nothing had changed. The ground was still caked in chewing gum, graffiti littered the ticket machines, and the bin was, as ever, overflowing.

There was one thing different though, slightly odd too. A blonde haired boy who you had never seen before was stood on the opposite platform. Weird. It was then that you noticed he was in the uniform for St. Peter’s, with a backpack hung on one shoulder and a gym bag on the floor- grim move from the newbie. It suddenly hit you however. He was on the wrong platform, and could end up getting on a tram further into the city centre rather than away from it. God, this was awkward. You could leave him? it would be kind of funny? but also a bit snide.

No.

Don’t do that you told yourself. Deciding to ‘start the new term right’ you cleared your throat before shouting across

“You going to St. Pete’s mate?”

He looked up from the ground, obviously somewhat confused, checking to see whoever the person who had shouted was talking too. Luckily, this was quite easy, given that he then noticed that he was in fact the only person on the platform. You gave a wave and as friendly a smile as you could muster given it wasn’t even 8 o’clock yet, in a desperate attempt to get his attention, which just so happened to work.

“Um, yeah. Why?”

“Because given that you’re on the wrong platform, you’re gonna have a very hard time getting there”. His jaw dropped a little

“You are joking, right?”

“Nope!”, you popped the ‘p’, just for emphasis, “So... are you just gonna stand there like a lemon or change platforms then?”. He quickly picked his bag off the ground and jogged up the steps to the bridge. As he crossed you rolled the waistband of your skirt up, realising that you previously looked a little to nun-ish for your liking. By the time you had finished fixing up your appearance the mysterious blonde was plodding down the steps, towards you. Shit. Now what?

You had just about composed yourself by the time he reached you.

“Ben. Ben Jones” he spoke, before offering his hand to shake.

“You’re very proper aren’t you!?”, you thought out loud “guessing you're not from up here then hm? Name’s y/n l/n by the way, I go to St. Mary’s”, you said, trying to remain friendly.

“Yeah, moved up from Bournemouth at the start of summer. My parents wanted to come up here so I had a chance of getting some sort of sports scholarship or something for rugby, y’know, for uni and that”. He spoke with quite a low, quiet voice, but definitely had a southern accent that you couldn’t imagine going any time soon. Now he was stood nearer, you had managed to get a clearer picture of Ben; he was very well built and had the physique of a genuine sportsman, He wasn’t too tall- but still taller than you by a considerable amount. His facial features were mostly soft, although his nose looked like it could have been broken in past games and he had the most striking green eyes.

“Well, you’d have had a pretty difficult time getting anywhere if you were stuck in the centre of town.” you both let out a laugh.

“Honestly, I’m such a melt, only I could do that on one of the few days that being on time actually matters”. You broke eye contact momentarily to see that a tram was approaching.

“Right then” you said, stepping towards the edge of the platform. “We’re a bit early but I normally get a coffee anyway, you can come if you want? I mean, you don’t have to get this one if you don’t want but if you do then the offer’s there..” You trailed off, noticing that you had waffled on a bit.

“Aha, no it’s fine! I’d be happy to get this one, you’re literally the first person I’ve spoken to who’s like, my age so it’s not like I have anyone to wait for. Plus, I’ll probably get lost if you abandon me now.” He looked up with puppy dog eyes after picking his gym bag off the floor again.

Stepping on the tram, you decided to offer him your first piece of valuable advice; “Right… Well. If we’re gonna be mates I better give you the rules of the road up here”.

“Go on then, local expert”, he said with a smirk.

“First things first. Don’t put your bag on the floor. It’s crusty and makes you look like a gimp”.

“Noted”, he spoke as the pair of you sat on the grey seats.

“Second. Most of the boys are maniacs and the girls are awful bitches, I’d say that I’d help you figure out who’s who but you’ll probably be able to decide for yourself”.

“Hm, you’re really selling it to me. The brutal honesty is a nice touch”. You gave a playful punch to the side of his arm, with a grin smeared across your face.

“Swear down mate, you’ll thank me later for this though.”

The journey passed in a flash, the pair of you talking like friends reunited. You learnt that he had a beagle named Frankie, lived not too far from you, he played rugby for teams but also enjoyed drama and music.

“You’re quite the character aren’t you! can’t say I took you for a performing arts kinda guy”

“Well… What kind of person did you take me as then, all knowing-y/n”

“Well Ben from Bournemouth.. that would be telling wouldn’t it, I can tell you however that this is our stop though”. You both stood up, grabbing your bags and heading for the doors of the carriage. You had a text from Niamh and Maria earlier on in the journey saying they’d be late and there was no point waiting for them, so you carried on the walk alone with Ben.

“If I left you here right now, would you have any clue where to go?” you questioned, genuinely intrigued.

“Erm.. no… I would have to stand around for a bit and hope someone takes pity on me”

“What about google maps though??”

“Hmm.. Let’s just say that there’s a reason I don’t take geography”

The coffee shop was about the same distance from the tram stop as is was from school, and it was about 20 past 8 when you pushed open the door with a small chime. It was a cosy little café, situated on the corner of the market street with wicker chairs outside and brown leather sofas inside. You never stayed in however, much preferring to enjoy whatever you brought during the rest of the walk to school. Today was a latte day, no questions asked. You liked to rotate throughout a few different drinks, depending on your mood. Ben stood close by as you explained how you’d most definitely be on black coffee by this time next week, but you might have the odd pumpkin spiced latte as September moved into October, just for novelty really. He gave out a small chuckle,

“You really are in a league of your own aren’t you? I’ve known you like an hour and I’m convinced you hold the secrets of the universe or some shit”. You liked Ben. He was good company and you had a fair bit in common;

“and what if I did hold the secrets of the universe huh?”

“I’d use the black market to sell you to a looney philosopher somewhere or other and make myself some fat stacks.” You both doubled over in complete hysterics. Would it be weird to say that you’d never bonded so quickly with someone? yeah, probably you thought, brushing the idea away quickly. Your giggle fit was quickly broken up however when the barista announced that your drink was ready, you fished the loose change out of your pocket and handed it over moments later,

“keep the change mate” you said politely, turning on your heel towards the door once again.

“You really are quite the angel aren’t you?” the boy walking next to you said “ooooo, keep the change mate, I’m y/n and I am the source of all life and joy” he mocked.

“You know it blondie”, you retorted with a smirk.

You had walked a fair deal further, now following the main road and considerably nearer to school when Ben reached into his inside pocket .pulling out a cigarette and lighter. You silently watched out of the corner of your eye as he held the stick in his mouth and lit one end, he inhaled deeply before taking it from between his lips to exhale. Before his could bring his hand back up however, you plucked it from his fingers and drew a breath from it yourself before throwing it down and stamping on it. Ben simply stood with his mouth hung open looking dumbfounded. “Whoa steady on...What the fuck was that about then? Oh… and for the record, you owe me a cig now!”, he spoke with a tone of shock mixed with annoyance

“Boo-Hoo”, you spoke back, “But neither of us can have a first day back if we get excluded before we even get to school you dimwit. There’s teachers stood by the traffic lights down there”, you pointed further down the pavement. “See for yourself if you want…” you trailed off. Ben looked a little guilty, realising that he could have got you both in a good deal of trouble,

“Ah, Right, Okay… Sorry about that..”

“Don’t worry about it. Honestly. It’s fine, you’re new! You’ve got a lot to learn still”, you gave him a reassuring smile, but you could tell that he still felt a twinge of regret.

The pair of you carried on the walk in a comfortable silence, and as you approached St. Peter’s a thought struck you. “Right. After school, wait for me here, I don’t really want you being lost in a new town stuck on my conscience all night”

“How noble of you, Miss y/l/n! How will I ever repay you for this selfless act of charity!” He exaggerated, running his hands through his hair as he spoke.

“We’ll have to see about that one won’t we, I guess”, You hitched your bag back onto your shoulder properly. Before he turned into the courtyard of his new school he grabbed your arm,

“Wait a minute... you give off way too much chaotic energy for things to run smoothly. What’s your snap or your number or something incase something goes horribly wrong” He spoke again, with a slight twinkle in his eyes.

“Hm, go on then, I’ll give you my number then you can just add me on snapchat with it too if you really want. Two birds with one stone ‘n all that”, you reached into your bag and pulled out a pen. “Gimmie something to write on, chop chop matey!” you spoke hurridley, realising that you only had 10 minutes before you needed to be sat down in your first registration of the academic year. In a panic, he stuck out his hand, and you began to scribble down the first few digits.

“Fucking hell! I thought you were writing it down not tattooing it!”, he took in a sharp breath.

“Hm.. What.. Wait! Shit, sorry.. I’m a bit heavy handed”. You finished writing the numbers down with a conscious attempt not to press quite so hard and then threw the pen back into your bag.

“Aight then, I’ll see you later yeah?” He looked up at you,

“See ya later lemon boy”. You shot another smile before continuing on a few meters further down the path and approached the gates of St. Mary’s.

Hello old friend, you thought before taking a deep breath and turning into the school, with no way out for the next few hours at least. You stepped hurriedly through the labyrinth of corridors before reaching the room where you’d be registered. Throwing your bag onto your usual desk you could feel two sets of eyes on you.

“y/n l/n, You have some explaining to do! go on then, who’s the boy?” Niamh began, a devilish grin on her face.

“Gimme a second to sort my life out yeah? I just need to get my bearings then you can interrogate me”, you spoke, followed by a heavy sigh. After you put your bag in your new locker you returned to the desk where you were greeted by your long time friends once again. “Wait a minute, how do you even know? started hiring government spies or some shit?”

“Erm, no. But that’s quite a good idea actually. If you’re that desperate to know, Lewis sent me a message asking if you’d got a boyfriend over summer..” You let out a scoff before Maria could continue. “He still really likes you ya know?”

“Yes mum, I do know, you remind me most days” You all let out a laugh, attracting some attention from the neighboring tables.

“We’re off topic, you still need to explain yourself and we have like, 3 minutes until the bell goes” Niamh interrupted, she had always been the most conscious member of the group, as much as both you and Maria hated to admit.

“Right, I’ll keep it simple. I was at the met stop and he was stood on the wrong side so I told him to switch otherwise he’d never make it to school then he told me that his name’s Ben and he’s new and he’s in our year and then we got on the tram and then we went to get coffee then he decided he wanted a smoke and then I told him off and then we got to school and then I told him I’d meet him after school then I walked into school and now I’m here with you two” You barely paused for breath and gasped before either of your friends could continue, both of them looking shocked and rather confused.

“Right. You can explain that all again later in a bit only at least 76 times slower. ok? thanks? nice” is all Maria managed to respond before the door swung open and your teacher walked in...

Hope you enjoy !!❤️

Let me know if you want adding to the taglist !! :)

[ncityislove]

Sempiternal Pt.3

➳Pairing: Yoongi x reader

➳Genre: Fluff

➳Warnings: cursing, a smidge of angst if you can even call it that

➳Word count: 4k+

After you left, Yoongi plopped down on the end of the couch that Taehyung was balled up on. For the first time in a while, Yoongi felt happy. He had never met a girl like you. Yoongi felt like yesterday was just the beginning. He wanted more with you. He wanted to take you on dates and show you off to all his friends and more than anything he wanted to be your boyfriend. Yoongi smirked to himself at the thought of that.

"What are you so happy about?" asked Hosoek, slipping out of Namjoon's embrace. Yoongi blinked.

"W-what? Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about something," stuttered Yoongi.

"Something or someone?" Hosoek said, running a hand through his sleep crazed hair.

"Huh?" Yoongi said, not catching on.

"I'm not an idiot Yoongi. I remember that day Jin sent you to the grocery store. I stayed over the night before, remember?"

Yoongi shifted in his seat nervously. "What are you talking about?"

"Hyung, I saw you go to the store completely normal and come back looking like someone killed your cat," Hosoek said crossing his arms.

"I don't have a cat," Yoongi grumbled.

"That's not the point. The point is, I saw your face when I dragged you into that bar. You looked like a fat kid who just found a kit-kat."

"Your analogies are weird as fuck, bro."

"I don't hear you denying anything I'm saying, though, do I?" Hosoek said, giving him a knowing look.

Yoongi stayed silent.

"I knew it!" Hosoek exclaimed, doing a victory dance.

"Shut up," Yoongi said throwing his head back on the couch pillows.

"So, y/n is the reason why you've been such a pain in the ass these past two months?" Hosoek questioned.

"Can't you let this go?" Yoongi said growing annoyed by the second.

"You know that's the reason why I dragged you to that bar in the first place," Hosoek continued. "Ha! And you said it was a bad idea. You had been such a dick lately and refused to leave the house like some weird old hermit or something."

"Huh? Did someone say hermit?" said Namjoon shooting up.

Yoongi rolled his eyes to the sky. "You're the only person I know who would wake up just because they hear the word 'hermit'."

"For Christ's sake, please get some help," Hoseok said putting his head in his hands.

"You're the therapist here. Find a cure for Namjoon's crab obsession," Yoongi said standing on his feet.

"Shut the hell up," Namjoon said stretching. "If anyone needs help, it's you two."    

You stalked down the food court, pouting childishly, with your best friend, Leena, rushing behind you. You had been shopping all day and couldn't manage to find a single thing you liked.

"Y/n, slow down!" Leena panted after you.

"How hard is it to find something casually sexy but also comfortable and cute? I don't wanna look like a slut but I don't wanna look like a nun either, god!" You exasperated.

"Girl, let's just take a deep breath and eat something, okay?" said Leena, patting your back.

You nodded at your friend, sighing. You were too tired to argue anyways. You found a table that wasn't too sticky and sat down as Leena handed you your Panda Express.

"So, this Yoongi person is the legendary grocery store guy?" asked Leena.

"Yeah, and he looks even better than I remembered," you said stuffing your mouth with fried rice.

"Does he have any brothers?" Leena said smirking. The corners of your mouth turned down.

"I don't know about any brothers but his friends are equally as hot."

"Is that so? I just might have to meet these gentlemen then, won't I?" she said stealing some of your orange chicken.

"Hey! Who do you think I am? Eat your own food, you whore," you said waving a knuckle in the air.

Leena ignored you and took another bite of your food before wiping her hands on a napkin.

"You know, I may have something at home that you could wear."

You leaned over the table. "Do you, now?"

It was 6:24 and you had tried on almost everything in Leena's closet that could fit you. You had finally found an outfit that you deemed appropriate and Leena almost fell out of exhaustion when you did. Could she literally be any more dramatic? It was a grey jumper that outlined your curves but covered enough skin that it still left things to the imagination. 

Now all you had to do was wait on a call from a certain someone. This was where you struggled the most. An hour passed and then another and you were sure he wasn't going to call you at that point. You thought you had been very clear when you had told him to call you tonight but maybe he didn't like you as much as you thought. Maybe he was just being nice when he said he wanted your number. Maybe he felt bad for you.

Leena rolled her eyes when you expressed your doubts.

