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miajolensdevotion · 7 months

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Pursue The One Thing: Sit At The Feet of Jesus

WELCOME How long do you think can you sit in silence with no gadget in hand or watching anything on TV? How about keeping New Year’s resolutions? What was the longest time you were able to keep yours? Why do you think this is so?

WORD Luke 10:38-42 At the Home of Martha and Mary 38 As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. 39 She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feetlistening to what he said. 40 But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!”

41 “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, 42 but few things are needed—or indeed only one.[a]Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

Blessed Happy New Year! This month, we are starting a new series called “WANTING THE ONE THING”. Most of us make New Year’s resolutions & almost always, fail at these resolutions by February. We overestimate the power of our will. It is one thing to be driven by a goal, but we tend to forget that our everyday habits established by a “system” or a step by step process of getting to our goals is an important part in achieving them. As we set our goals this 2020, may this new series remind us of the importance of having that ONE THING central in our lives our pursuit of an intimate relationship with GOD. We shall learn from the story of Mary of Bethany, who in the midst of the busyness of preparing meals, chose intimacy with Jesus Christ, listening to His valuable lessons as she sat at His feet. She chose to KNOW God more by hearing from Jesus Christ. What does it mean to sit at the feet of Jesus? Based on the story of Mary, we see four important components of a committed attention on Christ;

FOCUS

As we read the passage, we discover the family of Mary, Martha & Lazarus. When Jesus & his disciples came to visit, Martha decided to serve them, but Mary chose something else. She sat at the feet of Jesus. In their culture, it was not normal for a woman to sit at the feet of a man, much more a rabbi. Why did she do it? The Bible tells us she did this to listen to the words of Jesus. Mary wanted this intimate moment with Jesus because she yearned to learn from Him. Jesus corrected Martha’s attitude

Luke 10:41-42

who while serving, began to complain that Mary left her to do the work. Mary wanted to have an undivided focus to Jesus. When you do not sit at the feet of Jesus, you will be like Martha: distracted & too engrossed in tasks. Serving God is not bad, but when you serve Him out of duty instead of love, you will begin to focus on complaining about & comparing yourself to other people.

Hebrews 12:2

2 fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneerand perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross,scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

reminds us to “fix our eyes on Jesus”; underscoring the very importance of our attention, desires & focus to be directed to Christ. Where are yoy focused on today? Are your eyes set on problems, tasks or orther people? Seek to draw near to God & focus on Him!

INTIMACY

Mary’s posture before Jesus reminds us of the importance of intimacy with Him. When we focus on trying to control people & attending to multiple duties, we miss out on our intimacy with Christ. If you fix your eyes on people, you will be stressed. If you keep looking inwards, you can will be depressed. Learn to sit at the feet of Jesus & exercise intimacy with Him & all worries will melt away. When we allow God to minister to us, as we learn to trust & cling on to Him, we can be sure that anxieties will not bother us because the peace of God will guard our hearts & minds in Christ.

Philippians 4:6-7

6 Do not be anxious about anything,but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. 7 And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Intimacy with God will help us attain peace. As we become intimate with Him, we will realize that intimacy with God involves LISTENING to Him as well.

LISTENING

Mary pursued the ONE Thing; how? She chose to be intimate with Jesus Christ & LISTENED to His words. In other passages in the New Testament, we discover that Mary had a “system” of being at the feet of Jesus which enabled her to build intimacy with Him. A “system” enables us to develop a habit. We can focus on a goal, but if we do not focus on the activities that we do in order to achieve the goal, we will never reach our goal. The same goes with our relationship with Christ. Do we systematically read His word? Do we listen to God when we pray or do we just utter requests without even intentionally seeking to hear from God? How does God speak to us? He speaks to us through His Word & sometimes God uses other people to speak to us (SMALL GROUP sharing, BIBLE STUDY insights from others). We have a system that God has given; SMALL GROUPS, Sunday Services & even our PERSONAL QUIET TIMES WITH GOD. Small things like 10 minutes to 15 minutes a day of Bible reading & journal

compounded over time will surely have a great impact! When we hear from God in our inner being or from others, it is important to countercheck it with His word. Read the BIBLE everyday! Listen to God’s word for you & get to know Him more. The more you understand Him, the more your desires will be in accordance to His desires & plans for you.

WORSHIP

Understand als that sitting at the feet of Jess is an act of WORSHIP. Life is about choices &

Luke 10:42

42 but few things are needed—or indeed only one.[a] Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

emphasizes that Mary made a choice to sit at the feet of Jesus & worship Him by devoting her best for Him. Other gospel accounts of Mary, Martha & Lazarus are available for us to learn from.

In John 12:1-2

Jesus Anointed at Bethany 12 Six days before the Passover,Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus lived, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. 2 Here a dinner was given in Jesus’ honor. Martha served, while Lazarus was among those reclining at the table with him.

we witness this small family again with Jesus & each of the characters worshipped Jesus in unique ways: Martha served joyfully. Lazarus reclined at the table with Jesus & six days before Jesus was crucified. Mary did something astounding.

John 12:3

3 Then Mary took about a pint[a] of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus’ feet and wiped his feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.

shows us Mary’s appreciation for Jesus as she lavishly poured down costly perfume on Jesus’ feet & wiped them with her hair. We also take note of Judas in this story, who due to his personal agenda, focused on the “wastefulness” of such act. He eventually chose to betray Jesus for so much less cost. Let us be mindful that though we may serve God like Martha or follow Jesus like Judas, we can still miss out on that ONE THING that we ought to pursue like Mary did. The promise of Jesus for Mary in

Mark 14:9

9 Truly I tell you, wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world,what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.”

was that Mary’s act of worship will be remembered everywhere the gospel is shared & is being fulfilled even now as we learn & teach others about how to be laser focused on the ONE THING this 2020; sit at the feet of Jesus to pursue intimacy with Him!

DISCUSSION QUESTION: (DONT INCLUDE HERE YOUR PAST EXPERIENCE BECAUSE WE ARE NOW AT THE PRESENT 2020, POST THIS IN YOUR WATTPAD)

How was your intimacy with God the past year? How was your attitude while serving Christ in 2019? Mia answer: My intimacy with God the past year was not that good; my attitude while serving Christ in 2019 was not that good also Kathy answer:

What “system” need to be place in 2020 so you will not be too busy “serving” & missing out on “sitting at the feet of Jesus”? Mia answer: The system that I need to place in 2020 so I will not be too busy serving & missing out on sitting at the feet of Jesus is managing my priority & time management Kathy answer:

What do you think is the most valuable act of worship that you can offer Jesus this year? What do you think will it cost you? Mia answer: I think is the most valuable act of worship that I can offer Jesus this year is doing the OBBS daily journal; I think will it cost me is only my time Kathy answer:

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whirlybirbs · 3 years

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( this chapter’s gif by @august-walker from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 4/?

summary: you formulate a plan, meet steve rogers, and bucky goes on a date.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.8k, mother of pearl

a/n: this ended up being mostly a filler with a lot of romantic growth - i had to break this chapter up from the unce unce unce clubbing that coming up, so please enjoy!

( PREVIOUSLY | AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT )

MOSCOW, 1975.

In all the years that James Buchanan Barnes has had a heartbeat, he’d come to know the sounds of grief well.

War taught him a lot of things — that they were all just little boys playing with guns, and that no matter how many times you thought you’d be ready for the vomit-inducing pungency of violence, you never were. In the end, you’d do anything to save yourself; you’d crawl through the thick of death and debris a million times over if only to cling to the shredded tatters of your own humanity.

You would kill someone else’s son for the sake of your own mother.

War was disease that devoured every part of you — it was gunpowder snuff and carved flesh. That sickness — inky and desperate — had sunk deep into this heart during the war, and it crescendoed to the sounds of mothers clutching dead sons. The sounds that followed death were like a hollow opera. Waning and wailing.

In the raucous wake left by warborn grief, Bucky drowned everytime.

To the Winter Soldier, the operatic quality to the sounds of grief were as insignificant as a child’s rhyme.

He did not drown. No, he waded through the waves, comfortable in the cold and unphased by the stinging cut of loss. That was not something he could comprehend. After all, there were orders and there were targets, and everything in between was absolute.

He was the disease that devoured all.

He’s holding a gun to Andrei Kuznetzov’s head in a dining room with ornate trim — with silverware as delicate as scalpels that tinker against fine china. The carpets are red, the curtains are red, there’s blood on the table cloth. The guests continue to eat. Kuznetzov’s wife is screaming, red nails dug so deep into the dining chair’s arms it’s carving out the fabric. War dogs, like him, keep her rooted in her seat, and her tears find polished boots. She’s begging and bartering but the man with Kuznetzov’s life in his hands is not listening. He is eating his veal, bloodied meat dancing between his lips. He takes a sip of wine as his medal emblazoned chest glimmers in the light of crystalline chandaliers.

The spoils of war.

His smile is stained red.

There is no deal to be made.

The Winter Soldier pulls the trigger.

NOW.

His eyes are open.

Panic is the first emotion he feels, and it seizes him up quickly in its grasp. He doesn’t know this view, he doesn’t know where he is, not again, not again, not again —

Then:

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you know you snore?”

The relief that the sound of your voice brings is immediate, and just like that he remembers. He’s laying on the bed. You’re sat up across from him at that small desk in the corner. He reaches as he rubs his face to thumb the edge of the pillowcase. He exhales tightly.

He’s fine. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is not longer the Winter Soldier. He’s in his Brooklyn apartment. He is fine.

When’s the last fucking time he’s slept in a bed?

He sits up, scratching his neck as he does. You lean back, half rotated in the desk. Before you is a mess of papers and his laptop — and on top of the keyboard sits his notebook. It’s open to the page where all he’d been able to figure out about Innessa was scrawled in his chicken scratch.

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed and immediately his back complains.

“How long was I out?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. He moves to part the curtains. The room blooms with warm morning light.