"Oh come on, if what you've told me about Yoongi is true then I have no doubt in my mind that he'll call," she said bringing you into a hug.

   As if on cue, your cell phone rang and your body shot up immediately, pushing Leena off of you, forcefully. You dashed for your phone and Leena, who was now lying on the floor, caught your foot before you could reach it.

"Wait! Don't answer it; let it ring a few times."

"Right, of course! Thanks, Leena," you said. You waited a few more nerve-wracking seconds until you slid your fingers across the screen.

"Hello?" you said.

"Hey, it's Yoongi," said a deep voice from the other line. You heart stuttered at the sound of his voice.

"Put it on speaker!" Leena whisper-shouted.

You put a finger to your lips as you put the phone on speaker mode.

"I didn't think you'd call," you said.

Yoongi chuckled. "What did I do to make you think that? I said I'd call and I did." A small smile formed on your face.

"I'm glad you did. I missed your voice," you said.

Yoongi paused, caught off guard by your honesty. "You know, I did too...Which is why I'm asking you out tonight so you can hear it some more."

Leena let out a high pitched squeal and you jumped off your bed to put your hand over her mouth.

"O-okay," You stammered. "What time?"

"Right now. I'm pulling into your neighborhood."

Your eyes widened. "Wait, what?? How do you know where I lived?"

"I got it from your manager at the bar. You shouldn't trust that guy by the way, he gives out your personal information pretty easily," Yoongi said, laughing.

Leena had to cover her own mouth this time because if she didn't, she probably would've scared Yoongi with her obnoxious hyena laugh.

"B-but why didn't you tell me ahead of time?!" You said, scrambling to find your shoes.

"I wanted to surprise you," Yoongi said. And you could tell by the tone of his voice he was smiling.

"I'm only half-way ready, Yoongi!" You said stuffing your wallet into your purse.

"I know," Yoongi chuckled.

You paused. "Min Yoongi, you evil, evil man."

"I can be at times. Now, open the door," said Yoongi. The call ended and not even a few seconds later you heard a loud knock at the door.

"I guess you get to meet him sooner than you expected, Leena. Go get the door," you demanded as you shoved her out of your bedroom.

"He better be as cute as you said he was because-

Ding dong

Leena paused. "Because-

Ding dong

"Damn, can I finish my sentence?" Leena huffed.

Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding dong!

"Who told you it was a good idea to get a doorbell installed?" Leena yelled as she stalked down the hall.

You chuckled as you grabbed your mascara. "You did, remember?"

Leena indeed had requested for you to install the doorbell. There were countless mornings when Leena came over but you wouldn't answer due to your coma induced-like sleeping state. At one point she even asked for a key but you kept forgetting so when you walked in on Leena on the phone with your landlord you didn't object.  

Leena didn't answer you as she walked briskly to the front door to confront the man causing the ruckus behind the door.  

Yoongi started banging on the door again and Leena flung the door open, causing him to lose his balance and stumble in. Leena looked him up and down with squinted eyes as Yoongi regained his composure.

"You're lucky you're cute," she grumbled as she ushered him inside.

"Uh," Yoongi started, looking at Leena then around the house. "This is y/n's house....right?"

"Yeah, she'll be out in a minute."

"Oh," Yoongi said nodding then taking a seat on the couch, putting his feet up.

Leena gave him a questioning look. "You sure are comfortable for someone who's here for the first time."

"Thanks," Yoongi said pursing his lips but bringing his feet back to the floor.

"You might have to wait a little while. You really bamboozled her by showing up like this," Leena said clicking her teeth.

Yoongi paused. "I find pleasure in the element of surprise. It shows you people's true colors."

Leena raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry was that weird?" Yoongi said chuckling.

She shook her head, "No. Not at all actually."

Yoongi smirked. "So which way is y/n's room?"

"Huh?" Leena asked, furrowing her brows at the sudden change in topic.

"Never mind, I'll find it on my own," Yoongi said, already halfway down the hall.

"W-what? Wait!" Leena called after him but Yoongi continued his journey down to your room, ignoring Leena's protests.

Leena shrugged and plopped herself down on the couch grumbling to herself as she heard you yelp in surprise.

"Jesus, Yoongi!" You screamed. "What the hell is wrong with you, huh?" You said angrily, slapping his arm.

Yoongi was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking. You huffed and sat down on the edge of your bed.

"You're a real asshole," you mumbled.

Yoongi stopped laughing. "What did you just call me?"

"Did I stutter?" You said crossing your arms.

"Uh, yeah? You were all like, 'Y-y-you're a-a real a-asshole, Y-Yoongi.'"

"You little— You started, throwing your body on top of his, knocking him over.

"I'm gonna kill you! First, you show up to my house out of the blue and now you're disrespecting me?" You said throwing soft punches.

"Ahhh! Oh n-no! Yoongi fake screamed.

  You laughed as you slapped his chest harder and Yoongi grabbed your hands and looked at you with a gummy smile that stopped your heart. You could swear you could see the universe in his eyes and his hair looked so soft that you had to fight the urge to run your fingers through it. Yoongi's smile faded as he examined your expression.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Yoongi said flailing your wrists about, reviving your laughter once more.

"What the hell is going on back here?" Leena asked standing by the door. "What's with all the screaming? And what in God's name are you doing on top of him like that?"

You blushed at the intimate position you were in. You were straddling Yoongi's lower abdomen, just mere centimeters away from a zone that you would very much like to be in but is very much, way too inappropriate to do so. At least right now it is.

Yoongi's smile widened. "I'm not complaining." And with that, you stood up as quick as possible.

"Aww," Yoongi whined, not moving from his spot on the floor.

"Are we going out tonight or what?" you said rolling your eyes playfully.

"Alright, Alright. Let's go," said Yoongi getting up. "It was nice to meet you...?"

"Leena," she said finishing for him.

"Leena. Got it. We'll be going now," he said saluting her as he walked out your bedroom door.

"Byeeee!" You yelled as you were being pulled away.

"Stay safe, you two!" she yelled back as the door slammed shut.

   Yoongi opened the door for you and you slid into the car seat, trying not to pee your pants. It's not that you were nervous or anything like that. It's just that your heart was beating a mile a minute and your stomach flipped every time you thought about the fact that you were on a date with a handsome painter. No, you definitely weren't nervous.

   The car ride was mostly silent other than the few times Yoongi fake stuttered a question every now then, earning a smack on his arm. You tried not to seem so flustered but even under your makeup, every time you caught Yoongi looking your way, they burned a bright red. The effect he had on you frightened you, quite honestly. You'd never been in a real relationship and anytime someone got close, you ran away, sometimes literally. You liked being alone. You lived alone, worked alone, and spent most of your time alone. It's not that you hated people (well maybe) it was just that socialization wasn't your thing. You had a tendency to say all the wrong things and it always hurt the people you loved. You didn't want to burden anyone by having them struggle to understand you, or even worse, accidentally hurting them and they leave you. With the exception of your childhood best friend, Leena, you'd decided long ago it was better to have no one at all then to be left behind by someone you loved. 

Taking a chance on Yoongi surprised both Leena and yourself. If this was any other guy, you wouldn't have even been sitting in the car with him but Yoongi was different. What made him so special, you didn't know, but the thought of ending what had barely even begun made your heart wrench so you decided not to dwell on it.

The restaurant wasn't even a restaurant. It was a cafe located dead smack in the middle of an empty plaza. Not that Yoongi had even told you where he was taking you, but you had high expectations and you worked quickly to hide your disappointment. The heart-stopping smile he sent you as you walked side by side towards the entrance helped a little. 

When you entered the cafe, your eyes went wide as saucers and an over dramatic gasp escaped your lips because this was not what you expected to see. You expected to be met with the heavy scent of coffee and plain walls with a few pictures of the owners on the walls. You had expected an old plain Jane ordinary cozy little cafe but you couldn't have been more wrong. The cafe was brightly colored and a lot bigger than it looked from the outside. Though the coffee scent was still there, it was mixed with the wonderful fragrance that could only belong to nature's cutest creatures. You kicked your feet with glee as the fluffy little angels ran to greet their mysterious new visitors.

A dog cafe. Yoongi has brought you to a dog cafe.

You kneeled down to pet the dogs encircling the two of you, smiling so hard your cheeks began to hurt, cooing at the adorable dogs.

"Oh good, I was scared you might've been allergic to dogs or something when you gasped like that," Yoongi said flicking his head a bit so he could peer down at you through his bangs.

You ignored Yoongi's comment as you inhaled the lavender scented dog shampoo that hung in the air. You had always like dogs although you were never fortunate enough to own one. You had always been stuck with a fish or a hamster whenever you'd asked for a puppy. You scrunched your nose at the memory. Dogs were a rare sight for you so whenever a dog was near, you jumped at the opportunity to pet them and silently wish to yourself to keep it forever.

"I...I think this is the best day of my life," you said, astonished.

Yoongi crouched down beside you and held his hand out for the dogs to lick at. "Obviously," he grumbled. 

You grimaced at him before elbowing him in his ribs. Yoongi rubbed at his sides, hissing, before leaving you and the dogs behind in favor of ordering. While you were distracted with a particularly cute white-haired dog that you didn't know the name of, Yoongi ordered for you and picked out a table for you both right next to the window. You reluctantly left the cute pets to join Yoongi and retrieved your coffee which tasted too good to be true if you were being honest with yourself. Yoongi even went as far as purchasing another of the drink due to your raving, which you tried to decline, but he'd only rolled his eyes and left to make another order, this time bringing pastries that were equally as yummy as they appeared. 

The two of you chatted away for what felt like an eternity but to your dismay, barely an hour had even passed. The date was going surprisingly very well. Yoongi has been s gentleman all night, pulling out the chair for you, opening doors and even paying for your meal. If you hadn't have known better, you'd think you were dreaming. The cafe had been pretty much empty (why that was, you had no idea) so it made the whole thing feel more intimate. That was, until a very casual man walked in, sounding the bells on the door, causing the dogs to come racing from all around to the door. You smiled at the dogs for the umpteenth time that night.

"Do you come here a lot?" You asked turning back around to face Yoongi.

Yoongi finished the last two bites of his muffin before speaking. "Not really. I've only been here once but I always wanted to come back." He said as he crumpled the wrapper in his hand and leaned over the table. "and this time I got to come back with a beautiful girl."

"That was so corny," you shook your head biting your lip to stop the smile threatening to form on your lips but Yoongi could see right through you.

"Maybe, but you liked it," Yoongi said flicking his finger under your chin, leaving your skin burning after its departure and a light feeling in your stomach. "I'll be right back, I've gotta go powder my nose real quick," He said, getting to his feet then briskly walking toward the restrooms.

"Powder your what?" You said to no one in particular. You giggled softly at his strange words. Yoongi always did the weirdest things to make you laugh.

"What a stunning smile," said a voice from behind.

You whipped you head, slightly startled, to be greeted by a pair of curious chocolate eyes and a friendly smile.

"Oh," was all you could manage to say. The stranger stood there staring at you for a second longer than normal then cleared his throat. You took in his black hoodie and ripped jeans as he stuffed his hands in his pockets awkwardly. 

"That was supposed to be an icebreaker but I guess it didn't work too well," the man said sheepishly.

"Oh," you repeated. You blinked a few times before you realized it might come off rude to say nothing more than 'oh'. "Ah, sorry. I'm just a weirdo. Thank you for the compliment.

"No problem," he said grinning, showing off his perfect teeth. "I'll let you get back to your drink." And with that, he was gone. Yoongi had returned back to his spot at the table before you had enough time to register what just happened so you just shrugged it off, ready to resume your date.

"That was quick," you said fixing your already perfect hair.

"I have a small nose," Yoongi said standing again. "Shall we move this party somewhere else?"

You cocked your head to the side. "Somewhere else? You mean there's more?"

Yoongi hummed his affirmation, smiling that adorning smile of his, turning you to mush. You opened your mouth, ready to ask another question, but was cut short when the cashier sits an oversized frappé with a heavenly amount of whipped cream drizzled with caramel in front of you. Your eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Oh!- I, um, didn't order this," You said staring up at her in confusion.

"Yes, I know. It's from the gentleman over there," she said pointing in the direction of the stranger from a few moments ago. He held up a hand with a smile as big as Texas and you froze, looking at your drink, then him, then back at your drink. Your mouth gasped open at the sudden realization that he was attempting to flirt with you earlier and that's when you began to panic. You gasped softly before waving back at the man and telling the cashier to send him your thanks. When you turned to Yoongi, his eyebrows were scrunched together and his sharp eyes squinted at the stranger who either was completely oblivious to his stare or just flat out didn't care.

"Yoongi? Hey! Earth to Yoongi??" You said waving your hand in his face. Yoongi's eyes slowly drifted from the man to you.

"Don't worry about him, it's just a drink," you said rubbing his arm, coaxing him to sit back down. You let out a sigh of relief when he did.

"Just a drink huh?" He questioned.

"Exactly, just a drink," you said flicking your hand as if it was nothing.

"I don't think he knows that," Yoongi said, his jaw set.

"What do you mean?" You said sitting up straighter.

"He's coming," said Yoongi, leaning back in his chair.

Your lips parted in surprise when you turned to see Yoongi's words were true. The stranger was a few steps away and you began to panic again. Your date was at stake here. Your foolish mistake of not realizing the man's intentions was obviously bothering Yoongi and you feared at that very moment that he might murder the poor man. The look in his eyes, although it wasn't aimed at you, sent an icy chill down your spine.

"I hope you like what I picked out. I didn't know what you liked," said the man.

"No, it tastes great! Thank you," you lied, not having tasted the drink yet. "But I think there's a misunderstanding. You see, I'm on a date," you said gesturing to a very intimidating Yoongi.

The man smiled at you. "Yes, it seems so. Sorry if this comes off rude but I don't care that you came here with another man. What's important is that you leave with me."

You shrunk back in your seat with wide eyes.

"What?" Yoongi hissed.

"It's nothing personal, man. We both like her for obvious reasons but it's clear that I could take better care of her than you ever could," he said eyeing his clothes with a slight frown.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Yoongi said, his voice growing louder.

"I was being pretty straightforward. If you can't figure it out than it only further proves my point."

"Listen," the man said turning to you. "I don't know how this guy managed to get you here with him but if you just allow me one date—

Yoongi abruptly stood up. "Listen buddy—

"HAHAHAHA! OKAY TIME TO GO NOW!" You exclaimed, laughing nervously.

"No, hold up, I need to set this guy straight," Yoongi said sizing up the man.

"No, no, no! You said there's more right? The date includes us going somewhere else and we were already leaving so c'mon!" You said yanking at his arm. After a couple of tugs with no reaction, he let you drag him out of the cafe into the dark sky.

Yoongi leaned his body against the passenger's door, his arms folded, as he exhaled a long sigh.

"Yoongs?" You said approaching his tense figure. "Your not mad right?" Yoongi shook his head silently, not moving from his position against the car. You stood next to him lacing your fingers in his as you watched his anger quite visibly dissipate into the cool air.

"I'm sorry. I had no right to get so angry," Yoongi said facing you.

"No, don't apologize. He was outright disrespectful to you. You have every right to be upset."

Yoongi sighed again as he stared at your intertwined hands. A smile bloomed on his face as he squeezed your hand. "You called me 'Yoongs'."

You giggled. "Did I? I heard the boys calling you that so I guess it just stuck."

"I like it. It sounds better when you say it."

You cheesed at the devilishly handsome man standing before you and everything felt perfect. Like you standing with him was something you've done countless times. Your attraction to him somehow grew stronger in the time he picked you to now and you wanted nothing more than to keep his hand in yours for as long as possible. The encounter at the cafe was quickly forgotten as you laughed together in the car, on your way to the next mysterious location.

[sincerelybluevase]

Masterpost of my fanfics

I’ll try to keep this post updated regularly. I can be found on FanFiction.net, as well as AO3

Rebecca (Daphne du Maurier)

Series:

-  Careful, Madam. A smutty angsty fic in which the narrator and Mrs Danvers get rather intimate just before Manderley’s fancy dress ball.

Call the Midwife

Series:

- Kiss, interrupted. What if Doctor T and Sister B had kissed, only for Sister Julienne to find them? Sister B has some serious thinking to do regarding her life as a nun. Somehow, a metaphor surrounding cake and biscuits snuck its way in here. My first fic EVAH.

TW for abuse.

the entire work can be found here

-Lips touch. Based on the amazing fic by @kienova66, in which she details twenty possible ways in which Sister B and Doctor T could have shared their first kiss. Now, I’ve tried to near her perfection in these ten fics. UPDATE: it’s going to be fifteen fics, now. The first ten are a mixed bag of the silly, the (sometimes a bit overly) dramatic, and the sweet, and all inlcude a proper kiss on the mouth/a snog. The last five, though, are more serious and written with the idea that these COULD have happened, though they probably didn’t. They also explore other kisses that don’t include two mouths. TW: assault (chapter 1), alcohol abuse (chapter 2), abuse (chapter 6)

Part one   - Part two  -  Part three  -  Part Four-   Part Five-  Part Six-  Part Seven-   Part Eight-  Part Nine-  Part Ten-  Bonus Part-  Part Eleven-   Part Twelve-  Part Thirteen-  Part Fourteen-  Part Fifteen

-Fragments. A series of asks in which the asker gave me a first sentence+a ship and I had to write the next five sentences. A variety of people and situations. Possibly one of the most entertaining things I’ve written!

There are eighty of them in total, all of which can be found here

TW: none, I think.

-Adventures in Faerie. When Angela starts her 'fairies live in our garden' phase, Patrick discovers more about Shelagh's childhood, and decides to do something special for her. TW: none, I think, though chapter 4 does head into the uncanny. What can I say? Angela is an imaginative child ;). Seven chapters, all of which can be found here

-Pros and Cons. For the 100wordsctm2017 challenge. What are the pros to being maried to Patrick? And what of the benefits of being maried to Shelagh? TW: none. Part 1-Part 2-Part 3- Part 4- Part 5- Part 6- Part 7

-Breathless. After Sister Bernadette has been diagnosed with TB, she decides it is time to put into words how she feels about the doctor, and goes to him to tell him in person. Season 2 Canon divergence, because what would have happened if Sister B and Doctor T had given in to their love for each other before the misty road? TW: Sister Bernadette is afraid of dying and thinks about this possibility. This work has ten chapters, which can be found here. 

-Twin rooms. Shelagh and Patrick decide to go on a little holiday. Imagine their surprise when it turns out that Trixie and Christopher are staying in the same hotel. In fact, they are staying in the room next to the Turners. Hotel walls are awfully thin... TW: discussion of alcoholism in chapter 3. Three chapters, all can be found here. 

-New Year’s Eve. Turnadette modern AU. When Shelagh's appartment gets shut down after a fire, she has nowhere else to go on New Year's Eve than her colleague and month-long crush, Doctor Turner. As she lives there, she slowly starts to become obsessed with Patrick's first wife, Marianne. I used vibes from Du Maurier's 'Rebecca' for this fic. TW: Discussions of death, guilt, graphic depiction of victims of a car crash Seven chapters, all can be found here.

-Consumed. Sister Bernadette discovers that her cough is not so much due to TB as due to something else: a latent power inside her that no longer wants to stay dormant. AU with magic, but don’t let that keep you away; the kiss these two share has been described as ‘possibly Turnadette’s best kiss’ ;). TW: none Five chapters and an epilogue, all of which can be found here.

-Lessons in Lovemaking. Shelagh is more than ready to start her new life as Mrs Turner, but there is one part that worries her a little, since she wants to please Patrick always: what happens between men and women in the bedroom. However, she reasons that lovemaking is a skill just like any other, and can be taught. After discussing her concerns with Patrick, he comes up with several lessons for her, which include a lot of real life practice. TW: none. But this fic is very much M-rated. Taking Lessons- Lesson Number One- Lesson Number Two- Lesson Number Three- Lesson Number Four (Part One- Part Two)- Interlude- Lesson Number Five- Lesson Number Six- Lesson Number Seven- Lesson Number Eight- Lesson Number Nine- Lesson Number Ten- 

Oneshots:

-Rainy Road. What if the misty road scene had become a rainy road scene instead? TW: none, I think. 

-This Unbearable Heat. Some sexual tension between a married Shelagh and Patrick, which involves a toy rabbit, a tin of formula, and a rainstorm. TW: none, I think. 

-Greetings, Doctor. A steamy phone conversation between Patrick and Shelagh, because Patrick didn’t get to show his appreciation for his wife’s uniform properly that morning TW: none, I think. 

-Scars and Kisses. Shelagh thinks back on the previous few weeks during the ride to the adoption agency to pick Angela up. TW: none, I think. 

-Four things to be proud of. Trixie Franklin has four things she is proud of. When she sees Shelagh in those drab, ill-fitting suits, she simply has to employ one of them to help her friend. She didn't expect a shopping trip to teach her a bit more about herself, though. TW: none, I think. 

-Home. Shelagh takes a bit of time to reflect on her new house in the middle of the night with Teddy in her arms. TW: none, I think. 

-Stripes. Trixie is insecure about her body post-baby, so Christopher decides to give her a bit of a pep-talk. TW: none, I think. 

-Unconventional Motherhood. Phyllis and Sister Julienne have a conversation about unconventional motherhood when Phyllis struggles to understand her emotions after Barbara's wedding. TW: none, I think. 

-Unconventional Daughterhood. A companion piece to Unconventional Motherhood, though both can be read separately. Barbara and Shelagh have a good conversation about what name to give to friendships that don’t always fit that label. TW: none, I think. 

-A First Time. Trixie’s and Christopher’s wedding night. Steamy, as you can imagine. TW: none, I think. 

-Tension. Every marriage has its little fights, but what happens when Angela Turner picks up on the tension between her parents and has a nightmare as a result? TW: none, I think. 

-Strife. Every marriage has a bit of strife sometimes. When Patrick ignores a pile of unfolded nappies, Shelagh can't control her anger. This fic explores how little tensions can come out in an argument that started over a little thing, but also how these two talk things through and make up. A companion piece to Tension. TW: none, I think. 

-A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes. When Sister Bernadette wakes up from a troubling dream, she turns to Sister Julienne for advice. TW: none, I think.

-Beasts in the Bedroom. Angela has the firm belief, like most children of her age, that her room harbours a vast array of monsters. What happens if she decides to vanquish them, only to hear strange sounds from her parents' bedroom? TW: none, I think. 

-Once Upon a Dream. A fic in which Patrick explains a young Angela how he and Shelagh met. Since it is almost a fairy tale in and of itself, Patrick takes some liberties, borrowing from Disney's Sleeping Beauty. TW: none, I think.

-Three. When Patrick gives Shelagh a rather obvious love-bite, he tries to find a way to justify him leaving his mark on her, and does so by explaining what this mark means, along with all her scars. TW: None.

-Prompt 29 Alternative Ending. So this fic is based on @cooldoyouhaveaflag /RipperShipper’s Prompts of Turnadette prompt 29. Go and check all of those prompts out if you haven’t already; they are super well written and just plain amazing! Anyway, in prompt 29, Shelagh has a bit of a nasty encounter, after which Patrick comforts her. I wondered what would have happened if it was one of the nuns who intervened, and thus this fic was born. TW: assault.

-Good Dolly. When a certain doll keeps returning to the Turner household, drastic measures will have to be taken to get the haunted toy to stay away.

-Doctor’s Delight Shelagh had never considered herself as the type of person to read romance novels. She’d assumed them rather lurid affairs, not fit for a woman of her own high moral standards.That was before she’d read Caribbean Kisses.

-Socks and Sheaths Shelagh needs to have a talk with Patrick about birth control now that she is not as infertile as they once thought.

More to come, I’m sure.

I also write original fiction. A masterpost of my own work can be found here.

[magicpens]

RILEY

By Johnny Bacala

His body is drenched in sweat, and his fists grab the linens of his bed. His head went sideways till he abruptly opened his eyes and awoke from his slumber. Another nightmare, he reasoned. He glances at his wall clock, and it's just 3 a.m. He only went to sleep a minute ago, which is ironic... He lets out a sigh... He stood up and went to the restroom. He looked at his reflection in the sink of his mirrors. He's thinking hard, since every time he wakes up from his nightmare, he doesn't recall anything, not even a fragment of it... He shook his head, opened the faucet, and let the water run before washing his face.

He didn't go back to sleep that night since he didn't feel drowsy. Instead, he just made his breakfast before heading to work.

Riley Moore is completely alone in his life; he has no family remaining because his parents were murdered in a car accident when he was still a child, which he has no recollection of.

He was raised in a foster home in the country, and no one wants to adopt him because of his strange demeanor. Riley is not like the other youngsters his age. He's quiet, cautious, and doesn't say much. Until he reaches the age of adolescence. He left the foster home, saying goodbye to the nuns who tended to him...difficult, but he doesn't care since he hasn't felt anything since he was a child. He lives in seclusion. Because of his obsession with literature, he didn't even finish his education. He learnt a great deal on his own...

Riley works in a downtown library. His shift runs from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. He only makes enough money to live on.

"Oh? Riley, honey, you're early. Don't tell me you got a nightmare again" --- Rose said. 

Rose is the one lady who embraces him and assists him whenever he is plagued by his Demons... Riley is a shambles. Except for Rose, he doesn't let anyone into his life. Riley is also a gay man. It didn't disturb him, though. Instead, despite his daily struggles, he continued to live...

He simply nodded to Rose and returned to his station, where he swept the floor and cleaned all the books. Riley is a hardworking individual, which is why Rose is pleased with his assistance; he does not complain or react to his surroundings.

Riley is sitting tiredly on a chair, reading his favorite book after cleaning. The Art of Not Giving a Fuck. He's been reading this book since he was in his mid teens.

The bell rings, indicating that someone has entered. He got up and waited... Until he came upon a gorgeous guy standing in front of a shelf. He can't take his gaze away from him.

"Hey? Mr.? I'm gonna pay for this book." 

When a gentle hand brushed his face, he snapped out of his daze. He flinches slightly before refocusing. The guy removes his hand; it's barely a second that the cute man touches his face, but he immediately longs for the softness and warmth of his hands, and the cute man simply stares at him as if he's the oddest person he's ever encountered.

"Are you okay man?" 

"U-uhm y-yeah" the guy stop when he hears his voice

"Relax, Mr. Riley, I won't hurt you."

"H-how did you know me?" Riley asked the guy.

"Hmm nothing. I just know you." He smiled charmingly. 

Riley's heart skipped when Rose showed up eventually.

"Who are you talking to?" ---Rose asked him.

"Uhm?" He roamed his eyes around the store and he didn't find the guy anymore.

"N-nothing." He blushed. 

"Hmmm but your cheeks say otherwise." Rose teasingly smiles at him. 

After his shift Riley went home. While walking he felt the brush of the wind through his skin. 

"You're walking alone? I see.." he didn't respond, he just looked at the Guy walking beside him.

"Oh... You didn't even flinch..." He chuckled.

"What do you want?" Riley asked rudely.

"Nothing. I just want to join you..you're walking right?"

Riley ignored him and he just talked and talked and talked...and after that night ended he felt something... He looked in a mirror for himself and smiled for the first time because of that Guy… One week had gone and he was still expecting; every time the bell chimed, he anticipated to see the Guy, but then he was disappointed when he didn't.

Riley is cleaning one wonderful day. When the bell rang, he was unconcerned.

"Uh.." 

he suddenly stopped from what he was doing when he heard the voice. But he shook his head and continued.

"Mr. Riley, e-excuse me." 

He closed his eyes and his jaw tightened.

"What" he coldly asked.

"I just want to know what's the problem?"

Riley just rolled his eyes and shrugged, he walked into the storage room and kept all the cleaning materials he used. 

"M-mr. Riley!" The Guy shouted to his ear and he jumped off scared.

"What the hell is your problem!" He retorted back but the Guy just smiled at him. Cutely. 

"Hahaha! You're mad, I see." He even nodded his head.

Riley just massaged the side of his head, this Guy giving me a headache.

"Oh! Before anything else. I am Archie."

"Sorry.. I'm not...."

The Guy just laughs so hard until he catches his breath and even holds his stomach. Riley just frowned. 

"Tsk" was the only last word he said.

"W-wait!" The Guy said.

"Wait Riley! You got it wrong!" He grabs Rileys' hand so he stops. 

"Hahaha! I mean, my name is Archie." 

Riley just scratches his nape and feels himself blushing and being shamed.

"It's okay R-Riley, there is nothing to be ashamed of."

The Guy---Archie softly said. 

Oh no, he hates me already... he thought

They started hanging out when they got to know each other. They visit various locations, eat, play, and simply hang out. Riley, on the other hand, is disturbed every time they go out since everyone looks at them strangely... They act as though they don't have the right to go outside.

One day, Rose confronted Riley about his behavior.

"Riley, son. Do you have anything to say?" Rose asked.

Riley stops organizing the books and faces Rose..

"What do you mean?"

"Uh.. is there something bothering you lately?"

"Uh! Rose, direct to the point please?"

"I mean, don't be shocked but who are you talking to?"

"Ah... He--he is A-archie...h-he i-is my f-friend." Riley stuttered, shy and confused.

"Oh.. i-is he n-nice?" Rose aske teary eyed.

"Wh-what's the matter Rose?"

"N-nothing..." Rose left him with a soft smile.

Riley shrugged it off. He just thought that Rose was happy for him...

Rose, on the other hand, pulls out her phone and calls... She dialed the number for the Treatment Center... She went out to seek for Riley after receiving the call.

Riley is alone, laughing and chatting into thin air, and she is taken aback. Her tears started to pour as she covered her mouth... Riley is almost like a son to him. 