You offer an apologetic smile into the vanilla sunshine. “Three hours. I wanted you to get some shut eye. You were starting to look a little overwhelmed last night—”

“You click too fast,” he waves, standing and immediately rolling his neck to the side. You watch as the man, before as peaceful as a sleeping pup, now regains his usual thinning veiled level of threat. Bucky is dangerous — it shows in the way he holds himself. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and groans. He exhales again, posture sagging a bit, “I couldn’t keep up.”

You’re standing now, socks padding against the hardwood as you eye his cowlick with a budding bloom of affection. With his notebook between your index and middle finger, you offer it out. You cling to your empty coffee cup in the other.

“I didn’t peek,” you say warmly, “Pinky promise.”

His laugh is more like a hot puff of air. Bucky manages a look that feels like an emotional dethaw.

“Thank you.”

You lead the way to the kitchen, stretching your own back as you go. You’d been up all night — this is your third trip out here for yet another cup of coffee. The pot has been on for too long, though, and you know the coffee sitting there is beyond bitter. You’re moving to dump it down the sink when Bucky grumbles.

“Don’t.”

“You want it?”

“No,” he mutters, reaching for a mug, “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“Wow,” you chirp, “The Great Depression just jumped out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, yanking open the fridge to search for something to eat, “It does that.”

“Well, grandpa,” you hand him the steaming cup and set out to make another pot, “You’re also living on Depression Era rations — might I suggest some Dolly’s? Because I’m starving and I’ve been up all night and I think that means I get to decide where we get breakfast.”

Bucky’s look is soft — but you don’t see it. You’re too busy scooping sugar into your cup, too busy nudging him aside to grab the milk. He’s rooted there in the kitchen, watching you move about. You’re comfortable. There isn’t a trace of anxiousness in you, not in this moment, and he tries to remember what it looks like.

Your eyes find his and he clears his throat.

“Earth to Sergeant Barnes?”

“Don’t start,” he groans, albeit playfully, “It’s too early.”

“Oh, what? Too early for me to grill you on why you didn’t tell me that little laptop in there was on loan from the FBI? To one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th?”

His face falls.

“Don’t worry,” you raise a hand quickly, leaning against the counter as you sip your coffee, “I figured that out before I did anything massively illegal.”

Bucky rubs his face as he takes a sip of his coffee — the bitterness is enough to slap him awake. He winces, swallows it back, and remembers the taste of instant coffee made in helmets on the line in Bastogne. He can smell snow, and the acrid sting of mortar smoke. Suddenly, he’s craving a cigarette.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Bucky clears his throat. “Did you find anything?”

You frown slightly, lips pulled as you hide your inward disappointment — you push off from the counter and shake your head as you brush past him. Like a loyal dog, Bucky follows. Into the bedroom you go, and Bucky’s again surprised he managed to get any sleep at all in that bed. Maybe it was the comfort of having someone else there, or the genuine exhaustion that had finally choked him out after hours of trying to understand what the hell you were even doing on there.

You plop into the desk chair and snatch up a piece of paper littered with notes.

“I couldn’t do much of my usual snooping,” you explain gently as you gesture to the chromebook, “This thing might have been given to you in good faith, but they’re watching you pretty closely. So, I worked a little magic and ended up running a virtual machine. Gave me enough wiggle room to avoid the malware and keystroke trackers. Even still, I wanted to be careful, so I just did a little looking.”

“Looking?”

“I can’t dig deeper on Innessa, I know where to dig, but I can’t,” you frown, “Not on this laptop, and definitely not on my personal machines. I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and the files I need to poke are very much off-limits.”

“So, what? We’re shit out of luck?”

“No, not entirely,” you stand up and motion to the paper in your hands; your tone is tight, “I know a few people who can help, but getting to them is going to be the hardest part.”

Bucky takes the paper, squinting at the writing as you settle on the edge of the bed next to him. You take a sip of your coffee and watch as his blue eyes dart across the notes; you point to the name scrawled across the top.

“There’s a club in lower Manhattan, but you’ve gotta know the right people to get in,” you mumble, scratching your cheek as a creeping sense of embarrassment bubbles up behind your words, “It’s in the basement of an old computer repair shop. It’s like a blackhat networking event, but with strippers.”

Bucky squints at the paper and reads the name. “The Glass Cannon?”

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly as you stand, “That’s the one.”

Bucky looks up from the paper, attention now rooted on the pacing you’ve begun to do across the room. Back and forth. You’re holding your coffee like a lifeline, gaze far away. That anxiousless way you’d been holding yourself before is gone. Now, he can see the tensing in your shoulders, in your fingers. You’re suddenly nervous.

Bucky stands. His voice is gentle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you snap almost immediately, “Just, y’know. Worried. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. Did stupid shit. And now I’m about to waltz in after six years like I haven’t put that part of my life behind me.”

“We don��t have to do this,” he says immediately, moving to stand closer and halt your pacing. The invasion of your space forces you to look at him. His fingers glimmering in the morning light. You follow the line of his figure up to his eyes. The emotion there makes your heart clench. You can’t pin it down, and it’s gone in an instant.

“It’s the only way we’re going to find Innessa.”

“You don’t need to put yourself in situations like this for me,” he says, stressing the for me part in both expression and tone. The depreciation makes you wince and you’re fast to shake your head.

“That’s what friends do, Bucky,” you stand your ground, but you know there’s more to your reasoning than that, “Plus, she’s a bad guy. And I know you said I technically wasn’t the sidekick, but—”

“You’re not the sidekick—”

“I know,” you huff, nudging him gently with your arm, “But, I wanna help. Do some good.”

“You do enough good,” he mutters, “You’re a good person.”

Your words fail you at that — and your mouth parts but nothing comes out. Bucky watches with an expression as solid as rock as you blink and look away. His hand, the one of flesh and bone, finds your wrist as you tighten your grip on your mug.

The touch, though far too tender for you to handle, feels like fire.

Like a slap in the face, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky is.

You slap that thought back, trading volleys, and remain quiet.

His tone is stern. “I mean it.”

“Well,” you finally muster, tone dipping sardonically into a cruel peel of humor, “Just wait until you see me in my natural habitat. Maybe the tequila shots will make you second guess that.”

“I didn’t know we were going out drinking,” he chirps as he raises an eyebrow, “Am I going to need to get you a leash?”

“We’re gonna have to try and blend in as best we can. People are going to know me — if they try to pin me with the GRC or the feds, we aren’t going to get anything on Innessa. They probably won’t even let me in the building if they suspect something’s up, after all not everything that goes down in Glass Cannon is kosher.”

“This is already sounding like a bad idea,” Bucky mumbles as he crosses his arms, “I’m stating that for the record, by the way.”

“Well, I think standing around and working ourselves up about this is even worse of an idea,” you chirp back, moving towards the door to muscle on your shoes, “So I say we feed ourselves and don’t worry about this until Thursday night.”

“Thursday.”

You nod.

All of a sudden, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Today is Sunday.”

You freeze, hand on the doorframe. You shoot him a wide-eyed look at the sudden flare of panic that’s shot up through him. “Yea, Bucky, today is Sunday.”

“Shit.”

“What?” you nearly cry as he disappears into the bedroom once more. You hear his closet open, then a clatter as he grabs something like keys — you nearly run directly into his chest when he strides back into the kitchen. He’s shouldered on his usual leather jacket, and in his hands is another.

He’s got keys in his hand.

“C’mon.”

He shoves the jacket into your arms and you frown.

“What the hell?” you cry, doubling back to snag your phone and bag as Bucky moves to the door, “What is this?”

“Put it on,” he says, holding open the door for you as you follow him into the apartment hallway.

You raise a brow and stand there as he locks the door.

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face as he widens his strides to the stairwell across the hall; before you know it, you’re desperately trying to keep up as he bounces down the steps — light on his feet like the boxer he is — towards the lower level of the apartment complex, “We’re late.”

You groan, trying to shrug on the jacket that smells like Bucky as you follow — a smell you’d come to know as clean laundry and sandalwood. Must be something for his hair. He never wore cologne, that much was apparent. The jacket is big on you, especially on the shoulders. You were swimming in it, trying not to trip as he held the door open to the garage.

Suddenly, the air is cooler. Immediately you wonder how much his rent is if he had access to a ground level garage. Call it NYC instinct.

“Bucky,” you nearly whine, throwing your head back, “Where are we going?”

Before you get a reply, you run straight into his back. Bucky grunts, moving to grab both of your hands and push you to the front of him.

Sitting in the spot is a motorcycle.

It’s a jet black Harley.

Bucky is handing you the helmet on the back seat as your mouth moves in disbelief. “No way— no, I’m not getting on that thing. I’d rather sell my kidneys. Stop, stop — ow, Bucky — you haven’t even said where we’re going!”

He’s muscling the helmet onto your head and through the flash of the visor you can see a real smile, the sort born out of his never-ending amusement towards your fickle sense of humor. His fingers are nimble against your chin. He takes the time to strap it on, adjust it, and give it a gentle tug. Bucky taps the matte black helmet twice, then flicks the visor down.

“We’re going upstate.”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

It takes two hours to get to Elmwood Senior Living.

You spent the first forty-five minutes clinging to Bucky’s waist with your eyes closed — no fault of Bucky’s, really. It was different from riding in a car by miles, and you had your own qualms with driving. You couldn’t be in the passenger’s seat anymore. Not after the accident with Jaimie, when Mom disappeared. Being out of control made you itch; and it’s not until the fifty-minute mark that you ease up on the panic and remember who the man is that’s driving the bike.

You trust Bucky. You trust him with your life.

Once it’s open road, winding up towards the Northern part of the state, it gets easier.

Bucky can feel your grip around his waist loosen just a bit — and it’s enough reassurance that he stops looking back in the mirror every fifteen seconds. It’s enough permission to open up on the throttle, and the bike roars alive. Your immediate reaction is a gobsmacked yelp, the sort that’s pulled from a jolt of shock, but then comes the laugh.