She had no relatives or children, so when Riley came into her life and she learned about his background, she was both sad and pleased because she thought fate had a hand in it. Riley was handled as if she were her own and now, she doesn't know what she's gonna do. 

Riley talk with Archie while hes cleaning the shelf, 

"Arch, they're all acting weird, don't you think?"

"I don't know...maybe they're not happy seeing you with me." Archie replied with a pout. 

"Nah! Nonsense!" Riley says playfully. "I think Rose will love you. She's like a mother to me, swear."

Archie just smiles and plays with the books.

Their bond lasts for months as Rose worries about how she will inform Riley that there is no Archie exists. Riley is the only one who is aware of what is going on. There is no such thing as Archie. They hung out every time they went outside. It's all Riley, all by himself... which is why people look at him as if he's insane...Talking alone, Hanging out alone, eating alone, but all Riley knew was he's with Archie..

The idea of Riley being out of himself doesn't sit well with Rose, so she seeks help.

"Ms. Rose McWorthy?" The nurse called...

She followed the nurse and got inside a room. She sitted and nervously waited. The Doctor suddenly comes and sits. 

"Ms. McWorthy." The doctor smiled.

"Uhh..." She hesitates because maybe Riley will get mad at her but she has to do this. She breathes deeply, closes her eyes for a second before opening it again with determination..

"T-this is not about me..." Then she started to tell everything... After an hour... Their time is already done.

"I believe you have to set a schedule for your son Ms. McWorthy...this is painful to hear but some people who have Schizophrenia commits suicide..."

Rose didn't take it well, tears are running down to her face. She cried and cried. Pity for Riley...

The next few months, Riley always talks with Archie, hangs out with the guy who he doesn't know if it's real. Rose didn't take anymore...

"Riley, can we talk?" Rose asks.

Riley looks at Archie sitting beside him... 

"Uhh..I'm having a conversation with my friend here." 

Rose shakes her head and pleads. Until Riley stands and excuses himself to Archie..

"What do you want to talk about?" Riley asks politely.

"I have a friend who can help you.."

"Help me with what?"

"With your condition..Uh...R-Riley. Listen to me carefully."

Confusion was evident on his face. Riley is baffled..

"Your friend isn't real... It's all in your mind.." Rose sighs.

"W-what d-do y-you---Archie? Isn't it real? Stop joking! He's just sitting with me a while ago... And you see it don't you?" Riley raises his voice... 

"No--no. I am not kidding Riley! He is not real! He is just a pigment of your imagination because of what happened to you in the past or what so." 

"No! I don't believe you, he's just sitting right there! Right now!" Riley said while pointing at the door as if Archie was really there.

Riley rushes outside and goes to Archie. 

"See? He's just sitti---" he was cut off when he saw in the mirror that there is no reflection of Archie sitting on a chair. 

He again looks at Archie but the guy is just smiling at him. He just turned to the mirror and it still didn't change. There is no Archie sitting. When he turned his head back to the guy he was gone..

Riley just cried and cried...

"N-no! N-no.. this ain't real." He tiredly seated and brushed his hair with his hands. Frustrated crying. Rose was crying too and tried to touch him but he evaded it and stood and ran outside.

"RILEY!" Rose shouted... 

Riley was at a loss about what to do when he arrived home. He is skeptical of everything he witnesses. He can't tell the difference between what's real and what's not... He wailed quietly, screamed, shouted, and threw anything he could get his hands on.

Everything transpired in his memory like a flashback of his life... He sobbed uncontrollably till he felt a hand on his shoulder. He was taken aback when he noticed Archie smiling at him.

"Everything is going to be okay...Everything's gonna be alright, just stay strong..."

Riley just stared at him and hugged him...

"Th-they say-said y-you're-not re-real!" He cried on his shoulder.

Archie just smiled at him. He let go of Riley... They sit together... Archie hummed a song to him. It's a song his mother sings to him when he's asleep.

Ili-ili tulog anay,

Wala diri imong nanay.

Kadto tienda bakal papay.

Ili-ili tulog anay.

ili ili tulog anay

wala diri imo nanay

kadto tienda bakal papay

Ili-ili tulog anay.

mata kana tabangan mo.

ikarga ang nakompra ko.

kay bug-at man sing putos ko.

tabangan mo ako anay..

kay bug-at man sing putos ko..

tabangan mo ako anay...

ili ili tulog anay

wala diri imo nanay

kadto tienda bakal papay

Ili-ili tulog anay...

***********

The next day, Riley was nowhere...

[bountyofbeads]

The Project Behind a Front Page Full of Names https://nyti.ms/36o9z3w

THOSE WE’VE LOST

The U.S. is approaching a grim milestone of 100,000 deaths from the coronavirus.

Almost all of them occurred within a three-month span at an average of more than 1,100 deaths a day. The 1,000 names listed here reflect just one percent of the toll.

This poem "My Sister Is Not A Statistic" written by Dorothy Duffy in honor of her sister Rose Mitchell who lost her life to Covid-19 is dedicated to all the brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, grandmothers, grandfathers, grandparents, children grandchildren, adopted children, foster children and friends we've lost to Covid-19. As Dorothy said of her sister Rose, she was a living, breathing human being full of life from being to end. As with those we've lost, there were births, marriages, anniversaries, celebrations of graduations from high school and college, class reunions, family vacations, family reunions, co-worker friendships, retirement parties, world wars, ends of wars, homecoming and peace time events.

They were veterans, military members, doctors, nurses, educators, teachers, policemen firemen, bus drivers, EMTS, Postal workers, government employees, civil rights and peace activists, lawyers, accountants, mathematicians, scientists, researchers, politicians, secretaries, social workers, sanitation workers, meat processors laborers, farmers, gardeners, restaurant workers, writers, storytellers, poets, historians, clergy, priests, nuns, scholars, academics, volunteers, grocery store workers, cashiers, delivery workers, warehouse workers, taxi drivers, Uber drivers, tech workers, choir members, musicians, songwriters, singers, band members, actors, producers, directors, on and on and on and on and on and on and on......

MY SISTER IS NOT A STATISTIC.

Her underlying conditions were love, kindness, belief in the essential goodness of mankind, uproarious laughter.

Forgiveness, compassion, a storyteller, a survivor, a comforter, a force of nature and so much more.

My sister is not a statistic.

She died without the soft touch of a loved one’s hand, the feathered kiss upon her forehead, the muted murmur of familiar family voices gathered round her bed

My sister is not a statistic.

And so she joins the mounting thousands.

They are not statistics on the deathometer of Covid, they are the wives, mothers, children, fathers, sisters, brothers, the layers of all our loved ones.

If she could, believe me when I say, she would hold every last one of your loved ones, croon to and comfort them and say ‘you were loved’.

Whilst we left behind mourn deep, keening the loss, the injustice, the rage, one day we will smile and laugh again.

We will remember with the joy that once we shared a life, we shared love, we knew joy and survived sadness.

You are my sister and I love you.

100,000.

As the U.S. approaches this grim milestone, we're remembering those who have died from the coronavirus.

"We put 1,000 names in the paper, 1 percent of those who have died. Online, we're emphasizing their stories."

"These brief descriptions only tell us a tiny bit about each of these people, but it's not hard to get to feel like you know them. They're drawn from the memories of the people who did — from obituaries and death notices in papers across the country." One Washington man "liked his bacon and hash browns crispy." A woman in New York was a "collector of dictionaries and lover of words." A man in Illinois was described as "endlessly curious, never really finished." I hope you'll spend some time with each of them.

Imagine a city of 100,000 residents that was here for New Year’s Day but has now been wiped from the map. https://t.co/KN2kVQIiFF

"One hundred thousand," writes @DanBarryNYT.

"The immensity of such a sudden toll taxes our ability to comprehend, to understand that each number adding up to 100,000 represents someone among us just yesterday." https://t.co/rMPXCclIYv

Memories, gathered from obituaries across America, help us reckon with what was lost. https://t.co/rMPXCclIYv

The losses suffered by our American family have been staggering — every story heartbreaking in its own way. As we near 100,000 lives lost, we pray for those who have passed, their loved ones and all who are working to save lives & protect our communities. Nancy Pelosi @SpeakerPelosi

Why local journalism matters, now more than ever. @nytimes was able to put together this deeply moving portrait of the lives lost in the outbreak only because of the crucial reporting on deaths by these local news organizations.

https://t.co/nBbZEFgrcZ

TIMES INSIDER

The Project Behind a Front Page Full of Names

A presentation of obituaries and death notices from newspapers around the country tries to frame incalculable loss.

By John Grippe | Published May 23, 2020 Updated May 24, 2020, 6:04 a.m. ET | New York Times | Posted May 24, 2020 |

Leer en español

Instead of the articles, photographs or graphics that normally appear on the front page of The New York Times, on Sunday, there is just a list: a long, solemn list of people whose lives were lost to the coronavirus pandemic.

As the death toll from Covid-19 in the United States approaches 100,000, a number expected to be reached in the coming days, editors at The Times have been planning how to mark the grim milestone.

Remembering the Nearly 100,000 Lives Lost to Coronavirus in America

As the U.S. approaches a grim milestone in the outbreak, The New York Times gathered names of the dead and memories of their lives from obituaries across the country.

Simone Landon, assistant editor of the Graphics desk, wanted to represent the number in a way that conveyed both the vastness and the variety of lives lost.

Departments across The Times have been robustly covering the coronavirus pandemic for months. But Ms. Landon and her colleagues realized that “both among ourselves and perhaps in the general reading public, there’s a little bit of a fatigue with the data.”

“We knew we were approaching this milestone,” she added. “We knew that there should be some way to try to reckon with that number.”

Putting 100,000 dots or stick figures on a page “doesn’t really tell you very much about who these people were, the lives that they lived, what it means for us as a country,” Ms. Landon said. So, she came up with the idea of compiling obituaries and death notices of Covid-19 victims from newspapers large and small across the country, and culling vivid passages from them.

Alain Delaquérière, a researcher, combed through various sources online for obituaries and death notices with Covid-19 written as the cause of death. He compiled a list of nearly a thousand names from hundreds of newspapers. A team of editors from across the newsroom, in addition to three graduate student journalists, read them and gleaned phrases that depicted the uniqueness of each life lost:

“Alan Lund, 81, Washington, conductor with ‘the most amazing ear’ … ”

“Theresa Elloie, 63, New Orleans, renowned for her business making detailed pins and corsages … ”

“Florencio Almazo Morán, 65, New York City, one-man army … ”

“Coby Adolph, 44, Chicago, entrepreneur and adventurer … ”

Ms. Landon compared the result to a “rich tapestry” that she could not have woven by herself. Clinton Cargill, assistant editor on the National desk, was Ms. Landon’s “editing co-pilot,” she said. Other key players in the project were Matt Ruby, deputy editor of Digital News Design; Annie Daniel, a software engineer; and the graphics editors Jonathan Huang, Richard Harris and Lazaro Gamio. Andrew Sondern, an art director, is behind the print design.

Marc Lacey, National editor, had warned Tom Bodkin, chief creative officer of The Times, that the milestone was coming. “I wanted something that people would look back on in 100 years to understand the toll of what we’re living through,” Mr. Lacey said in an email.

For the front page of the paper, two ideas stood out: either a grid of hundreds of pictures of those who had lost their lives to Covid-19, or an “all type” concept, Mr. Bodkin said. Whichever approach was chosen, he said, “we wanted to take over the entire page.”

The all-type concept came to the fore. Such a treatment “would be hugely dramatic,” he said.

The design references that of centuries-old newspapers, which Mr. Bodkin is keenly interested in. For many years after The Times started publishing in 1851, there were no headlines, in the modern sense.

“It was kind of running text with little subheads,” Mr. Bodkin said, describing  newspapers in the mid-1800s.

Online, readers can scroll down for the names, descriptive phrases and an essay written by Dan Barry, a Times reporter and columnist. The number “one hundred thousand” tolls again and again.

Mr. Bodkin said he did not remember any front pages without images during his 40 years at The Times, “though there have been some pages with only graphics,” he said, adding, “This is certainly a first in modern times.”

Inside the paper, the list continues, threaded with an essay by Dan Barry, a Times reporter and columnist. But mostly there are names. More names, and more lives lost.

[6angel6babie6]

stealing this

i am stealing this from 

daddy

my best friend

tumblr user @bugmouths

1: 6 of the songs you listen to most?

Gemini Feed by Banks

Just the Same by Empress Of 

What Are We Gonna Do Now by Indigo de Sousa 

The Sun is Bad by Indigo De Sousa 

700 Club by Nicole Dollanganger 

A Sunday Kind of Love by Etta JAmes 

2: If you could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?

Harry Styles :/

3: Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 23, give me line 17.

“You’re entrusted with equipment that costs a fortune” - Dear John

4: What do you think about most?

My friends and my sister 

5: What does your latest text message from someone else say?

Its two pictures of a writer that @bugmouths sent me 

6: Do you sleep with or without clothes on?

Absolutely not 

7: What’s your strangest talent?

Imitating voices 

8: Girls… (finish the sentence); Boys… (finish the sentence)

Girls go to Jupiter to get more stupider boys go to college to get more knowledge 

9: Ever had a poem or song written about you?

No :( 

10: When is the last time you played the air guitar?

I don’t even know 

11: Do you have any strange phobias?

SPIDERS 

12: Ever stuck a foreign object up your nose?

Yeah a ds stylus, q-tips, coke

13: What’s your religion?

I don’t rlly know… catholic alligned?? 

14: If you are outside, what are you most likely doing?

Smoking 

15: Do you prefer to be behind the camera or in front of it?

behind

16: Simple but extremely complex. Favorite band?

La Dispute 

17: What was the last lie you told?

I told my friends that i had plans with that i couldn’t hang out lol n

18: Do you believe in karma?

Yes 

19: What does your URL mean?

That i used to be a popular slut who felt evil but now its not rlly true. 

20: What is your greatest weakness; your greatest strength?

Weakness: my mental health and clinginess. Strengths: I’m caring 

21: Who is your celebrity crush?

I have no many 

22: Have you ever gone skinny dipping?

absolutely not

23: How do you vent your anger?

I cry and isolate myself and drink 

24: Do you have a collection of anything?

I have really cool old envelopes 

25: Do you prefer talking on the phone or video chatting online?

Facetiming 

26: Are you happy with the person you’ve become?

no

27: What’s a sound you hate; sound you love?

Hate: chewing specifically sticky things. Love: trains

28: What’s your biggest “what if”?

What if i had an childhood 

29: Do you believe in ghosts? How about aliens?

Absolutely to both 

30: Stick your right arm out; what do you touch first? Do the same with your left arm.

Right: a pillow Left: my wall 

31: Smell the air. What do you smell?

It smells fresh cause my window is open 

32: What’s the worst place you have ever been to?

Arizona i fucking loathe it there 

33: Choose: East Coast or West Coast?

I’ve never seen east, so west.

34: Most attractive singer of your opposite gender?

Harry styles 

35: To you, what is the meaning of life?

No idea 

36: Define Art.

idk

37: Do you believe in luck?

yes

38: What’s the weather like right now?

Cold and windy

39: What time is it?

8:59

40: Do you drive? If so, have you ever crashed?

Yes, and no i haven’t 

41: What was the last book you read?

I don’t remember honestly… 

42: Do you like the smell of gasoline?

yes

43: Do you have any nicknames?

Dani is my nickname hehe 

44: What was the last film you saw?

It was…. Hm. I dont know. The Nun? 

45: What’s the worst injury you’ve ever had?

I broke my leg :( 

46: Have you ever caught a butterfly?

No 

47: Do you have any obsessions right now?

Probably a lot 

48: What’s your sexual orientation?

p….an?

49: Ever had a rumour spread about you?

Absolutely 

50: Do you believe in magic?

yes

51: Do you tend to hold grudges against people who have done you wrong?

Not frequently 

52: What is your astrological sign?

Scorpio :) 

53: Do you save money or spend it?

SPEND 

54: What’s the last thing you purchased?

Mac n cheese and pizza rolls 

55: Love or lust?

Um both. But lust cause its easier. 

56: In a relationship?

no

57: How many relationships have you had?

Like 4 real ones 

58: Can you touch your nose with your tongue?

Yes 

59: Where were you yesterday?

At my grandmas 

60: Is there anything pink within 10 feet of you?

My vibrator 

61: Are you wearing socks right now?

no

62: What’s your favourite animal?

snakes!!!!

63: What is your secret weapon to get someone to like you?

“Baby and angel energy” im also funny 

64: Where is your best friend?

On ft with me at their house 

65: Give me your top 5 favourite blogs on Tumblr.

@bugmouths muah

66: What is your heritage?

Half mexican half irish 

67: What were you doing last night at 12AM?

I was texting maria and dozing off, watching youtube 

68: What do you think is Satan’s last name?

Starts with a V 

69: Be honest. Ever gotten yourself off?

Literally too often 

70: Are you the kind of friend you would want to have as a friend?

I think so

71: You are walking down the street on your way to work. There is a dog drowning in the canal on the side of the street. Your boss has told you if you are late one more time you get fired. What do you do?

Save the dog probably 

72: You are at the doctor’s office and she has just informed you that you have approximately one month to live. a) Do you tell anyone/everyone you are going to die? b) What do you do with your remaining days? c) Would you be afraid?

a) I would tell my sister and my friends b) tell everyone how i feel ab them lol c) no

73: You can only have one of these things; trust or love.

trust

74: What’s a song that always makes you happy when you hear it?

Sleeping lessons by the shins 

75: What are the last four digits in your cell phone number?

lol

76: In your opinion, what makes a great relationship?

Idk i’m really bad at relationships

77: How can I win your heart?

Literally give me attention 

78: Can insanity bring on more creativity?

sometimes

79: What is the single best decision you have made in your life so far?

Um idk. 

80: What size shoes do you wear?

Big ones for tall ppl 

81: What would you want to be written on your tombstone?

My name? idk

82: What is your favourite word?

I really dont know

83: Give me the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word; heart.

Too big 

84: What is a saying you say a lot?

I love you 

85: What’s the last song you listened to?

Whatever is playing on the other end of this ft 

86: Basic question; what’s your favourite colour/colours?

Mmm lately like white and yellow and pink

87: What is your current desktop picture?

It’s the factory nature pics, i haven’t changed it 

88: If you could press a button and make anyone in the world instantaneously explode, who would it be?

Me lol

89: What would be a question you’d be afraid to tell the truth on?

I’m not even putting the question down bc i get nervous thinking abt it 

90: One night you wake up because you heard a noise. You turn on the light to find that you are surrounded by MUMMIES. The mummies aren’t really doing anything, they’re just standing around your bed. What do you do?

cry

91: You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What is that power?

teleportation

92: You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?

… picking out baby names on my old best friends bed with her and my ex… 

93: You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?

Um my trauma lol. 

94: You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. Who would it be?

I want namjoon to give me the most gentle dick down imaginable 

95: You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?

God im annoying. Minnesota 

96: Do you have any relatives in jail?

Yes i hope he rots 

97: Have you ever thrown up in the car?

nope

98: Ever been on a plane?

yes

99: If the whole world were listening to you right now, what would you say?

Are you mad at me 

[deliciouscollectorsandwich-stuff]