Bucky’s own quiet chuckle rumbles against your chest. You hold on tighter, but this time with open palms against the thrum of his ribs.

Halfway through the trip, he pulls into a McDonald’s.

You drop your ass onto the parking lot’s curb as he leans against the bike and houses a burger. You laugh, eyeing him candidly as you take a large bite from your own lunch. Bucky is a mess with it — cursing quietly when he ends up getting ketchup on his jacket.

“Shit.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “Did you even taste that thing?”

“Barely,” he clears his throat and starts picking at his fries, “These things taste different now. First time I ever had McDonald’s was right before bootcamp.”

“How much was it? Five cents?” you snort, leaning back and dropping a fry into your mouth.

Bucky watches with a half-smirk. “Fifteen, but nice try.”

He spends the next five minutes on his hand with a wet nap, trying hard to get the grease out of the delicate plates along his palm. You watch, as you knock back the rest of your soda, as his eyes crinkle tightly in frustration. His mouth is pulled tightly into a fine line. For the second time today, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky Barnes is — and how fucking stubborn he is, too.

“Want help?”

“No,” he mutters, trying to get a spot between his thumb and index finger, “I got it.”

“I have smaller fingers,” you sing-song, gathering up his trash and your trash and crossing the parking lot to the bin; upon returning, you waggle them in his face, “Good for hard to reach places.”

Bucky absolutely hates that can feel his blush hit the tips of his ears at the comment.

He’s glad you’re too preoccupied with his hand to notice. You’re watching, like you always do, with respectful awe. To you, this part of him is a bit like a treasure — you find it beautiful and intriguing and incredible. It’s clear in the way you watch the mechanisms turn and tighten that you aren’t frightened by it.

It unsettles Bucky every time.

Finally, once he’s finished under your watchful eyes, he leans to muscle that helmet back over your head. You groan, squinting tightly.

“C’mon,” he knocks your helmet with his knuckles, “We’re almost there.”

The rest of the ride is wide open space, farm land and mountainous peaks looming far ahead. It’s warm, and the sun is hot on your back. The wind is howling around you and it sends your jacket collar flapping against your neck. Your chin rests neatly on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the road ahead.

Elmwood Senior Living is tucked into the back of a suburb.

The two of you weave through a neighborhood or two, dancing under the shade of age old maple trees. They cast long, scattered shadows across the pavement as kids play on their lawns. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Over the hill, church bells ring. Sunday service has ended.

Bucky rolls into the parking lot, past the large sign with swirling lettering. Suddenly, things make more sense. Suddenly, you’re struck with a sinking feeling of grief. Nostalgia. Mourning. But, happiness.

There are folks sitting outside, basking in the sun, tethered to walkers.

Bucky’s wrists crank back weathered knuckles, and slowly the bike rumbles into an open spot. Extending his legs, Bucky balances the bike with ease. You take that as your cue to swing yourself off the back clumsily, hopping a bit. Bucky leans, kicks the stand down, and with significantly more grace than you, swings his leg over.

You’re shrugging his jacket off when he speaks.

“He’s going to be different than how you imagine him.”

You exhale slowly, draping the jacket over the bike’s seat. You peel the helmet off.

“I’ve sort of pieced that together.”

You can see the slight discomfort hanging in his posture. You reach and touch Bucky’s arm.

“Come on,” you nod to the entrance, covered by a shady overhang where someone is helping a family member out of their car, “We don’t wanna be late, huh?”

His eyes soften. Bucky nods.

You walk side-by-side into the lobby of Elmwood Senior Living and it’s like time slows down. It halts in a warm, sunshine colored still — full of chatter, full of humanity, full of wisdom. The room is framed by big windows, by plants, by a man in a U.S. Navy ball cap. He’s stationed by the door, watching the comings and goings. The main desk, where a young woman watches, sits in the corner. You follow Bucky with a content little look. He notices.

He stands a little closer at the main desk. The girl, who looks like she’s incredibly out of place with her blue hair and piercings, is younger than you thought. Highschool, maybe. She offers Bucky an excited smile.

“Took you long enough,” she chirps, moving to sort through a bin to her side with key fobs.

Your brows raise. You spy calculus homework on the desk.

Bucky snorts. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He notices the same problem set you so, and purposely leans over the desk. Suddenly, you’re seeing flashes of a more boyish version of Bucky — one that reminds you of a man with siblings. Bucky taps the paper, jutting a chin to the girl as she tries to swat his attention away.

“How’d you do on that test?”

“I got a 96,” she chirps pridefully, laughing, “Thanks for the help, nerd.”

You’re watching the entire exchange with a smile, backing up a bit to toss a curious glance over your shoulder. There’s a dining room through open doors — and looks like lunch is just wrapping up. Folks are moving around, back to their rooms or upstairs where you can hear the beginnings of a seated aerobics class begin.

Bucky nudges you with his hand.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he says and waves the key she’d handed over.

The girl with the blue hair scoffs. “Say hi to grandpa for me, Bucket.”

You laugh out loud as Bucky quickly flips her off. She’s quick to do the same.

You follow him around the corner, grinning ear to ear. He spares you a sheepish look, then rolls his eyes.

“What was that?”

“She’s a good kid,” he offers, eyeing the key with the grey little fob attached, “Reminds me of my sister.”

Your face softens. “Sister?”

“Her name was Sarah, too,” he says quietly, boots landing softly on the blue carpet. He’s navigating the residential wing like he’s done it a million times. There are rooms with flowers outside, with holiday garb, with little photos and keepsakes. Each room holds a lifetime of personality — the sound of Jeopardy lulls along in the background.

You hum. Bucky sighs.

He meanders down a long hallway where a different door is — this one heavy and locked by the little keypad. Bucky raises the key fob to the device and the door buzzes.

This side of Elmwood is quieter.

Down the hall, Timmy Dorsey and Sinatra play quietly over someone’s record player.

There aren’t as many folks in the hall in this wing, but doors are open and nurses flit about. Around the corner, there’s a loud conversation going on about lunch — and you watch as Bucky weaves towards the nursing station. It’s a room overlooking the common area with windows. Inside are three women.

One of them immediately jumps when she sees Bucky.

“Oh, good! I was meaning to talk to you—”

“Everything alright?”

“About the same,” she breathes as she stands, moving to grab at a Bucky’s arm with a sense of motherliness that makes you smile, “But, meals have been a bit difficult lately.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, rubbing his chin, “He just doesn’t wanna eat?”

“He thinks Peggy is coming home,” the woman whispers with a pained smile as she begins to lead you both down the hall, “He thinks your grandmother made dinner for him.”

“Right,” Bucky nods, “Doesn’t wanna ruin his appetite.”

“Exactly.”

You take note of the conversation, muddling through your own confusion. You’re quiet, though. This isn’t really your conversation to have. Bucky seems to be relaxed more — even humming slightly to a song that plays across the hall from the room the nurse is knocking on.

“Mr. Carter?” she calls gently, “Your grandson is here to see you, and his…”

She looks expectantly at you. You bawk.

“Friend.”

“Right,” she smiles and pushes open the door.

It’s like a little slice of home.

Sofas, chairs, photos on the walls. There’s a record player in the corner, a television, a coffee table stacked with books on the second world war. There’s a dresser covered in baubles and warm light coming in from the window overlooking the street. It reminds you of your grandparents’ sitting room — everything looks so lived in, so comfortable, so alive.

And then, below the light of the window, is a hospital bed.

In it is Steve Rogers.

Not the one you know — no, this one has lived a full life. This Steve Rogers has fallen in love, owned a home, settled down. This Steve Rogers has years of wisdom settled into his face, years of well-fought fights in his joints. His blonde hair has gone shock white, but his smile is all the same.

“Bucky.”

The way Steve says his name is like the man beside you holds the world.

To Bucky, he can hear a new weakness. A new exhaustion.

“Hi, punk.”

The nurse offers a little wave to you as Bucky ventures into the room, stripping his jacket off and moving to scope out the minifridge in the small kitchenette beside the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and you smile to her softly. Bucky rummages, poking his head up.

“You want a drink, Steve?” he asks, tone almost like he’s feeling out the lucidity of the man across the room, “There’s some of that lemonade I brought last week in here.”

“Sounds good,” he says slowly, “Please.”

You feel out of place — not unwelcome, but… it’s clear that Bucky has come and gone from here a thousand times now. He knows to get the glasses out, to get a straw, to turn down the record player on his way over. Doris Day’s voice lowers to a soft croon. You watch with heavy eyes.

“I brought someone, Steve,” Bucky says, “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh?” Steve asks with a slow look to the corner where you’re standing, “That musta broke your heart.”

Bucky snorts as he moves to swing the hospital bed’s tray over Steve’s lap. He places the lemonade down, then the other glass on the nightstand. He’s quick to move the armchair closer to the nightstand, and gestures for you to come over. Bucky’s hands guide you by the shoulders as he plops you into the chair.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Bucky says, “Reminds me of you.”

“No kidding,” Steve says slowly, offering a hand that shakes, “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You exchange your name with a shy look, shaking that hand with reverence and gentility. “It’s an honor, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please,” he mumbles, moving to slowly take a sip of his lemonade, “Steve is fine.”

Bucky moves to take up a post on the opposite side of Steve, in the sun. “You’re losin’ weight, y’know.”

That earns him a wave of the hand.

Bucky leans back and sips his lemonade. He waggles a finger and you watch the two begin to go back and forth.

“No, no,” he swallows, “No, you don’t get t’ shrug me off—”

“M’fine, Buck,” a sigh, “Really.”

“Mhm,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re startin’ to look like the Steve I knew before the serum.”

You lean back, hiding a quiet smirk behind your hand.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up an’ pester me,” he says with a tired look, “The only peace I get around here is when Peggy comes home.”

Your eyes jump to Bucky. He’s watching you.

“Peggy?” you ask gently, “Is that your wife?”

A proud smile washes over his face. “Still knocks me for a loop, too.”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, “Peggy won’t be coming around for a while. Remember?”