"You have but two final destinies: Heaven and hell. Know that satan will try to remove the reality of the existence of his kingdom, hell, from you. He will deceive you so that you will sin and remove yourselves from the Spirit of light. And when you remove yourselves from the Spirit of light, you remove yourselves from eternal life in the Kingdom of your Father, the most high God in Heaven.  - Our Lady of the Roses The following explanation, of life in hell was found among the papers left by a nun who died in a convent in Germany. In my youth, I had a friend, Anne, who lived near my house. That is to say, we were mutually attached as companions and co-workers in the same office. After Anne married, I never saw her again. We never had what can be called a real friendship, but rather an amiable relationship. For this reason, when she married well and moved to a better neighborhood far from my home, I didn’t really miss her that much. In mid-September of 1937 I was vacationing at Lake Garda when my mother wrote me this bit of gossip: “Imagine, Anne N. died. She lost her life in an automobile accident. She was buried yesterday in M. cemetery.” I was shocked by the news. I knew that Anne had never been very religious. Was she prepared when God called her suddenly from this life? The next morning I assisted at Mass in the chapel of the convent boarding house where I was rooming. I prayed fervently for the eternal rest of her soul and offered my Holy Communion for that intention. Throughout the day I was unsettled, and that night I slept fitfully. Once, I awoke suddenly, hearing something that sounded like my door being opened. Startled, I turned on the light, noting that the time on the clock on my nightstand showed ten minutes after midnight. The house was quiet and I saw nothing unusual. The only sound was from the waves of Lake Garda breaking monotonously on the garden wall. There was no wind. Nonetheless, I thought I heard something else after the rattling of the door, a swooshing sound like something being dropped. It reminded me of when my former office manager was in a bad mood and dropped some problem papers on my desk for me to resolve. Should I get up and look around? I wondered. But since all remained quiet, it didn’t seem worthwhile. It was probably just my imagination, somewhat overwrought by the news of the death of my friend. I rolled over, prayed several Our Fathers for the Poor Souls in Purgatory, and returned to sleep. I then dreamed that I arose at six to go to morning Mass in the house chapel. Upon opening the door of my room, I stepped on a parcel containing the pages of a letter. I picked it up and recognized Anne’s handwriting. I cried out in fright. My fingers trembled, and my mind was so shaken I couldn’t even think to say an Our Father. I felt like I was suffocating, and needed open air to breathe. I hastily finished arranging myself, put the letter in my purse, and rushed from the house. Once outside, I followed a winding path up through the hills, past the olive and laurel trees and the neighboring farms, and then on beyond the famous Gardesana highway. The day was breaking with the brilliant light of the morning sun. On other days, I would stop every hundred steps or so to marvel at the magnificent view of the lake and beautiful Garda Island. The sparkling blue tones of the water delighted me, and like a child gazing with awe at her grandfather, I would gaze with admiration upon the ashen-colored Mount Baldo that rose some 7,200 feet above the opposite shore of the lake. On this morning, however, I was oblivious to everything around me. After walking a quarter of an hour, I sank mechanically to the ground on the riverbank between two cypress trees where only the day before I had been happily reading a novel, Lady Teresa. For the first time I looked at the cypress trees conscious of them as symbols of death, something I had taken no notice of before, since these trees are quite common here in the south. I took the letter from my purse. There was no signature, but it was, beyond any doubt, the handwriting of Anne. There was no mistaking the large, flowing S or the French T she made that used to irritate Mr. G. at the office. It was not, however, written in her usual style of speaking, which was so amiable and charming, like her, with those blue eyes and elegant nose. Only when we discussed religious topics did she become sarcastic and take on the rude tone and agitated cadence of the letter I now began to read. Here, word for word, is the Letter from Beyond of Anne V. as I read it in the dream. Letter from Beyond Claire! Do not pray for me. I am damned. Do not think that I am telling you this and certain circumstances and details about my condemnation as a sign of friendship. Here we no longer love anyone. I do it on the command of “that power that never desires Evil and always does Good.” In truth, I would like to see you here where I will remain forever. (1) (1) St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica, Suppl., Q. 98, art. 4:  "Therefore, they [the damned] will wish all the good were damned." Do not be surprised that I should say this. We all think the same way here. Our will is hardened in evil - in what you call “evil.” Even when we do something “good,” as I do now in opening your eyes about Hell, it is not with any good intention.(2) (2) In response to the Question whether every act of the will in the damned is evil, St. Thomas distinguishes the deliberate will and the natural will: “Their natural will is theirs not of themselves but of the Author of nature, Who gave nature this inclination which we call the natural will. Wherefore since nature remains in them, it follows that the natural will in them can be good. “But their deliberate will is theirs of themselves, inasmuch as it is in their power to be inclined by their affections to this or that. This will is in them always evil: and this because they are completely turned away from the last end of a right will, nor can a will be good except it be directed to that same end. Hence even though they will some good, they do not will it well so that one is not able to call their will good on that account.” Ibid., Q. 98, a. 1. Do you remember when we worked together for four years in M. You were 23 and had already worked in the office for a half year when I arrived. You helped me out many times, and frequently gave me good advice while you were training me. But what is meant by that term “good”? At the time I praised your “charity.” How ridiculous! You helped me to please your own vanity, as I suspected at the time. Here we don’t acknowledge good in anyone! You knew me in my youth, but I will fill in certain details. According to my parents’ plans, I never should have existed. The disgrace of my conception was due to their carelessness. When I was born, my two sisters were already 14 and 15 years of age. How I wish that I had never been born! I wish I could annihilate myself at this moment and escape these torments! There could be no pleasure greater than to be able to end my existence, to do away with myself like a piece of cloth reduced to ashes, leaving no remnant behind.(3) But I must exist. I must be as I have made myself, bearing the total blame for how I have ended. (3) Ibid., Q 98, a. 3, r. ib. Ad. 3:  "Although ‘not to be’ is very evil in so far as it removes being, it is very good in so far as it removes unhappiness, which is the greatest if evils, and thus it is preferred ‘not to be.’" Before my parents married, they had moved away from their country villages to the city and drifted away from the Church, making friends with others who had fallen away from the practice of the faith. They met at a dance, and six months later they were “obliged” to get married. During the wedding ceremony a few drops of holy water fell on them, just enough to draw my mother to Sunday Mass a few times a year. She never taught me to pray correctly. She wore herself out over material concerns, even when our situation was not difficult. It is only with deep repugnance and unspeakable disgust that I write words such as pray, Mass, holy water, and church. I profoundly detest those who go to church, along with everyone and everything in general. For us, everything is a torture. Everything we came to understand at death, every recollection of life and of what we knew, is like a burning flame that torments us. (4) (4) Ibid., Q 98, a. 7, r.: "Accordingly, in the damned there will be actual consideration of the things they knew heretofore as matters of sorrow, but not as a cause of pleasure. For they will consider both the evil they have done, and for which they were damned, and the delightful goods they have lost, and on both counts they will suffer torments." All of these memories only show us the horrible sight of the graces we rejected. How this tortures us now! We do not eat, we do not sleep, we do not walk with human legs as you know. Enchained in spirit, we reprobates stare with terror at our misspent lives, howling and gnashing our teeth, tormented and filled with hatred. Do you hear me? Here we drink hatred as if it were water. We all hate one another. (5) And more than anything else, we hate God. I will try to make you understand how this is. The blessed in Heaven must necessarily love Him, for they constantly behold Him in His awe-inspiring beauty. That makes them indescribably happy. We know this, and that knowledge fills us with fury. (6) (5) Ibid., Q. 98, a. 4, r.:  "Even as in the blessed in heaven there will be most perfect charity, so in the damned there will be the most perfect hate.” (6) Ibid., Q. 98, a. 9, r.:  “The damned, before the judgment day, will see the blessed in glory, in such a way as to know, not what that glory is like, but only that they are in a state of glory that surpasses all thought. This will trouble them, both because they will, through envy, grieve for their happiness, and because they have forfeited that glory." On earth, men know God through Creation and Revelation and are able to love Him, but they are not forced to do so. The believer – I say this seething with fury – who contemplates and meditates upon Christ extended on the Cross will love Him. But when God approaches as Avenger and Judge, the soul who rejected Him will hate Him, as we hate Him. (7) That soul hates Him with all the strength of its perverse will. It hates Him eternally, by virtue of its deliberate resolution to reject God with which it ended its earthly life. This perverse act of the will can never be revoked, nor would we ever want to do so. (7) Ibid., Q. 98, a. 8, sf 1, iba 5, r:  "The damned do not hate God except because He punishes and forbids what is agreeable to their evil will [the evil that they still desire to do]: and consequently they will think of Him only as punishing and forbidding." I am forced to add that even now God is still merciful to us. I say “forced” because even though I willingly write this letter, I cannot lie as I would like to. Much of what I put on this paper I write against my will. I also have to choke down the torrent of insults I would like to spew out against you and everything. God is merciful even to us here in that He did not allow us to do all the evil we wanted to do while on earth. Had He permitted us to do so, we would have added greatly to our guilt and chastisement. He allowed some of us to die early – as is my case – or permitted attenuating circumstances in others. Even now He shows us mercy, for He does not oblige us to draw near to Him. He placed us in this distant place of Hell, thus diminishing our torment.(8) Every step closer to God would increase my suffering more than every step you might take toward a fire. (8) Ibid., Part I, Q. 21, a. 4, ad. 1:  "Even in the damnation of the reprobate mercy is seen, which, though it does not totally remit, it somewhat alleviates, in punishing short of what is deserved." In another note, the holy Doctor of the Church says that this is the case above all with those who in this world were merciful to others (Q. 99, a. 5, ad. 1). You were astonished one day when I told you in passing what my father said to me some days prior to my First Communion. “Be sure you get a beautiful dress, little Anne,” he said. “The rest is all a sham.” I was almost ashamed then for having shocked you so much, but now I laugh about it. The best part of this sham was that Communion was only allowed at 12 years of age. By then, I had already tasted enough of the pleasures of the world, so I didn’t take Communion seriously. The new custom of allowing children to receive Holy Communion at seven years of age infuriates us. We strive in every possible way to frustrate this, to make people believe that a child is too young to properly comprehend what Communion is or to think that children must commit serious sins before they can receive. The “white” host [that is, the Sacred Host] will then be less damaging than if He were received with faith, hope, and love, the fruits of Baptism – I spit upon all this! – which are still alive in a heart of a child. Do you recall that I already had this same point of view on earth? I return now to my father. He fought a lot with my mother. I didn’t often speak of this to you because I was ashamed of it. But what is shame? Something ridiculous! It makes no difference to us here. After a while, my parents no longer slept in the same room. I slept with my mother, and my father slept in the adjoining room, which he would enter at all hours of the night. He drank heavily and spent everything we had. My sisters were employed but needed their money to live, or so they said. So my Mother went to work. In the last year of her bitter life, my father often beat her when she refused to give him money. With me, however, he was always very kind. I told you all about this one day and you were scandalized at my capricious attitude - but what was there about me that didn’t scandalize you? – such as when I returned new pairs of shoes twice in one day because the style of the heel wasn’t modern enough for me. On the night my father died from a stroke, something happened that I never told you because I didn’t want to hear your interpretation. Today, however, you ought to know it. The fact is memorable, for it is the first time that my true cruel spirit revealed itself. I was asleep in my mother’s bedroom. She was sleeping deeply, as I could tell from her regular breathing. Suddenly, I heard someone say my name. An unfamiliar voice murmured, “What would happen if your father were to die?” I no longer loved my father after he had begun to mistreat my mother. Properly speaking, I no longer loved anyone. I only had some attachments to certain persons who were kind to me. Love without a natural motive rarely exists except in souls that live in the state of grace, which I did not. “I’m sure he’s not dying,” I replied to the mysterious interlocutor. After a brief interval, I heard the same question. Without troubling myself as to its source, I sullenly replied, “It doesn’t matter. He’s not dying.” For the third time the question came: “What would happen were your father to die?” In a flash certain scenes passed quickly through my mind: my father coming home drunk, his scolding and fighting with my mother, how he often embarrassed us in front of our neighbors and acquaintances. I cried out obstinately: “All right, then, it’s what he deserves. Let him die!” Afterward, everything became still. The following morning, when my mother went upstairs to straighten father’s room, she found the door locked. Around noon they forced it open. Father was lying half-dressed on his bed – dead, a corpse. He probably took a chill while hunting for beer in the cellar. He had already been sick for a long time. [Could it be that God had depended upon the will of a child, to whom this man had shown some goodness, to grant him more time and an opportunity to convert?] Marta K. and you made me enroll in a sodality for young women. I never told you how absurd I found the instructions of the two directors, although the games were amusing enough. As you know, I quickly came to play a preponderant role in them, which flattered me. I also found the excursions pleasant. I even allowed myself at times to be taken to Confession and receive Holy Communion. I really had nothing to confess, for I never paid heed to answering for my thoughts and sentiments. And I was still not ready for worse things. One day you admonished me: “Anne, you will be lost if you don’t pray more.” In truth I prayed very little, and always reluctantly and with annoyance. You were indisputably right. All those who burn in Hell either did not pray or did not pray enough. Prayer is the first step toward God. It is always decisive, especially prayer to that one who is the Mother of God, whose name it is not licit to pronounce. Devotion to her draws innumerable souls away from the devil, souls who by their sins would otherwise have fallen into his hands. I continue, but with fury, being obliged to do so. Praying is the easiest thing one can do on earth. God rightly linked salvation to this simplest of actions. To those who persevere in prayer, God grants, little by little, so much light and strength that even a drowning sinner can be raised up and saved, even if he is immersed in mud up to his chest. In fact, in the last years of my life I no longer prayed at all, and thus deprived myself of the graces without which no one can be saved. Here we no longer receive any grace. Even if we were to receive it, we would reject it with disdain. All the vacillations of earthly life come to an end in the beyond. In earthly life, man can pass from a state of sin to the state of grace. From grace he can fall into sin. I often fell from weakness, rarely from malice. But with death, this fluctuating “yes” and “no,” this rising and falling, comes to an end. With death, every individual enters into his final state, fixed and unalterable. As one advances in age, the rises and falls become fewer. It is true that until death one can either convert or turn ones back upon God. In death, however, man makes his decision with the last tremors of his will, mechanically, the same way he did throughout his life. A good or bad habit becomes second nature, and this is what moves a person one way or another in his final moments. So it was with me. For years I had lived apart from God. Consequently, when I received that final call of grace, I decided against Him. It was fatal not because I had sinned so much, but rather because I had refused so often to amend my life. You repeatedly admonished me to listen to sermons and read pious books, but I always made excuses for myself, citing a lack of time. What more could I have done to increase my inner uncertainty? By the time I reached this critical point, which was shortly before I left the sodality for young women, it would have been difficult for me to follow any other path. I felt insecure and unhappy. I had erected a huge wall that stood in the way of my conversion, although you apparently didn’t realize it. You must have thought I could convert quite easily when you said to me once: “Anne, make a good confession and everything will be all right.” I suspected that what you said was true, but the world, the flesh, and the devil already had me securely in their clutches. I never believed in the action of the devil, but now I attest that the devil exercises a powerful influence over persons such as I was then.(9) Only many prayers on the part of others and myself, together with sacrifices and sufferings, would have managed to wrench me away from him. And then only slowly. (9) Devils and demons are the names given to the evil spirits that exercise this influence. For proof of their existence two texts from Holy Scriptures suffice: “Be sober and watch, because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, goes about seeking whom he may devour" (I Peter 5:8). "Put you on the armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the deceits of the devil. For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood; but against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places" (Ephes. 6:11-12). There are very few persons who are physically possessed by the devil, but many who are possessed interiorly. The devil cannot take the free will from those who give themselves over to his influence. Yet as a chastisement for one’s almost total apostasy from God, He permits that person to be dominated by “evil.” I hate the devil, and yet I like him because he and his helpers, the angels that fell with him at the beginning of time, strive to make you lose your souls. There are myriads of demons. Uncountable numbers of them wander through the world like swarms of flies, their presence not even suspected. Condemned souls like us are not the ones who tempt you; this is left to the fallen spirits. (10) Our torments increase every time they bring another soul to Hell, but we still want to see everyone condemned. Hatred is capable of anything! (11) (10) Summa Theologica, Suppl., Q. 98, a. 6, ad. 2:  "Men who are damned are not occupied in drawing others to damnation, as the demons are." (11) Ibid., Q. 98, a. 4, ad. 3:  “Although an increase in the number of the damned results in an increase of each one's punishment, so much the more will their hatred and envy increase that they will prefer to be more tormented with many, rather than less tormented alone." Even though I tried to avoid Him, God sought me out. I prepared the way for grace by the works of natural charity I often did, following the natural inclination of my nature. At times, too, God attracted me to a church. When I took care of my sick mother even after a hard day of work at the office, which was no small sacrifice for me, I strongly felt these attractions to the grace of God. Once, in the hospital chapel where you used to take me during our free time at mid-day, I was so moved that I found myself just one step away from conversion. I wept. The pleasures of the world, however, shortly swept me up in a torrent and drowned out this grace. The thorns choked out the wheat. Making the rationalization that religion is sentimentalism, the argument I heard at the office, I cast away this grace also, like so many others. Once you reprimanded me because instead of genuflecting in church, I made only a slight inclination of my head. You thought it was laziness, not suspecting that I already no longer believed in the presence of Christ in the Blessed Sacrament. I believe it now, although only naturally, as one believes in a storm, by perceiving its signs and effects. In the meantime, I had found for myself a religion. The general opinion in the office, that after death a soul would return to this world as another being, with an endless succession of dying and returning again, pleased me. With this, I shut out the distressing problem of the hereafter to the point that I imagined it no longer troubled me. Why didn’t you remind me of the parable of the rich man and poor Lazarus, in which the narrator sent one to Hell and the other to Paradise after they died? But what good would this reminder have done? I would have just considered it just more of your pious advice. Little by little I arranged a god, one privileged enough to be called a god, and at the same time distant enough that I didn’t have to deal with him. I made him confusing enough to allow me to transform him, at will and without need to change religions, into a pantheistic god, or even to permit me to become a proud Deist. This “god” had neither a heaven to console me nor a hell to frighten me. I left him in peace. This is what my adoration of him consisted of. One easily believes in what one loves. With the passing of years, I became sufficiently convinced of my religion. I lived at ease with it, without its causing me any inconvenience. Only one thing would have been able to bring me to my senses: a profound and prolonged suffering. But this suffering never came. Do you now understand that saying, “Whom God loves, He chastises”? One summer day in July the sodality of young women organized an outing. Yes, I liked those outings, but not the pious beatas who went on them! I had recently placed an image very different from the one of Our Lady of Grace on the altar of my heart. It was that fine manly figure of Max N. from the nearby office. We had already conversed several times. On this occasion, he invited me out on the same Sunday that the sodality outing was planned. Another woman whom he had been dating was in the hospital. He had noticed, of course, that I had my eyes on him, but I had never thought of marrying him. He was wealthy, but too friendly with all the young ladies, in my opinion. Up until then I had wanted a man who would belong exclusively to me, and I would be his alone. Thus, I had always kept a certain distance between us. (This is true. There was something noble about Anne, notwithstanding her religious indifference. It astonishes me that “sincere” persons like her can also fall into Hell if they are insincere enough to flee from facing God.) Max began to shower me with attentions from the day of that outing. Our conversation, of course, was certainly different from that of your pious women. The next day in the office, you reprimanded me for not having gone with you. I then told you about my Sunday diversion. Your first question was: “Did you go to Mass?” How ridiculous! How could I have gone to Mass when we had agreed to leave at six in the morning? Do you remember that I heatedly added, “The good God is not so mean-spirited as your little priests!” Now I am forced to confess to you that, His infinite goodness notwithstanding, God takes everything much more seriously than any priest. After this first outing with Max, I only attended one more of your sodality meetings. I was attracted to some of the Christmas solemnities, but I had already dissociated myself from you interiorly. What interested me were movies, dances, and excursions. At times Max and I argued, but I knew how to keep him interested in me. After being released from the hospital, my rival was furious with me, and I found her quite disagreeable. Her anger worked in my favor, though, for my discreet calm impressed Max and ultimately led him to choose me over her. I knew just how to belittle her. I would speak calmly, seeming to be entirely objective, but spewing venom from within. Insinuations and actions like this can rapidly lead one to Hell. They are diabolical, in the true sense of the word. Why am I telling you this? To show you how I came to separate myself definitively from God. To remove myself so far, it was not even necessary to be entirely familiar with Max. I knew that if I lowered myself to that too soon, he would think less of me. So I restrained myself and refused. In truth, I was ready to do anything I thought useful to reach my aim. I would stop at nothing to win Max. Gradually we fell in love, for both of us possessed certain admirable qualities that we could mutually appreciate. I was talented and had become a good conversationalist, so I eventually had Max in my hands, secure that he belonged only to me, at least in those last months before our wedding. This is what constituted my apostasy from God: making a mere creature into my god. The way this can be more fully realized is between two persons of opposite sex, if they have only a material love. For this becomes the allure, the sting, and the venom. The “adoration” I rendered to Max became an ardent religion for me. At this stage of my life I would still at times hypocritically run off during the office lunch hour to go to church, to listen to the silly priests, to say the Rosary, and other such foolishness. You strove, with more or less intelligence, to encourage such practices, but apparently without suspecting that, in final analysis, I no longer believed in any of these things. I only sought to set my conscience at ease – I still needed that – in order to justify my apostasy. In the depth of my soul I lived in revolt against God. You did not perceive that. You always thought I was still Catholic. I wanted to be seen as such, and I even went so far as to make contributions to the church, thinking that a little “insurance” couldn’t hurt me. As sure as you were with your answers, they always bounced off me. I was sure that you could not be right. This strained our relationship, and when my marriage put some distance between us, the pain of our separation was slight. Before my wedding, I went to Confession and Holy Communion one more time, but it was a mere formality. My husband thought the same as I. We carried out that formality just like any other. You would call that “unworthy.” But after that “unworthy” Communion I had greater peace of mind. It was the last one of my life. Our married life was generally harmonious. We shared the same opinion on just about everything. That included our opinion regarding children: We didn’t want the burden. Deep down, my husband wanted one child, but naturally no more. I was able to remove even this notion from his head. I preferred fine clothing and furniture, tea with the ladies, automobile excursions, and other such amusements. And so a year of earthly pleasure passed from our wedding day until my sudden death. Every Sunday we went for a drive or visited my husband’s relatives - I was ashamed of my mother then. My husband’s relatives, like us, swam well on the surface of life. Inside, however, I never felt truly happy. Something always gnawed at my soul. I hoped that death, which was certainly far off in the future, would put an end to this. When I was a child, I once heard in a sermon that God rewards the good one does. If He does not reward one in the next life, He will do it on earth. Without my expecting it, I received an inheritance [from my Aunt L]. At the same time my husband received a considerable raise in his salary. With this, we were able to furnish our new house quite well. Any attachment to religion I might have had was almost gone, like the last glimmer of light on the far horizon. The bars and cafes of the city and the restaurants where we ate on our travels did not draw us any closer to God. Everyone who frequented them lived as we did, concerned about externals, and not matters of the soul. Once in our travels we visited a famous cathedral, but just to appreciate the artistic value of its masterpieces. I knew how to neutralize the religious air of the Middle Ages that it radiated, and I seized every opportunity for ridicule. I made fun of the lay brother who served as our guide; I criticized the pious monks for their business of making and selling liqueur; I disparaged the eternal pealing of the bells calling the people to the churches as solicitations only for money. Thus I rejected every grace that came knocking at my door. In particular, I let my sarcasm flow profusely at every depiction of Hell in the books, the cemeteries, and other places, where one could find devils roasting souls in red or yellow fires while their long-tailed associates kept arriving with more victims. Hell might be poorly drawn, Claire, but it can never be exaggerated. Above all, I always scoffed at the fire of Hell. Do you recall our conversation about the fire of Hell when I jokingly put a lit match under your nose and asked, “Does it smell like this?” You quickly blew out the match, but here no one extinguishes the fire. Let me tell you something else - the fire that the Bible speaks about is not just the torment of conscience. Fire means fire. That is just what He meant when he said, “Depart from Me, ye accursed, into the everlasting fire.” Quite literally. “How can the spirit be affected by material fire?” you ask. How, then, can your soul suffer on earth when you put your finger in the fire? Your soul itself does not burn, but what the man as a whole suffers! In like manner, here we are imprisoned in a fire in our being and our faculties. Our souls are deprived of their natural movements. We can neither think nor want what we used to desire.(12) Do not even try to comprehend a mystery that goes against the laws of material nature: the fire of Hell burns without consuming. Our greatest torment consists in knowing with certainty that we will never see God. How greatly we are tortured by that which we were indifferent to while on earth! When the knife lies on the table, it leaves you cold. You see its sharp edge, but you don’t feel it. But the moment it enters your flesh, you scream with pain. Before, we only saw the loss of God; now we feel it. (13) (12) Ibid., Suppl., Q. 70, a. 3, r.:  "Accordingly we must unite all the aforesaid modes together, in order to understand perfectly how the soul suffers from a corporeal fire: so as to say that the fire of its nature is able to have an incorporeal spirit united to it as a thing placed is united to a place; that as the instrument of Divine Justice it is enabled to detain it enchained as it were, and in this respect this fire is really hurtful to the spirit, and thus the soul seeing the fire as something hurtful to it is tormented by the fire." (13) St. Augustine said, “The separation from God is a torment as great as God." Cf. Houdry, Bibliotheca concionatorum (Venice, 1786), vol 2, “Infernus,” No. 4, p. 427. All the souls do not suffer equally. The more frivolous, malicious, and resolute one was in sin, the more the loss of God weighs upon the soul and the more tortured he feels for the abused creature. Catholics who are damned suffer more than those of other beliefs because, in general, they received more lights and graces without taking advantage of them. The ones who knew more suffer more than those who had less knowledge. Those who sinned out of malice suffer more than those who fell from weakness. No one, however, suffers more than he deserves. Would that this were not true, so that I might have more reason to hate! You once told me that no one goes to Hell without knowing it. This was revealed to some saint. I laughed at that, but the thought was entrenched in my mind. If this were the case, then there would be enough time for me to convert – that is how I thought in my heart. What you said was true. Before my sudden end, I had no idea of what Hell really is. No human being does. But I had no doubt about this: should I die, I would enter into eternity in a state of revolt against God, and I would suffer the consequences. As I already have told you, I did not change my course but continued along the same path, impelled by habit, just as people act with greater deliberation and regularity as they grow older. Now, I will tell you how my death occurred. One week ago – I speak to you in the terms by which you measure time, for judging by the pain I have endured, I could already have been burning in Hell for ten years. Therefore, on a Sunday one week ago, my husband and I went for a drive. It was the last one for me. The day was radiant and beautiful. I felt well and at ease, as I rarely did. An ominous presentiment, however, came over me as we drove. On the way home that evening my husband and I were unexpectedly blinded by the lights of a car rapidly approaching from the opposite direction. My husband lost control of our car. “Jesus!” I shouted, not as a prayer, but as a scream. I felt a crushing pain – a trifle in comparison with my present torment. Then I lost consciousness. How strange! On that very morning, the idea had come to me unexpectedly that I could, after all, go to Mass again. It entered my mind almost like a supplication. My “No!” – strong and determined – nipped the thought in the bud. I must finish with this once and for all, I thought, and I assumed all the consequences. And now I endure them. You know what happened after my death. The grief of my husband and my mother, my body laid out and the burial. You know all this down to the last detail, as do I through a natural intuition we have here. We have only a confused knowledge of what transpires in the world, but we know something of what concerned us. Thus I know also your whereabouts. (14) (14) S. Th. Suppl., Q. 98, a 7,:  “Accordingly, in the damned there will be actual consideration of the things they knew heretofore as matters of sorrow, but not as a cause of pleasure.” At the moment of my death I awoke from a darkness. I found myself suddenly enveloped by a blinding light. It was at the same place where my body lay. It seemed almost like a theater, when the lights suddenly go out, the curtain noisily opens, and a tragically illuminated scene appears: the scene of my life. I saw my soul as in a mirror. I saw the graces I had trampled underfoot from the time I was young until that final “No!” given to God. I felt like an assassin brought to trial before its inanimate victim. Repent? Never! (15) Did I feel shame for my actions? Not at all! (15) Ibid., Q. 98, a. 2, r.:  "Accordingly the wicked will not repent of their sins directly [that is, out of hatred of sin], because consent in the malice of sin will remain in them; but they will repent indirectly, inasmuch as they will suffer from the punishment inflicted on them for sin.” Notwithstanding, it was impossible for me to remain in the presence of the God I had denied and rejected. Only one thing remained for me: flight. Thus, just as Cain fled from the body of Abel, so my soul sought to flee far from this terrible sight. That was my private judgment. The invisible Judge spoke: “Depart from Me!” and my soul swiftly fell, like a sulfurous shadow, into the place of eternal torment! (16) (16) It is certain that Hell is a determined place. But where this place is situated, no one knows. That the punishment of Hell is eternal is a dogma, certainly the most terrible of all, rooted in Sacred Scripture: "Then he shall say to them also that shall be on his left hand: Depart from me, you cursed, into everlasting fire which was prepared for the devil and his angels…And these shall go into everlasting punishment; but the just, into life everlasting" (Matt. 25:41, 46). See also II Thess. 1:9, Jude 1:13; Apoc. 14:11, 20:10. All are irrefutable texts, in which the word “everlasting” cannot be misunderstood or interpreted as “a long time.” If it were inappropriate to illustrate this dogma, then Our Lord Himself would not have done so in the parable of the rich man and Lazarus. He described Hell in the same way that it was done here – he showed that it existed and what one must do not to fall into it. The purpose of the parable was not to excite the senses, but the same one that occasioned this publication. The aim of this booklet finds expression in these words, “Let us think of Hell while we are still living, so that we will not fall into it after we die.” This counsel is but the paraphrasing of Psalm 54: “ Descendat in infernum viventes, videlicet, ne descendant morientes,” which is found in a statement (erroneously) attributed to St. Bernard (Migne, Patr. Lat., vol. 184, Col. 314 b). Some closing words from Claire Thus ended the letter from Anne about Hell. The last letters were so twisted as to be almost illegible. When I finished reading the last word, the entire letter turned to ashes. What was I hearing? After those harsh notes of the lines I imagined I was reading, what came to my ears was the sweet reality of bells ringing. I awoke suddenly to find myself still in bed. The early morning light was entering the room. From the parish Church came the sound of the bells ringing the Angelus. Had it only been a dream? I never felt such consolation in praying the Angelic Salutation as I did after this dream. I said the three Hail Marys. And as I prayed them, this thought came to me very clearly: One must always stay close to Our Lord’s Blessed Mother and venerate her filially if one does not want to suffer the same fate related to me here - albeit in a dream - by a soul that will never see God. Still frightened and shaking from that night’s revelation, I got up, dressed myself hastily, and rushed to the convent chapel. My heart was beating violently and unevenly. The houseguests kneeling closest to me looked at me with concern. Perhaps they thought that I was breathless and flushed from running down the stairs. A kindly lady from Budapest, frail as a child and nearsighted, suffering greatly but lofty of spirit and fervent in the service of God, spoke to me that afternoon in the garden. “My dear child,” she said, “Our Lord does not want to be served in such haste.” But then she perceived that it was something else that had excited me and made me so overwrought. She added kindly: “Let nothing distress you. You know the advice of Saint Teresa - let nothing alarm you. All things pass. He who possesses God lacks nothing. God alone suffices.” While she humbly consoled me with these words, without any sermonizing tone, she seemed to be reading my soul. “God alone suffices.” Yes, God must suffice for me – in this life and in the next. I want to possess Him there one day for all eternity however numerous may be the sacrifices I have to make here in order to triumph. I do not want to fall into Hell. “There is blindness much worse than loss of physical sight, the blindness of heart.  So many are heading for the flames blindly.  Man seeks to destroy the evidence of Hell, but he will learn the truth soon enough.  Hell exists and Heaven exists.  The sins of the flesh send more souls to hell." - Jesus

[mrlnsfrt]

Christmas Family Drama

Family

Have you ever tried to define what family is? Its one of those words we use often but we each have a different way of interpreting it. I struggled with defining it on my own so I decided to look it up.

According to Merriam-Webster.com family is

(Entry 1 of 2)

1a : the basic unit in society traditionally consisting of two parents rearing their children also : any of various social units differing from but regarded as equivalent to the traditional family a single-parent family 

b : spouse and children want to spend more time with my family 

2 : a group of individuals living under one roof and usually under one head : household 

3a : a group of persons of common ancestry : clan 

b : a people or group of peoples regarded as deriving from a common stock : race 

4a : a group of people united by certain convictions or a common affiliation : fellowship 

b : the staff of a high official (such as the President) 

5 : a group of things related by common characteristics: such as 

a : a closely related series of elements or chemical compounds 

b : a group of soils with similar chemical and physical properties (such as texture, pH, and mineral content) that comprise a category ranking above the series and below the subgroup in soil classification 

c : a group of related languages descended from a single ancestral language 

6a : a group of related plants or animals forming a category ranking above a genus and below an order and usually comprising several to many genera 

b in livestock breeding 

(1) : the descendants or line of a particular individual especially of some outstanding female 

(2) : an identifiable strain within a breed 

7 : a set of curves or surfaces whose equations differ only in parameters 

8 : a unit of a crime syndicate (such as the Mafia) operating within a geographical area 

Good job Merriam-Webster! You were much more thorough than I would have been. But even though Merriam-Webster give us 8 different definitions, there are many more, just look it up online.

I know that these challenges with defining family can lead to some drama. For example, we will have a small wedding, we will only invite family members, or we will spend the holidays with family. Who gets included? Who will be excluded? How will that go over?

Maybe you have a perfectly balanced family and never have to struggle with this, or maybe you’re from a different country and you have a solution to these types of situations. I know plenty of people that dread the holidays because of their relationship with their “family.” Maybe you feel bad talking about it, perhaps you feel like everyone else has perfectly happy families, and you’re the only one walking on eggshells afraid of offending someone or setting someone off.

Maybe you wonder about peace on earth, and how the holidays are supposed to bring people together. But you’re not the first one to have family issues, and you’re not the last one. I always find comfort when I read a Bible story that helps guide me through challenging situations, and the first chapter of Matthew has some great ones!

Matthew chapter 1

Matthew begins with something many just skip right over, a genealogy. Matthew begins that way because it is important to establish Jesus as a direct descendant of Abraham and David in order for his Jewish audience to accept Jesus as the Jewish Messiah. Luke’s genealogy (Luke 3:23-38) traces Jesus’ ancestry all the way back to Adam making Jesus the universal Savior. Though in modern days where you came from seems to matter less, at least in some parts of the world, in the time of Jesus it made all the difference. Jesus’ lineage was part of His claim to legitimacy so it would make sense to highlight all the great men in his family line all the people that would be admired by others.

The Genealogy of Jesus Christ

1 The book of the genealogy of Jesus Christ, the Son of David, the Son of Abraham:

2 Abraham begot Isaac, Isaac begot Jacob, and Jacob begot Judah and his brothers. 3 Judah begot Perez and Zerah by Tamar, Perez begot Hezron, and Hezron begot Ram. Matthew 1:1-3 NKJV (bold mine)

If I was writing the genealogy of Jesus, in an effort to convince Jews that Jesus was the Messiah, I would have tried to make it as impressive as possible. Don’t politicians do that? Don’t they try to cover up any potentially embarrassing part of their past? Why would Matthew include a woman, which was unusual, but to make things more surprising, why would he choose to include Tamar?

Tamar

The story of Tamar can be found in Genesis 38:1-30. I want to one day do a whole post just on Genesis 38, it is a fascinating chapter, especially in its context (literary and historical). But for now, I will only hit some of the key points of the story of Tamar.

Judah moves away from the main compound of Jacob, marries a Canaanite woman, and becomes the friend of a Canaanite leader.

Tamar is the Canaanite wife of Judah’s oldest son Er. (Canaanite = outside God’s special blessings promised to Abraham and his descendants)

Er is so wicked in the sight of the LORD that the LORD kills him. (Genesis 38:7)

Onan is Er’s younger brother and he now has the responsibility of marrying his brother’s wife and raising an heir to his brother. Onan refused to raise an heir for his brother and the LORD killed him also. (Genesis 38:8-10)

Judah then sends Tamar back to her father’s house as a widow to wait until his youngest son is grown. (verse 11)

If the story was not odd enough, it gets worse.

Tamar covers herself and sat by the road. Judah sees her and thinks she’s a harlot and gets her pregnant. She holds on to the equivalent of his ID until he sends payment. (verses12-19)

Soon after, Judah sends a servant to pay the harlot and his servant is unable to find her. (verses 20-23)

Three months later Judah hears that Tamar is pregnant. Judah wants to literally burn her when she shows him his ID saying that the man who owned it is responsible for getting her pregnant. (verses 24-25)

From that pregnancy she gave birth to twins Perez and Zerah as mentioned in Matthew 1:3.

I imagine you have many questions about Genesis 38, it is a fascinating story, but that will have to wait until it gets its own post.

Why would Matthew bring up the story of Tamar? Imagine if that was your family, would you talk about the past?

Rahab

4 Ram begot Amminadab, Amminadab begot Nahshon, and Nahshon begot Salmon. 5 Salmon begot Boaz by Rahab, Boaz begot Obed by Ruth, Obed begot Jesse, 6 and Jesse begot David the king.

David the king begot Solomon by her who had been the wife of Uriah. 

Matthew 1:4-6 NKJV (bold mine)

Matthew continues his genealogy and things seem normal for a while until he mentions Rahab. To learn more about Rahab we need to read Joshua 2,6.

Now Joshua the son of Nun sent out two men from Acacia Grove to spy secretly, saying, “Go, view the land, especially Jericho.”

So they went, and came to the house of a harlot named Rahab, and lodged there. Joshua 2:1 NKJV (bold mine)

Yep. Rahab the harlot. Rahab lived int he city of Jericho, she was part of a community that God had ordered Israel to completely wipe out. So it ought to make you wonder how a prostitute, from a wicked city, who was not part of God’s chosen people (she was not born a Jew), finds herself in the genealogy of the Messiah!?

A brief overview of who Rahab was:

Rahab was a harlot who lived in a house in the wall Jericho. She knew that God had given the city to the Israelites and she lied to save the lives of the spies from Israel who were staying at her house. The day that Israel attacked Jericho Rahab and her family were the only ones who were spared. (For more information read Joshua 2, 6)

Ruth

5 Salmon begot Boaz by Rahab, Boaz begot Obed by Ruth, Obed begot Jesse,

Matthew 1:5 NKJV (bold mine)

I have several posts on the book of Ruth (Love is series, first one here), and I would encourage you to read/listen to those messages. In essence:

Ruth is a Moabitess who decides to follow her mother-in-law back to Israel and worship her God (the LORD).

Bathsheba?

and Jesse begot David the king.

David the king begot Solomon by her who had been the wife of Uriah. Matthew 1:6 NKJV (bold mine)

To learn more about Bathsheba we need to read 2 Samuel 11-12.

Bathsheba was the wife of Uriah the Hittite. We don’t know what nationality she was. But David had Uriah killed and married Bathsheba.

This was the lowest point, morally speaking, of David’s life. Why would Matthew bring up Uriah’s wife? Why not just mention that David was the father of Solomon?

A less than perfect family

Matthew does not mention any other women besides these four, and Mary the mother of Jesus, at the very end. (Matthew 1:16)It is unusual to mention women in genealogies, and why would Matthew choose mention especially the women who don’t seem to belong?

Why mention the family members that people would rather forget?

Why bring up stories that make everyone feel uncomfortable?

Why would Matthew bring up these characters that remind us of how messy life can get?

Could it be to keep us from thinking that our life is too messy for Jesus to accept us?

Perhaps to remind us that Jesus was born into a chaotic world surrounded by messy people with less than perfect lives?

Jesus came to bring healing, harmony, peace, salvation to a world that desperately needs Him. We still need Him today. Out life is not too messy. Look at His earthly lineage!