There’s a look that flashes across Steve’s face, then. A mixture of sadness, of confusion, of panic. It’s clouded with a furrow of his brow, hidden by a tilt of the head. He looks at Bucky, mouth pulled in a fine line.

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad.

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“S’alright,” Bucky taps his head, maintaining an air of nonchalance, “That’s why you got me.”

“And why you’ve got her, no doubt,” he turns to you with a winning smile and offers his hand again, “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, you shake it, and you introduce yourself once more. Your smile is patient and understanding. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Steve.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve smiles, tossing Bucky a look that borders on mischievous.

He sips his lemonade and clears his throat. “How is Sam?”

“You ask every time,” Bucky mutters, “And every time I have the same answer.”

“Sam?” you ask slowly.

“Wilson,” Bucky finishes, “Bird man.”

“You mean Falcon,” you correct, shooting him a stern look, “The Falcon. Are you ghosting The Falcon?”

“I don’t know what that even means, so maybe,” Bucky leans back and crosses his legs, “I’ve been busy.”

You roll your eyes. Steve saw. He smiles.

“I’m gettin’ why he keeps you around.”

Your face is smacked with a look of pure joy.

“C’mon on now,” Bucky cries, nearly indignantly, “No flirting—”

“M’ not flirting—”

“I know that look, Steve—”

Steve is laughing.

Bucky has a stern look in his eye. “You always do this—”

“I’m not doin’ a damn thing—”

“And you better keep it that way, old man,” Bucky shirks, voice splintering into a laugh in a way that you’ve never heard before, “I swear, this is how it always goes.”

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, huh, Buck?” you ask gently, leaning your cheek into your hand.

Steve laughs loudly at that.

Bucky spares you a smile — the sort that’s drenched in good humor and sunlight. It makes your lungs flutter, and you ignore the buzz in your fingers at the sight. You hide your laugh into your cup of lemonade, resigning to be a quiet counterpart in the conversation.

The two of them go on to chat about small things, then chat about old things. From the Commandos, to HYDRA, to amends, to therapy, to Peggy, to the itch the starch of their old dress uniforms used to bring. It takes a bit, a few redirections on the way, but it’s clear by the end why Steve Rogers is in Elmwood’s memory unit.

It makes your heart ache.

And if a super soldier is bed-ridden…

The two of you say goodbye around three in the afternoon after Bucky helps Steve shave.

The walk back to the bike is quiet.

Bucky speaks first.

“He’s dying.”

You chew your lip, eyes on the pavement. You match his slow stride, bumping your elbow with his as you walk. It’s still warm, and the clouds hang high in the sky. When you look up, Bucky’s watching you. You sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally muster, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing the jacket from the seat and holding it up, “He’s lived a long life.”

You let Bucky hold out the arm for you, and you press your hand through the sleeve. He helps the other side on, and you zip it up to your chin. When you turn around to face him, there are tears in your eyes.

They snuck up on you. You hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s face fell, until the first one fell along the weathered leather of the jacket. You blink, raising your brows as you swipe them away, and offer an apologetic look.

“I’m happy,” you say, “Y’know. He has you. But, he’s a man out of time. Even now. That makes me sad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He’s leaned up against the bike as you turn and watch Elmwood from the back of the parking lot. There’s a big part of you that feels heavy with guilt — and though Steve was in good spirits when you left, you can’t help but ache to provide him with more company. It’s clear that seeing Bucky means a lot to him, and that in turn it means a lot to the man beside you.

“Come on,” Bucky says then, “Let’s go home.”

You nod, let him muscle that helmet onto your head one more time, and hold on a little tighter back to the city.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

You don’t see Bucky until Tuesday.

In all honesty, it feels weird to not hear from him for two days. At the very least, you expected some sort of phone call — but you remind yourself that you’ve been okay alone for a long time. There’s no need to throw all your work on being comfortable by yourself out the window for Bucky Barnes.

It’s tempting, though. God, it’s really tempting.

You hate the ache in your chest when you finally see him lumbering towards the cafe counter before your appointments. You hate this new feeling — so you shove it down and ignore the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you your latte.

He is ignoring it, too. He’s been ignoring it.

No use in thinking about it though.

“You got plans later?” you ask him in the elevator after your appointment, tilting your head, “Apparently there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon tonight on FX.”

Bucky stiffens — and immediately he can feel the hot sting of anxious regret flood his cheeks. He clears his throat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and toes the ground. You watch with a confused look. Then he speaks tightly.

“...I’ve got a date.”

You could have caught flies the way your jaw fell open.

“Oh. Oh!”

You blink, readjust your expression, and swallow down a sharp stab of rejection.

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s… I wasn’t going to but, Dr. Raynor—”

“No, no,” you wave your hands and shake your head and try to seem genuine, “No, I’m happy for you. Is this one of those Christian Minglers?”

Bucky groans. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” you say, “Okay! Just, uh, be careful. Y’know? And call if you need anything.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky walks side by side with you through the well-lit lobby. He holds the door open for you, and you pass through with a pained look at the ground. He lingers, though, rubbing the back of his neck as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Thursday,” he says, “I’ll stop by.”

“Yea,” you say, waving your hand, “Whenever.”

But, that doesn’t end up happening.

No, Bucky Barnes shows up at your apartment doorstep at 10pm.

He’s clutching takeout and a six pack of beer and wearing a horrified expression that screams of guilt and exhaustion. No, Bucky buzzes the door to your apartment and basically croaks that he’s here — he’s asking if the marathon is still on while you buzz him up.

“Third floor,” you say into the buzzer with a smile, “Come on in, old man.”

When you open the door, you have to laugh — because his hair is a mess and there’s still a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Whereas jealousy threatens to flare, his incredibly regretful expression tamps it down. You cock a hip, eye him up and down, and jut your chin out.

“Get laid?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he didn’t break something.

He pushes past you, moving to drop the beer on the counter and place the takeout gently down by the basket of fruit.

“I’m here for the cat,” he grumbles, “Not your witty commentary, sweetheart.”

You’re moving quietly to the sink and gathering a paper towel with a smirk as Bucky looks around, admiring the decor and aliveness of your apartment. When you turn around, he’s already pried a beer from the pack and popped the top off with his vibranium palm.

He winces when you reach up to swipe the coral lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

Then Bucky settles, letting you clean off the mess.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Right. Was it at least fun?”

“She had fun,” he mutters into his first sip, “It was a lotta tongue for my first night out in nearly a century, though.”

You wince. He nods with a sardonic smile that tells you everything about how the date went down — and you’re relieved. “So, I take it you're not calling her in the morning?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Nope. No, and I’ve decided no more dates. That was enough for me.”

You wince and pluck a beer from the pack. Wordlessly, Bucky gestures for you to hand it over. In one smooth motion, he twists the cap off with his hand.

“That bad?” you ask, eyeing him critically.

“I decided halfway through,” he says as he moves to take the takeout from its bag, “I’d rather be watching Lord of the Rings with you.”

That stops you into silence. It’s like someone’s taken your own words and gagged you with them — and you’re left floundering for breath you never even realize you lost. You know he means it. You know it because he won’t look at you, because that sort of confession isn’t easy for people like you two. So you take those words and you glue them in a lonely locket and keep them close to your heart.

Poke’s entrance saves you a mouthful of broken words — he comes in, trots up to Bucky, and hollers.

Bucky laughs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he mutters, eyeing the cat that’s eagerly rubbing himself along Bucky’s leg.

You wipe your face, sip your beer, and move to the pantry across from the kitchen island. You come back out with a bag of salmon treats — the good ones — and offer Bucky the bag. He takes it, eyes still on the calico, and crinkles it a little.

You lean against the counter and watch Bucky kneel.

“If you keep it up long enough he might even let you hold him.”

He lights up at that.

You laugh.

You move to grab plates and forks and knives and groan when you open up the first box to see Pad Thai — you make a mental note to properly thank Bucky for this. You meager dinner of reheated pasta really hadn’t hit the spot. This will, though. You can tell from the smell alone.

By your knees, Poke chirps.

“He’s cute.”

“I never took you for a cat guy.”

Bucky snorts.

You make a plate and flick his head as you walk by. “You’re missing the start of The Two Towers.”

“I’m going to be confused, aren’t I?” he asks as he stands and begins making himself a plate. He watches as you settle onto the couch and sip your beer, “I was too busy being turned into a cyborg to read the books.”

You laugh out loud. It shocks you.

“Was that a joke? Did Bucky Barnes just make a joke?”

He’s smirking. He rounds the counter with his food and settles next to you. Poke is following him, eager to curl up next to his new friend.

“I can be funny.”

“Funny lookin’.”

He elbows you on purpose. You snort into your beer.

There’s a comfortable moment of quiet between you, and you clear your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “No problem.”

More quiet, and he’s still watching you. Then, he asks what’s been on his mind for the last three days.

“You got a plan for Thursday?”

“I’ve got anxiety, Buck,” you exhale, swigging your beer and turning the television up, “I always have a plan.”

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #marvel imagine #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes/reader #bucky/reader

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lilly-onthevalley · 3 years

Note

Hyper gramy advice for teens?

hi love! My advice for teens interested in hypergamy... hmmm

As a person in their teens also interested in hypergamy I would suggest to

𝓯𝓸𝓬𝓾𝓼 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯

This is the best time to focus on yourself, your mind, your body and soul. Dedicate time to building a healthy mind. At this time it would be amazing to heal any traumas you have and start incorporating healthy eating and fitness habits. I always tell everyone who is interested in relationships to deal with themselves before dealing with another human being so this is the best time to look inward. I swear itll be worth it in the long run.

Gain wisdom from philosophy, read books on different types of mindsets. I just finished a book called Adult Children Of Emotionally Immature Parents and it gave me a little insight into the way the mind works. Youll notice that things repeat themselves if left unattended or unhealed so save yourself the future stress and build a strong mind and strong body!

𝓯𝓸𝓬𝓾𝓼 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓮𝓭𝓾𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

Education can take you far. Try to get good grades. There's so much you can learn to better equip yourself!

Religions and World Views

Ballet

Agriculture

Foreign Language

Music

Mythology

Golf

History

Psychology

Culture

All these (and more) are things that you can grasp easily and that will help you a lot. Your intellect will never leave you. Plus some of these will reduce your risk of getting alzheimers!

Take a class for something, itll give you good networking opportunities as well

𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯

Looks arent everything but boy does it help to be pretty! Again I cant emphasize the element of education enough. Research on healthy eating habits for your health and to maintain a healthy figure. Start getting active with things like yoga for starters and maybe cardio if you enjoy that, there are so many forms of activity available.

Try and visit a dermatologist if you can for your skin, click on the skin thing, I wrote some stuff that personally helped me.

also visit the dentist and work on your posture

Build an aesthetic wardrobe if you want, it can be anything from girly dark academia to full pink barbie. Research on your body type and how best you can style yourself.

You can also get into makeup and try experimenting with things like a bit of concealer or eyeliner to enhance your beauty.

Dont be afraid to accessorize as well.

@2pretty is the best blog for things like beauty and its benefits!

I dont really recommend entertaining boys but do what you want, just stay safe and stay sharp. Learn the games that some of them play so you dont fall for them.

At this time please keep your morals high, its crazy being a teen I know but build an unwavering sense of self worth. Its ok to make some mistakes but always remember what you learnt from it. I would also recommend sharpening your faith as a strong spirit is something that will carry you till the end of time, find something to believe in. Im saying this from a psychological point of view, a back bone of sorts which you can fall onto in times of need is good for you.

All this stuff should set you up for being a hypergamous woman in the future <3

i hope this helps

#hypergamous #hypergamy #advice #mindset #leveled up mindset #levelling up #level up

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dwellordream · 2 years

Text

“...Early modern England maintained a deeply ambivalent outlook toward old age, whose inception was variably set anywhere from about forty onward: gérontocratie in its formal ideology, the society simultaneously displayed a "pessimistic" or even disdainful regard for a stage of life associated with "a wretched time of physical deterioration." Moreover, women in this setting experienced if anything a compounded version of such conflicted attitudes. Freed from the substantial physical hazards of parturition and often from the dependencies and demands of earlier life stages, as Amy M. Froide has argued, single women of the day were perhaps "best positioned to enjoy a positive old age," yet those who had avoid ed marriage altogether "faced derogatory epithets such as ‘old maid’ and ‘ superannuated virgin’ that made direct reference to their advanced age."

Exploring the social impact of menopause in sixteenth-century culture, Lynn Botelho likewise refocuses the emphasis on physical appearance with which women in the era especially had to reckon: "the end of regeneration probably did not signal the beginning of old age to early modern society," she observes, "but menopause did coincide with a host of culturally significant visual changes that resulted in women being labelled old at this stage." Given the unquestionable centrality of "outwardly observable signifiers of status in early modern England," Botelho concludes that "A woman became old when she looked old." This notion takes an expressly humiliating turn in the gerontophobic, antifeminist bias informing contemporary pictorial traditions that rendered figures like Helen, Cleopatra, or even Lucretia as elderly grotesques who might never have exerted the power they did over men could they have been envisioned in their decrepitude.

Keenly sensitive to such contexts, Elizabeth as head of state appreciated how the need to manage constructions of her appearance was a matter of political order. From early in her reign, she aimed to exert as much control over this critical domain as possible, an impulse that took on ever greater urgency amid the growing generational animosities that came to mark her regimes later decades. Educated in the multiform terms of Elizabeth’s public iconography, we have yet to investigate adequately the queens complex sense of her own physical body as it aged. As a result, darker evaluations of the "Mask of Youth" convention so prominent toward the end of the reign have come to overdetermine modern judgments.

As early as 1563, after all, her council had circulated a draft of a proclamation "to prohibit all manner of other persons to draw, paint, grave, or portray her majesty's personage or visage for a time until, by some perfect pattern or example, the same may be by others followed." Our readiness to read her later self-representations as governed by vanity rather than strategy in many respects invests too literally in Ben Jonson's famous sneer that "Queen Elizabeth never saw herself after she became old in a true glass." Wallace MacCaffrey’s more generous construction of the monarch's own designs puts only a slightly more positive spin on this late "posturing": while Elizabeth's (failed) effort to institute a homogenous portrait had intended clearly "to display to her subjects an unchanging, ageless countenance," he feels that such "outward manifestations are faithful reflections of a fundamental inward reality."

Whatever else we know about this "inward reality," however, we cannot doubt the profound circumspection that Elizabeth brought to all her political endeavors, the formulation of a public image not least among these. We need to resist presumptions that the elder queen was so casually seduced by her own propaganda, and to be willing to recognize her discreet capacity to embrace the advanced age that her body duly registered, less as a physical liability than as an index of the experience that empowered her reign. Always protective of the way others saw fit to represent her for supportive or derogatory purposes, she knew what her subjects expected, and within reason was willing to honor their demands. Beyond this, answerable only to herself, she knew how to project her fully embodied sense of self with a disarming authenticity.

In age as in youth, Elizabeth had the common sense to discern that, however much control a public figure exercised over her own representation, she could never fully govern her audiences response. Over the course of her long career, she grew adept at parrying the "narrative of decline" with which she increasingly had to contend. Interestingly, the first serious critical foregrounding of public discussion about her age came in response to French marriage prospects of the late 1570s, when she belatedly appeared to entertain the Duke dAlençon, over twenty years her junior, as a serious political match. However sincerely and to whatever end Elizabeth pursued the engagement, it indisputably drew national attention specifically to the subject of her years. As far back as 1570, Alençon's older brother, who would go on to take the throne as Henry III, had rejected any suggestion of courtship with such "an old creature."

A decade later, English subjects proved no less tactless in their own violent enmity to the subsequent venture. So respectful a minister as Ralph Sadler delivered a speech in which he boldly recalls how "The inequalyte of yeres" between the parties was such that "her majestie myght be his mother," where John Stubbs in his Discoverie of a Gaping Gulf lodged an even more egregious protest against the unhealthiness of matching "youth with decrepit age." But for all her public fury at such presumptuous commentary, Elizabeth in her correspondence acknowledged the age discrepancy freely. When the French king and queen mother first proposed the marriage in the summer of 1572, Elizabeth was the first to remark repeatedly on "the youngness of the years of the Duke of Alençon being compared to ours," insisting on a personal conference before anything can proceed since "nothing can make so full a satisfaction to us for our opinion nor percase in him of us in respect of the opinion he may conceive of the excess of our years above his."

She later indulges Alençon with wry self-caricatures of "the poor old woman who honors you as much (I dare say) as any young wench whom you ever will find" (CW, 251). Even apart from her most remarkable lyric reflection, the poem "When I was fair and young," which likely dates to the period following the courtship, we have sufficient evidence that Elizabeth harbored no vain illusions about her perpetual youth. Between the demise of the Alençon affair and the year of de Maisses embassy, Elizabeth faced down an almost continuous sequence of reminders of time's corrosive force. The stress of Mary Stuarts increasingly desperate plots and eventual execution in 1587 clearly took a heavy toll, provoking Essex's prediction to James VI of Scotland "that hir Majeste could not lyve above a yere or ii by reson of sum imperfección."

She of course weathered this event and the even grander trauma of the Armada that it helped precipitate the following year, only to witness the deaths of such long-standing ministers as Leicester, Walsingham, Mildmay, and Hatton ushering in what John Guy has termed the queen's "second reign." Alongside the deaths of three more trusted members of her privy council (Puckering, Hunsdon, and Knollys) in 1596, she was then forced to suffer another, more emphatic wave of commentary on her senescence as she achieved the "critical" climacteric of her sixty-third year, when an array of well-intentioned but exasperating sermons taxed her patience. Bishop Anthony Rudd, for instance, preached before her on the way Samuel “cast a right account of his yeares, who when he was become olde, made his sonnes Iudges of Israeli, because he was not able to beare the charge."

After offering for meditation an extended catalogue of the effects of bodily decline, he startlingly presumes to ventriloquize the queen herself in reflection upon her "long temporall life": "Lord, I have now put foote within the doores of that age, in the which the Almond tree flourisheth: wherein men begin to carry a Calender in their bones, the senses begin to faile, the strength to diminish, yea al the powers of the body daily to decay." Sir John Harington reported how Elizabeth, "perceiving wherto it tended, began to be troubled with" the discourse, and rebuked the preacher that "he should have kept his arithmetick to him selfe," but also reports how she later relented, protesting annoyance "Only, to show how the good bishop was deceaved" in his ageist presumption.

John Manningham's diary adds Elizabeth's sardonic but composed remark to Rudd afterwards, "M[aste]r D[octo]r, you have made me a good funeral sermon; I may dye when I will." Cultivating the "wisdom" pose she had taken up at least since the mid-1580s, when she expressed confidently to James that "we old foxes can find shifts to save ourselves by others' malice" (CW, 262), Elizabeth had by 1597 become inured to her role as elder stateswoman. She proudly wore her "years," conjuring them as leverage over her junior subjects, as we find in her 1593 assurance to the MPs that "having my head by years and experience better stayed (whatsoever any shall suppose to the contrary) than that you may easily believe I will enter into any idle expenses, now must I give you all as great thanks as ever prince gave to loving subjects" (CW, 332).

In July 1597 she reprimanded Essex's impetuosity, reminding him how "Eyes of youth have strong sights, but commonly not so deep as those of elder age" (CW, 386), Her famous rebuttal to the Polish ambassador that same month likewise sniped at his master's youth: "seeing your king is a young man and newly chosen," she answered the emissary's presumption in perfect Latin, "that doth not so perfectly know the course of managing affairs of this nature with other princes as his elders have observed with us, so perhaps others will observe which shall succeed in his place thereafter" (CW, 332-33). At the same time—and another extreme altogether—she would remain the subject of fetish and fantasy, in spite of if not because of her age.