An Inclusive Family

Keep in mind that Tamar was a Canaanite. Rahab the harlot lived in Jericho, a city doomed to destruction, full of enemies of Israel. Ruth was a Moabitess, and a widow. Bathsheba was the wife of a Hittite, who became pregnant by King David while she was still married to Uriah.

These women were mostly outsiders, yet they were not only included in God’s special people, but they also had the privilege of playing a role in the lineage that eventually led to the coming of Jesus, the Savior of the world.

Mary

The last woman mentioned by Matthew in the genealogy of Jesus is Mary, the mother of Jesus. But even that had some drama involved. t was so bad that Matthew tells us that Joseph had plans to divorce her. (Matthew 1:19) In those days, though the marriage was not fully consummated during the betrothal period, the betrothal couple was legally binding and could only be dissolved by a certificate of divorce.

Joseph could have had Mary stoned (Deuteronomy 22:23-24), but he was kind and preferred to get a private divorce. When Mary agreed to be the mother of Jesus she literally put her life on the line. (Luke 1:26-38) A careful reading of Luke 2:5 reveals that when Mary and Joseph made their trip from Nazareth to Bethlehem they were still not married. There is a possibility that Joseph had intended to divorce Mary in Bethlehem so that she would not be ostracized by her community. At least in Bethlehem no one knew her, as opposed to the place where she grew up and was well known.

The timeline is tight in Luke 2. There is a possibility that when Jesus was born Mary was betrothed to Joseph but not yet married. Even nowadays, when someone has a child out of wedlock, people talk, imagine back then, in small communities where everyone likely knew everyone else.

Besides the humbling place where Jesus was born, He was also born in a less than ideal social setting. There was drama. That first Christmas was not without drama. Jesus’ family was dysfunctional, when you look at His genealogy you see people mentioned that don’t seem to belong. But Jesus intentionally came into a messy world to bring harmony, peace, and salvation to all of us and our messy lives.

[her-culture]

My Experience Taking a Course in Vipassana

KATHERINE MEADOWS

What is Vipassana?

Gautama Buddha taught a specific process of meditation that would lead to enlightenment if practiced diligently and seriously. It begins with Anapana meditation (observing the breath) and when the mind is sharpened from this observation, it graduates to observing the sensations in the body (the Vipassana technique). The idea is to be aware of everything in the body from pain to pleasure and regard each of these sensations with equanimity, and to not react with aversion or with craving but allow each sensation to exist until it changes. At the base of this approach to sensation is an understanding that the nature of everything, is changing. Anicca. During these 10 days, I vowed to disengage from harming all other beings (we ate vegetarian meals twice a day), to not speak or read or write, to meditate for ten hours every day, and to follow the general life of a monk in pursuit of enlightenment. What I encountered was a very valuable experience that has been strange to contextualize.

Living the Life of a Nun

We had the same schedule almost every day of the course: Rise at 4 a.m., from 4:30-6:30 a.m., we meditated in our rooms, then ate breakfast and had time to rest and digest. Then from 8 to 9 a.m., we all meditated together and from 9 to 11 a.m., meditated alone in our rooms. Next, we had lunch and a little more free time to walk around or stretch or shower. Strangely enough, we were not permitted to practice yoga. Then from 1 to 2:30 p.m., we meditated alone, then all meditated for another hour in the hall together. After meditating alone again until 5 p.m., we were allowed to have tea and fruit but no dinner. After this evening rest, we reconvened in the meditation hall (the Dhamma Hall) for an hour meditation from 6 to 7 p.m. Then each evening, the teacher, S. N. Goenka,  gave a discourse explaining the technique and discussing the philosophies behind the technique and how it came to be. During the most trying days (the first four), he offered help from generations of former students along with support for us on our journey through stories, analogies, and sometimes humour. After the roughly hour-long lecture, we meditated until 9 p.m. and then went to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat the next day!

Thought Observation

The first three days of the journey were devoted to Anapana (breath observation) meditation. We spent these days focusing our minds on our breath—is it passing through the left nostril? right nostril? both? is it heavy? evenly spaced? shallow? This evolved into observing the “touch of the breath” and the sensations that breathing left on the nostrils and upper lip area, serving to sharpen our minds and build up our body consciousness and sensitivity.

Cycles became prominent in this aspect of the experience. Much of what we practiced was focusing on breathing. You can practice this for 10 days or 10 years; thoughts will still summon themselves from the ether of your mind and start telling their own narrative. This was very frustrating to confront…until I accepted it. Accepting the unconscious structures in the mind was par for this course. Goenka described the process as a very deep surgery of the mind, diving below the conscious mind (awareness of thought) and subconscious mind (strings of thought that characterize our mental “duration”) mind, into the unconscious realm (the formula-like structures that gear our minds into patterns of craving and aversion, or direct our thoughts towards past and future). These unconscious processes will be with us for the entirety of our lifetimes. Instead, it’s about learning not to react to them—not to act on our cravings and aversion—but to allow ourselves to sit with both pleasant and unpleasant sensations in the body, listen to and acknowledge them them [as impermanent], and let them be.

I know what you’re thinking: “this sounds like one of those things that’s really easy to say in a faux-Guru-dreadlocked-hippie-lounging-on-a-

stoop-smoking-a-joint kinda way.” Well, you’d be right! In practice, this process consisted of realizing I was drilling into something with my mind and turning back to my breath only to realize I was thinking again less than a minute later…but for two hours straight. In combination with the un-ignorable pain in my body, I was a very distracted pupil for the first couple of days. Because we were meditating so much each day, I cycled in and out of “productive” sessions to ones spent more in the thought realm than the breath observation realm.

Meditating for 10 Hours a Day for 10 Days

As relaxing as this sounds, it was excruciatingly painful to endure for the first five-seven days. In the last five days of the experience, the pain slowly went away as my body either acclimated or learned to look at and detach from the experiences of pain. My posture improved significantly, as much of the experience consisted of sitting up straight, focusing on breath, slowly moving back into a slouch, realizing I was slouching, and starting over from the top. As you can imagine, this required all the patience that many do not have.

An important lesson was learned here: it is useless to spend your time trying to force yourself to be something that you simply aren’t. When it comes down to it, you have to accept where you are and start again from the beginning. And start again, and again, and again. Perseverance was difficult to grapple with the many times I failed to stay focused. Many times, I gave up halfway through a meditation and decided to just think or just breathe without observation.

Isolation

One of the vows we all took going into this experience was to deny ourselves speech, eye contact, and physical contact. It was meant to be a solitary experience, without help from others. We were instructed to pretend that we were alone on this journey. However, the four hours we had between registration on Day 0 and the official start of the course (during which we were allowed to speak and associate with each other) made it difficult to not feel a strong presence and kinship with the 40-some others I was embarking on this journey with. It can be noted the moment we were told we should start to observe, the no speaking/touching or making eye contact tenants, the considerable amount of social anxiety I’d been working through vanished. I found a new power in the reservation of speech and [nine days later] realized that speech can make you unconscious of your actions. This realization struck as I was talking to one of the girls I’d shared a room with—on Day 10, we were allowed to talk to each other part way through the day. I suddenly became aware of the massive amount of ego I was lobbying in the conversation that I was dominating. I became suddenly quiet and made efforts to coax her into sharing and adding to the conversation, but I would find myself once again rattling on and on as she stared, smiling and blinking. I was horrified to find such a monster inside of my ability to share my thoughts. It felt like I COULDN’T TURN IT OFF. The feeling was akin to the frustration I experienced when my thoughts continually invaded my meditation. It felt like unconsciousness in the pursuit of complete sentence.

Accepting my Own Self-Centeredness

Vipassana prides itself on being an unadulterated teaching, passed down through a will to share peace with others and a compassionate loving-kindness that serves to alleviate suffering. Supporting this image, Vipassana centers around the world are unfunded by any corporation, fueled only by the donations of people who have taken the course. This 10-day course was entirely free for me to take—I did not have to pay for any of my meals, for the room where I slept, or for the teaching. All those that cooked for us, taught us, served us, and helped maintain the facility were volunteers who had also received Vipassana instruction. All the food and funds for electricity, hot water, and heat were also donated. I feel now that I should have been kissing the feet of everyone who gave of themselves and yet on the last day of the course, I could not deny a sense of entitlement. This deserving feeling, and a general lack of care for those who donated 10 days’ worth of their time to give me a good experience, deeply shocked me. I was very uncomfortable realizing these feelings were inside me and tried desperately to understand them because I knew that I should be overflowing with gratitude. It didn’t take long for me to apply what I had been learning the whole course: acceptance and starting again. Since I took this course, I have been embarking on a process of incorporating what I learned. The first step was accepting that part of my shadow self includes this self-centered attitude and a lack of gratitude. The next step was [and is] working to acknowledge gratitude in my everyday life for the people I live with, my coworkers, my family, my friends, and the opportunities that just spring up in my life. Above all, I learned that everything is a constant process. There is no destination, just a direction from moment to moment.

Conclusion

All in all, this wound up being a very valuable and intense experience. I doubted myself many times, but I was still touched by deep appreciations for life and all that I’ve experienced just as many times. In the month that’s passed since I finished the course, I have slacked off from my continued meditation practice, but the philosophies have very much remained: viewing all intense emotions as Anicca, changing. I confronted many weaknesses within myself and have since developed a better understanding of the way my mind works. I would like to take another course after a year or so has passed because I really do appreciate the multi-faceted aspects that gave me such a genuine and renewing experience.

This article was published on the HerCulture blog. If you would like to submit an article, head on over to HerCulture to learn more about our writers and our magzine. Additionally, check out our social media (twitter, instagram, facebook, and tumblr!), our handles are herculture. Give this post a like and make sure you follow us on any of our accounts. By the end of December, we would like to reach our goal of 400 people on this tumblr account!

Start a culture revolution!

x Likhita

[bloggerista]

Turning Point

I was happy until i came to my realization that there is more to life that just this...

I ended up a long term relationship and hoping to change for the better... Its been 6 years 8 month journey i shared with someone i love... But after my realization that i really wanted to have a family.. A loving wife and beauyiful kids... It took me a long time before understanding that i really needed change so badly...

To give you an overview before i proceed here are some of the few things relevant to my realization... I am 28 years old and i have been a bisexual since college... I had multiple relationships with girls and guys for the previous years... It started after my last girlfriend left me broken around 2008? Cant remember my dates right..

I was a class president... Student body president.. Active in clubs and in student counsil... I have scholarships... I am pretty much doing good on all of these aspects.. I may bot be a wiz kid but i can still see all of these through.. Until i met this girl who changed everything... All of my frieds told me na i should not let anyone treat me like shit... She is beautiful as hell.. Korean superstar...since weakness ko ang mga chinita at mapuputing babae i was totally head ovdr hills to her... We were ok.. I guess, i'd follow her around.. Trxting her pretty often, calling her when i got home and updating as much as i can... But things went sour after a couple of months... She started to ignore me... She started to make me feel that she dosen't want others to see us together... Making me wait for her after school then magmemessage na nakauwi na pala sya... Things like that.. I confronted her and asked why? Since my classmates are already furious.. Imagine i have my whole class backing me up and ready to attack the girl i love because i am treated poorly... They literally have my back... But i still tried to convince them not to intervene since its my relationship... Well the day comes na kinausap ko sya on our way home... Ayaw nya magpahatid at sapilitan pa ang pagtabi ko pauwi sa bus... And she said that her best friend might see us.. So hindi pwedeng maging sweet... Her best friend is gay.. But nanligaw daw sa kanya dati... So now rhey are bestfriends.. Like he is a full pledge college student na gay with make up lipstick and funny attitude... I have nothing againts lgbt memebeds that time but i was very confused... So our simple conversation did not ended up as i thought.. I asked why but she did not gave me an answer.. Instead bumaba na sya dahil malapit na sa kanila...

I never heard anything from her since then.. It lasted for a week ata.. Kahit ilang bess ako mag text.. Tumawag... Or hanapin sya sa school she is always getting away para hindi ko sya makausap.

Then one time i was drinking with my friends... Sa bahay ng tropa.. She called their house and asked to talk to me.. I was a bit drunk na that time... Had a couple of shots (matador pa uso nun at generoso) she asked my classmate if i can talk to her.. So i ended up talking to her in my drunken state...

She wanted to break up... And i immediately asked why.. Sabi nya wala lang.. Gusto ko lang... I disagrreed.. I tried to figure out what is wrong... But our ended up crying so hard and since i was drunk she asked me to talk to her when i am sobef already...

I kept drinking... Poured my heart out sa classmates ko.. Kinukwento ko what ive done for her... And to her friends... I cooked for her and all of her barkadas on our 7th monthsary... 4 or 5 dishes that i woke up really early to prepare... Every month i try to impress her and do crazy stuffs to make her feel that i love her... But i guess it was just not enough...

So to cut the long story short she ended the relationship.. I was devastated... It felt like i am going to die literally when i heard the words "break na tayo.. Nakakapagod kana eh" comming from her... I drinked a lot go home late go out on weekends to drink more and going home so drunk that there are times i dobt know how the hell i was able to sleep at my room and changed my clothes...

Then i gained new friends while i am sulken and grieving from my dead heart as i call it... When iet this guy.. He is gay but a bit more masculine... He dosen't wear funny clothes... But he dress up casually.. He was there when my world is in pieces and he started to make ligaw and making me feel special.. That is the start na nagkaroon nako ng rrlationships sa same sex...

So nagtuloi tuloi na up until nakilala ko yung x ko.. Di ko na idedetalye how my life changed when i became like this... Haha maybe next time sa next entry..

So our relationship lasted for like more than 6 years.. We spent so much time together... Emotional investment... I was dependent emotionally sa kanya and it can change my mood really quick.. Sabi nga ng close froends namin kasal nalang ang kulang saming dalawa...

Then recently.. Siguro mga few months ago.. Mi am begging to be confused lung masyaa paba ako o hindi sa relationship namin... I love him no doubt.. And i dont have third party... Pero parang may kulang... I tried reflecting.. More me time.. Pauwi galing office.. Habang palasok and all that then after a few months of trying my hardest to make peace with my emotions and feelings.. I decided that i needed to change... I want to enjoy life like a normal person can... To have a loving wife and kids...

Napaisip ako na.. Dahil sa babae kaya ako nagkaganito... Pero dahil din sa babae kaya gusto kong magbago... Ironic ano... But meron akong si the one who got away sa buhay ko.. Maybe ikwento ko sya next time... But for now ito na muna... Para tuloi akong nadaan nanaman sa panibagong stage ng identity crisis hahaha.. Ganun yung feeling... Difference lang is i know what i want... Comapred sa your figuring out who you really are.. Hahahaha

Wala mang sense sa ngayon... Pero gusto kong makatulong sa mga taong nagbabalik loob.. Hahaha i want to inspire people that there are things that can be changed... I am not saying na mali ang lgbt.. But what i am trying to point out is.. Changing preferences is not pointing out na mali yung nakasanayan na... Maybe its just how and things should be... Para matutuo tayo.. Thats the way of life in teaching us lessons that is valuable for our well being...