If she could not have known Simon Forman's notorious erotic dream of her in age, presented by A. L. Rowse as evidence of the "erotic stimulus that the menfolk derived from having a Virgin Queen upon the throne," she could not have ignored the very public allegation of the executed Jesuit Thomas Portmort that his persecutor Richard Topcliffe had claimed intimate familiarity with the queen's naked features, claiming hers "the softest belly of any womankind." She was aware, in other words, of the broadly various reactions that the sight of her body might have provoked from even so amicable and compliant a character as de Maisse.”

- Christopher Martin, “The Breast and Belly of a Queen: Elizabeth After Tilbury.” in Early Modern Women

#christopher martin #elizabethan #elizabeth i of england #renaissance #history

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no-droids · 4 years

Text

Chapter 5: Of Metal and Men

Part five of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 5.1K OUR LONGEST SIN YET FOUNDLINGS

Warnings: SMUT, oral sex (m receiving), dirty talk, mild mild degredation whoops

A/N: Uhh this is so fluffy? wtf how come??/?

“Mando?”

“Hm.”

“I have to pee.”

He grunts. “So go pee.”

“I can’t see.”

“Turn on a light.”

“But…” You don’t even want to say the words aloud. You’ve so far convinced yourself that if you just never mention the fact that he’s got his helmet off right now, he’ll somehow forget to put it back on again.

It’s not that you necessarily want him to deviate from the ways of the Mandalore, obviously; you have more respect for his culture than that. No, it's just that. This is so nice. Hearing him speak without a modulator warping the natural frequency of his voice, being able to feel his skin directly under your lips with your face buried in the crook of his neck like this. Practically everything on this fucking ship is metal—the floor beneath you, the mechanics, the hull, the cockpit, the blasters, the armor. When he puts it on, he becomes nearly invincible; an unreadable, impenetrable fortress that abides by a strict code he rarely deviates from.

But without all that, he’s so… human. Not a Mandalorian, just a man. Everything that gives him prestige and recognition stripped away. Every weapon he straps to his body removed. The code he’s honored his entire life suspended in a paradisiacal loophole that you never want to end, even if it means having to walk around in the dark for the rest of your life.

He has to put the helmet back on at some point, you’re eventually forced to remind yourself. What starts out as an impossible task slowly becomes easier as the pressure in your bladder increasingly makes itself known, a reminder that you too are only human and sometimes humans have to pee soon after they wake up.

Which, y’know, a lot of times is okay. But sometimes, like right now, it really fucking isn’t okay. Because right now, his hand is so big and warm resting against your upper-back, shoved up underneath the fabric of your shirt and spread out across your shoulder blade. Right now you can feel his heartbeat through his chest, feel his lungs expand and contract slowly against you. The last thing you want is to move, and the darkness makes a perfect scapegoat.

You’re quiet for too long, apparently, because he eventually turns his chin to brush his lips against your temple. “Turn on a light. Just don’t look.”

You honestly don’t blame him. He hasn’t had as much time to contemplate the staggering predicament you’re in. “Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive, shiny.”

“Go. I trust you.”

Your lashes brush against his neck when your eyes pop open, and the giant pang you feel in your chest shouldn’t be nearly as debilitating as it is. You know he trusts you, it goes without saying. But it’s one thing to travel around the galaxy with him, cultivate that inherent trust that comes naturally with odd partnerships that work surprisingly well. He trusts you to look after the kid, trusts you to pilot and maintain his ship, trusts you to cauterize his wounds when he’s incapable of doing so. He even trusts you enough to fall asleep next to you, leaving himself unarmored and vulnerable in ways you know you’ll never truly be able to understand.

But this—this is entirely different. This is the Way. And he’s half-asleep right now, putting a proverbial blaster in your hand and painting a target on his livelihood, telling you he trusts you enough to uphold one of the strictest, most foundational pillars of his belief system for him.

Okay. Okay. If this is what he wants. You’re not sure you’d put nearly as much blind faith in your own abilities (pun totally intended), but okay. You trust him and apparently he trusts you, so by some weirdly paradoxical extension inwards, you’re just going to have to trust yourself, too. He’s always been a man of relatively few words, so it shouldn’t really come as a surprise to you that somehow only three of them work to provide you with more motivation than you’ve experienced in your entire life. If this is what he wants, then you’ll fight logic with gloves on and downright force yourself to see without seeing. Somehow.

You slowly start to wiggle out of his arms, but then pause for a second to tilt your chin up and press a soft kiss to his lips, trying not to get distracted from your task when he mmphs low in his throat and his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, holding you there for just a bit longer than you originally planned.

“Go,” he eventually breathes into your mouth.

“You’re not making this any easier.”

“Go.”

“Fuck—fine.” You carefully remove yourself and do your best to stand up on the blanket with unsteady legs, but then you stop for an entirely different reason, patting the skin on your bare hips in the pitch blackness to check. “Wait, hang on, did—did you not put any pants back on me last night?”

“…Was I supposed to?” Eventually comes from somewhere by your feet.

No. No, he most certainly was not. You’re honestly just surprised it took you this long to notice, especially since you’ve been subtly clenching your thighs and delaying the inevitable in the darkness for so long.

You don’t end up answering him, determined instead to find your way to the fresher without the use of sight so you can come back to him quicker. That’s easier said than done, though. It’s slow going from the start, trying to step over him without actually knowing exactly where he is, carefully tapping your toes to the ground three times before putting any weight on them and hoping you don’t accidentally step on anything important.

He takes the possibility away when you hear him sigh and strong fingers wrap themselves around your ankles in the dark, pulling and guiding your legs up over his body while muttering inaudibly under his breath. Something tells you he’s still getting used to having companions that are so blatantly helpless without him, but he does good in rising to the challenge regardless.

The second he releases you and you take a step forward off the blanket though, you immediately trip over something bulky and painfully hard on the floor, catching yourself just in time but managing to stub your toe in the process.

“Careful,” his voice says from behind you, over the loud clang echoing throughout the hull. “Beskar’s there.”

“Thanks, I almost tripped.” Once you get closer to the machinery standing upright against the far wall of the hull though, it’s a bit easier to see. The red and green lights act as your navigation beacons, stationary air traffic control wands guiding your turbulent body through the darkness.

The fresher light is fucking blinding when you finally make contact with the switch, and with the illumination comes an incredibly stern reminder to yourself not to look behind you. It… it’d be so easy, wouldn’t it? Turning your head just a fraction right now would be the equivalent of pulling a blaster’s trigger a mere inch—devastating, life-altering, and permanent, yet somehow so fundamentally easy.

You don’t, of course. It’s just the fleeting thought of it that jars you for a moment. You quickly shut the door behind you, use the toilet (annoyingly slanted thing you need to have a talk with him about soon, more of a weird space urinal than anything else and not really designed to be used by people with vaginas at all), and then wash your hands.

Your slightly damp fingers press tight to bridge over your eyes before you carefully open the door again, knowing you’re now facing him and the fluorescent light over the sink behind you is probably shining directly on him.

“Is it… safe?” You ask after a second.

“I’m not a rancor.” The sound of his voice makes you sigh in relief and your heart drop in disappointment simultaneously.

Modulated. Filtered, and familiar.

Sure enough, you peek through your fingers to see him laying back with an arm casually folded behind his head, his helmet back on. Even though the only skin you see is his bare hand resting on his stomach, he still looks fucking gorgeous like this—waiting silently for you in the make-shift bed you shared, blanket twisted around his lower half.

You pause there in the doorway so you can just admire him for a second. Relaxing, looking so trim and flexible in his long sleeved under-armor without all that beskar weighing him down. He looks back at you through the chrome visor, letting it tilt to the side and rest lazily in the cradle of his arm, and you suddenly remember with a jolt just how incredibly pantsless you are right now.

“Come here.”

Maker, he still makes you nervous. Stars, he had his mouth buried between your legs for longer than you can even imagine last night, why are you still so nervous? Is it the proximity? Just the literal act of seeing him in front of you? Not being able to feel like yourself around him unless he’s a disembodied voice in the darkness? Not being able to remember he’s an actual fucking person under there if you’re not actively touching his body in some way?

You feel… kind of shy now. Why? It’s like a flip inside you he can switch at will, just ever so subtly change his posture or tone of voice and bam—he’s dangerous, remember? He’s an underground bounty hunter, remember? He’s a mystery, he’s unpredictable—he’s an invincible, unreadable, impenetrable fortress, and you know absolutely nothing about him. Remember?

You trip over his armor again for an entirely different reason on your way back to him this time, despite how much better you can see now. You catch yourself once more, looking down at the offending pile of beskar like it did that on purpose, but then stop to consider it for just a second.

It’s just metal. And he’s just a man. You know he’s probably killed more people than you can count and he’s intimidating as all fuck, but you also know he stutters when he gets really worked up and decided to fall asleep next to you without his helmet on. Because he’s just a man, and men aren’t born with shields on their backs and visors covering their eyes and grenades in their hands. Not even Mandalorians.

So you slowly bend down and grab his hefty gloves, taking a moment to study them before fitting your comparatively small hands into each of them one at a time, flexing your fingers inside the fabric and feeling how much space the tips of them have to move before reaching leather.

He says your name shortly as you’re carefully stepping your right foot into his oversized boot. You ignore him, balancing precariously on one leg while your left foot slides in the other one. “Hey, guess who I am.”

“No.”

You reach down and lift the unexpectedly heavy ammo belt over your head, letting the thick leather drape between your breasts and come to rest just below the curve of your bare hip. “I’ll give you a hint,” you say, gathering the mass of dark fabric at your feet and making sure your butt doesn’t get caught on the thick bandolier when you rise back up again. You wrap the cape around your shoulders and lift your chin to tie it in a sloppy, makeshift little knot around your throat, fingers noticeably less nimble when confined in loose leather. “Handy with a blaster, not real big on droids. I also wear a helmet, probably because my face is too pretty to match my menacing vibe but those rumors are unconfirmed.”

“Come here,” he gruffs impatiently, but you just turn around and waddle back a few steps in the baggy getup, much too tiny feet clomping around awkwardly in his roomy boots and the floor-length cape dragging on the ground behind you.

And then you stop, before grabbing the hem of it and whipping around dramatically to face him, giving him your best bounty hunter pose.

“I can bring you in warm,” your voice is a deep as you can get it, your eyebrows narrowed as you fingergun and shift with flair. “Or—”

“Hey—careful—” he quickly sits up and points at your hand, “—don’t touch your thumb to the—”

“—I can bring you in—” And then an actual, real life, giant ass blaze of fucking fire suddenly shoots from your wrist and scares the living shit out of you so much that you stumble backwards and trip over your cape, choking and flailing as you come down hard on your bare ass.

You blink up at him from the ground with wide, terrified eyes. He looks back at you, arm outstretched and frozen in midair.

And then he laughs.

Mando actually fucking laughs at you.

You stare at him in utter shock as he abruptly drops his hand to his lap and his helmet to his chest, his shoulders shaking with it. As lovely and uplifting the sound is, you’re not really sure how to feel about the fact that the first time you managed to get an outright laugh out of him was at the risk of your own mortality.

“Excuse me,” you say after a second, trying your best to sound appalled. You carefully remove the death gauntlets with your hands extended as far away from your face as possible, fingers spread and thumb held completely rigid in position. “Are you actually laughing at the fact that I almost just died horrifically in front of you?”

“Stars, just—” he lifts his head back up to look at you, “fucking—come here. You’re worse than the kid is, I swear.”

You slowly stand up, and the boots are so big around your ankles that you don’t even have to kick them off, you can just leave them there in position on the floor as you lift your feet and begin walking over to him. “I’ll have you know I am a fierce bounty hunter—”

“Terrifying,” he mutters, and you’re about halfway done untying his cape when you get close enough for him to reach out and snatch the bottom of it, swiftly yanking you down on top of him and removing the fabric from your throat at the same time. He ignores your dramatic choking noise, catching your flailing body with barely a grunt. “Craziest in the guild. Your first kill was yourself.”

“Yeah, I—” you oof and giggle as he immediately flips you around, downright giddy at the ease with which he maneuvers you on the floor and gets on top of you, “—I bring them in warm, or I bring them in hot.”

“Stop,” you can hear his smile through the helmet as he catches each of your wrists and pins them to the ground by your head. “Maker.”

“Wait—” you try to wiggle out from under him. It’s futile, of course, not just because he’s all muscle while he holds you down and straddles your hips, but because all your body weight is now laying on top of his ammo belt as it slings around your chest. “Wait, h-hang on—the fresher light’s still on.”

“So?”

“So I can see you right now, which means—” you can’t take that stupid thing off your head and kiss me.

That’s what you want to say. You catch yourself just in time, biting your lip and blinking up at your warped reflection in the chrome visor. He releases your wrists and lifts his torso up tall. “…W-which means—”

Mando’s too smart for that, though. You’re not getting one by him anytime soon. Before you can come up with an alternative, he hooks his fingers under the thick band of leather trailing down through the valley between your breasts and calls you out.

“Do you want me to take my helmet off?” He asks, tilting his head down at you and letting his hand slide back and forth under the ammo belt idly. For a second you think he’s going to remove it, try and find some way to wiggle it off you in this position, but then he just lets the heavy bandolier drop back down to your sternum again and continues moving his hands down your tummy. “Hm? Or do you want to see?”

And then one of his thumbs catches the hem of his trousers and ever so slowly starts to pull the fabric downwards. Your breath stutters as tan skin and dark, coarse hair are gradually revealed right in front of your eyes, the hemline making a mouthwatering triangle shape that runs alongside the lines of his Adonis belt.

When he stops just at the very base of his cock, it takes you a second to realize he’s waiting for an answer.

“Uh—” Stars, what the fuck kind of harrowing, existentially crippling question is this? Kiss him or look at him? Is he serious? “Uhhhh…” You legitimately feel torn, blinking up at the visor and noticing the struggle blatantly written all over your reflection. Why in Maker’s name would he put this on you? On the one hand, his mouth. On the other hand, his—

“I want you to see,” he admits quietly, and you flick your eyes down to look at him slowly running his thumb along the slope of flesh peeking out of the dark curls. “Can I show you?”

Oh fuck, what is happening? And why are you so wet already?

“Uh… ye-yeah—” and then he’s immediately using his other hand to reach inside and shift up just a bit, before he eases his gorgeous cock out of his pants by cupping his balls and letting the fabric hooked in his thumb rest under them. He’s already half-hard for you, already deliciously thick as he carefully lowers himself back down again. Against all reason, his skin practically glows under the artificial lighting, somehow looking sunkissed in places that never see the sun.

Maker, you want it in your mouth.

You have no idea why that’s your first thought. Okay, well no, that’s not true—you know exactly why that’s your first thought, especially when you can physically see him getting harder and harder right in front of you, watch him trace his fingers down his shaft and lazily brush them over the head. You love the way he touches himself, how his hands look cradling the base, the beautiful contrast between the dark hair and his warm skin tone.

He slowly starts to move down your body, slide his legs back on either side of you until he’s straddling your lower thighs, and it’s not until his cock goes in the exact opposite direction you want it to (away from your mouth) that you find your voice.

“Hey, wait—I want—” his touch immediately stills along your hips and he lifts his helmet, letting you scramble to prop yourself up with your elbows, “—let me go down on you. Please.”

“I told you I’d fuck you when you woke up,” he says, dropping his gaze back down between your legs. His voice somehow sounds deeper through the filter. Maybe not the pitch exactly, but the… color? Fuller, darker, more depth. “You want to make me into a liar?”

“Never. Fuck my mouth instead.”

His hands tighten and his breathing subtly picks up through the modulator. “I want your pussy. First. We’re almost to Corellia and I’m not risking my life on another hunt until I’ve fucked it like I want to.”

“You decide that timeline,” you remind him breathlessly, pushing your upper-body up off the floor and catching the fabric of his tunic near his neck.

“I have to earn credits somehow, I can’t just—” he abruptly cuts himself off when you yank his collar to the side and lick a slow, hot, wet line up his throat. “—I… I-I can’t just stay on this ship with you f-forever and… and…”

His breath catches when you bite down on the thick cord of muscle connecting his neck to his shoulder. And then he murmurs your name when you wrap your hand around his hard cock.

“You can do whatever you want to my pussy,” you whisper against his skin, feeling him shudder under your lips as you slowly pull your hand up and down the thick length of him. “Whenever you want. I made that clear last night. All I’m asking is that right now, you lay back and let me suck your cock for a little bit. Is that okay?”

He doesn’t answer with words, but he throbs under your hand and his body is surprisingly malleable as you urge him to move back slightly, just enough for you to collect your legs out from under him and rise up on your knees to face him. You keep stroking him the entire time, sucking marks down his neck while you hold the hemline to the side. Nobody will ever be able to see them, but somehow that makes it even better. A secret only you and him know. Next time he scares off a crowd of locals, he’ll be wearing your signet under his armor.

When you’ve sufficiently bitten and kissed marks along his neck and the fabric won’t stretch anymore, you reach down and pull it up from the bottom, lifting it up up up—up until it rests right above his sternum and you can see almost the entire length of his torso underneath, tan and dusted in dark hair.

You strongarm him back to sit on the floor with one hand and hike your own shirt up over your breasts with the other, letting the fabric bunch under your armpits while his ammo belt bisects your chest diagonally. He curses when you immediately climb on top of him and start dragging your skin against his, rolling your exposed tits and pussy against the hard planes of his body and letting him feel how soft you really are.

“Is that okay?” You ask him once more, rubbing yourself into him. “Will you let me suck your cock, Mando?”

“Fuck—” he growls, grabbing your hips, “—why are you—h-how do you always make it feel so… so good—?”

“It’s supposed to feel good,” you tell him, beginning to slide down his body.

“Not like this,” he pants, tipping his head back when you slowly lick down his chest. “Not—not everything, n-not all the time.”

The warmth that settles in the pit of your tummy is intensified by the clear drop of precum shining at the tip of his cock, now achingly swollen and a mouthwatering shade darker in color than the rest of him. “Keep talking,” you whisper. “It’s sexy.”

And then you slide his head into your mouth and let your tongue flutter gently along his frenulum.

Mando instantly goes rigid and grabs a fistful of your hair as you hum and taste his precum, slowly brushing your tongue over his tip to see if you can get any more out of him like this without going deeper.

“Fuck—” he grits while lifting his helmet to look, every muscle in his body tensing under you. “Y-your mouth is—” he gasps when you gently swirl circles around the pulsing head, his open palm coming down hard on the blanket with a dull thud, “—fuck, your mouth is s-so—so fucking good—”

You open your jaw and take him down a few inches so he can feel your throat, satisfied when his helmet falls back and his grip tightens in your hair. You slowly begin bobbing up and down, dragging the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft and getting him nice and wet. His thighs almost feel like he’s wearing beskar over them, his entire body held so incredibly tight and stiff as you softly pleasure him.

You can only get around half of him in your mouth without straining for it, so you soon lift off him and start coating your palm and fingers in spit. His head raises immediately, exposed chest heaving as he watches.

“You’re so tense,” you murmur, reaching down and starting to jerk him with your slick hand. He doesn’t relax into it, instead he straightens his back even more, his hips starting to thrust into your grip. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I want to fuck you,” he growls, the exact opposite of relaxed. “You—you can’t w-walk around half-naked in—in my clothes and expect me t—”

He cuts himself off with a groan when you take him back down again, deeper this time. And then he relents and starts slowly fucking into your mouth, gradually rolling his hips further and further with every thrust. One hand fists itself into the blanket while the other holds your hair back as you open your throat and work the rest of his length with slippery fingers.

When you take him down as far as you can and you drop your palm down to cradle his balls, Mando just about loses his mind.

“Fuck—let me fuck you,” he starts rasping at the ceiling, “please, l-let me—let me pound you into this dirty f-fucking ground like you wanted, like—like the filthy little girl you are—”

You hold there and swallow around his thick cock, letting your other hand slither down between your own legs and start rubbing your clit. He probably can’t see you do it from this angle but it feels so much better this way regardless, having him as far down as your throat as possible and listening to him babble while you touch yourself.

The sound you make pulling off him to breathe isn’t necessarily the most attractive thing in the galaxy, but with the way he groans and tugs your hair sharply in response, you’d think it was the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. You keep jerking his throbbing cock and rubbing circles around your clit, before moving down to take one of his balls into your mouth.

His grip tightens, along with the gorgeously soft skin under your tongue. “W-Wait—stop—”

You look up at him. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat and everything about him is unbearably stiff, even with the way his body is sprawled out and his chest rocks up and down with exertion.

“Sorry, I just—I was—” he gasps, “—I d-didn’t want to—to c-cum—”

“I want you to cum,” you murmur, blinking up at him and dragging your tongue up the length of his swollen, throbbing cock. “Please. Want it down my throat.”

You don’t know how it’s possible for his body to go even more rigid, but it does. “You—?”

He possibly could’ve stopped himself, you think. Even with the way you start gently sucking on his tip and looking up at him innocently after telling him you want to swallow his load, maybe he could’ve stopped the way his balls suddenly pull up tight, the way his grip on your hair turns to steel and his helmet rolls to the side.

But then the subtle shift of his head means he can see your hand moving between your legs, you can tell. You can tell, because he makes a choking sound through the modulator and his stomach flexes, and then he’s cumming down your throat exactly like you wanted him to.

There’s a second between the moment of detonation and the explosive result of it. It’s just enough time for him to slowly tilt his chin up and let out the smallest, quietest moan you’ve ever heard from him before his cock starts throbbing on your tongue, his balls working to steadily pump cum up his shaft.

You pull up and start swirling circles around his head just as the first spurt hits your tongue, moaning at the taste of him and preening at his hoarse whisper of your name. You swallow everything he gives you, drain him until he’s completely empty and spent, trembling in pieces on the floor.

Admittedly you do keep him there in your mouth just a little bit longer than you should, just taking a minute to savor how good he tastes and how fucking beautiful his cock is, how stunning his body is exposed and spread out for you on the ground like this.

“Keep—keep doing that and I’ll get hard again,” he eventually warns, though his voice comes out sounding like sandpaper in his throat.

You hum and finally pull off him. “That’s got to be the least threatening thing you’ve ever said to someone, I think.”

“Not able t—” he jerks when you bite his hipbone, “—to scare you off, apparently. Most people run from me.”

“Nope. Told you I wouldn’t, remember? Back on Cantonica. I’m also the craziest bounty hunter in the guild, so. Look.” You lift up to show him. “I even have an ammo belt, see? It holds all of the bullets, for all of my guns that I have.”

His hand slowly comes up and you think he’s going to grab the band of leather across your chest to either take it off you or pull you forward with it, but then he just grabs one of your breasts and gently squeezes it instead. “You’re beautiful.”

Your breath catches. You blink twice at him, your heart suddenly thundering under his hand.

“Wearing my armor. Not wearing it. Not wearing anything. Wearing your clothes. In complete darkness. You’re beautiful.”

You think—for one ludicrous, insane second, you think that the enormous swelling in your chest literally transfers itself up to your brain and causes you to have an aneurysm right there on the floor in front of him.

But nope—it’s just the entire hull starting to violently shift and shake, swerving sideways and jerking upwards with rapid, unpredictable shifts in gravity.

You thrown on top of him in the chaos and try to find some sort of stable ground without accidentally kneeing him in the crotch. Mando grunts and gets rolled on top of you when the ship immediately veers the other way, the weight of him suddenly crushing your lungs and making it impossible to breathe with the brutal changes in g-force. Did he—did he leave the baby in the fucking cockpit?

He left the baby in the fucking cockpit.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #smut #reader insert #pedro pascal #no-droids

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newtonsheffield · 3 years

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Well, you know how much I love Bridgerton & Sons and I have to make a few requests, too, even if I know you’re in high demand and most of my requests ideas have been done, but I’ve got something. As you well know, I’m devouring To Sir Phillip, With Love right now and I love Phillip x Eloise, so what are some headcanons for them in the world of Bridgerton & Sons? Preferably anything angsty or hurt/comfort, of course 😉 Lots of love from your most faithful reader ❤️

Phillip and Eloise Angst/hurt/comfort? For you whose read my fics more than I have? Yeah go on then! (This got a little long and I’m sorry!)

Eloise Bridgerton had been working for Phillip Crane for six months when she’d first seen it happen. She’d been carrying a stack of books that Oliver and Amanda had left scattered around the living room when the largest one, a children’s encyclopedia, had toppled from the stack making a loud smacking noise against the floorboards. Phillip who had been walking in front of her, passing as they did like ships in the night, Froze, his posture shrinking inwards suddenly. She studied him confusedly for a second, before walking cautiously towards him, her hand reaching for his shoulder Phillip- But he’d shrunk away from her, spinning wildly his eyes terrified, wide in surprise with a sharp Please Don’t! Eloise had recoiled a little at the tone of his voice and he’d seemed to realise it was her. Shifting away awkwardly with a murmured Sorry Eloise, just surprised as he picked the book up for her. The look in his eyes had haunted her for weeks. Months and Months later, when they’d been together for a short while he whispered in her ear in the dark that the book had made the exact same noise as the cane his father had used to beat him as a child. The first noise against the floorboards always a warning. And He’d cried into her chest, as her own tears had fallen into his hair.

In the years since his divorce from Marina had been finalised, Phillip Crane had (Very) halfheartedly tried to date. Though Dates had always stopped very abruptly when he’d explained I’m 26 and I have 7 year old twins nothing like that to send a woman heading for the hills. So by the time he met Eloise Bridgerton when he was 29, he’d completely given up. An he’d really truly, tried to ignore the fact that she was so good with his children and it made his heart ache. The way she always singled them out as Those ones are mine rather than the way he’d heard other nannies say I look after those ones made him want to wrap his arms around her and never let go. But it felt far too much like taking advantage of his employee and he was absolutely not his father’s son. So he kept his distance from her, and his children. No matter how much he wished it was difference. Especially when he heard the tiny voice of his son say, on his 10th birthday Why doesn’t our Mum want to spend any time with us? Does she not love us? And Eloise had squatted beside Oliver and wrapped her arms around him so tightly and said Of Course she does honey. She just... can’t be here right now. But until she can, you have me. And looking back that was the moment he fell in love with Eloise Bridgerton.

Eloise Bridgerton had disliked Phillip’s father on first sight. She’d been walking with the twins, returning home an found a man standing on the Crane’s doorstep. She’d been about to ask him if she could help him when Amanda had said, very formally Good Afternoon Grandpa. Mr Crane had nodded at his Granddaughter then turned to his Grandson and done the same who was attempting to make himself a little smaller, clinging to Eloise’ leg. Eloise had frowned, this was very different from how she’d greeted her own Grandparents but not all families were the same, she supposed reasonably. Mr Crane turned his gaze to her, his eyes moving down her form before he barked And Who are you then girl? Eloise had taken a deep breath, swallowing her indignation before saying Eloise Bridgerton, I’m Phillip’s nanny. Mr Crane’s eyes had lit up at the sound of her last name. Bridgerton hey? He’d started but Phillip had arrived interrupting with a panicked I’m sorry I’m late Sir. Leading him into the house his posture hunched shooting an apologetic glance at Eloise. The twins were silent the entire time Mr Crane was in the house.

The first time Eloise saw Mr Crane after she was with Phillip was at the man’s birthday party. Phillip hadn’t wanted to attend, though he’d said in a small voice I have to go El. She’d assessed him for a second before saying pick me up at 7 then even though he hadn’t asked her to go. She held his hand tightly as they walked through the door, and wrapped his arm around her waist when he seemed to freeze. Mr Crane had greeted his son with a cold Phillip then turned towards Eloise sneering slightly Well, Eloise Bridgerton. I wouldn’t have thought my son had it in him to shag the help. Maybe he is a chip off the old block after all hey! His laughter ringing through the room, as his hand clapped Phillip on the shoulder whose large frame seemed to shrink inwards. He looked on the verge of saying something, an apologetic look tossed her way. Eloise tapped his hand lightly, Then let out the loud false laugh she’d heard her mother use at society functions pulled a surprised Mr Crane into a tight hug and hissed in his ear. You disgust me, If you touch Phillip or our Children again, I’ll fucking kill you myself. And She dragged Phillip away.

Hope you have an Amazing week! ❤️

#bridgerton and sons au #eloise x phillip #philoise #eloise bridgerton #sir phillip crane #philoise angst #This got long #my bad gs #molly's asks and answers

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the-worship-project · 3 years

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The Lord has been teaching me so much about heart posture lately; so much so, it’s become my solitary mission in this season...leading both myself in a pursuit of heart-purity and helping others in the same direction. I’ve heard faithfulness defined as, “long obedience in the right direction.” Man I love that. It doesn’t negate the reality of falling over, but speaks volumes with regard our response to trials, tough times and doing things we know we shouldn’t. Nothing reveals the inner workings of our unseen spaces like difficult situations. Let’s be people of long obedience in the right direction; people who seek not just external obedience, but internal submission. That’s where it counts and it’s where the Lord is looking. In a world of external priorities, may we be looking inward and upward, hearing and healing — in all things, obeying His call. What a blessing to journey this with Jesus. A man who saw the perceived impossibility of this task, embraced our frame, walked our pain and revealed a higher way of living. It’s a return to prayer (dialogue, not monologue...listening more than talking...reading His Word and heeding to what He’s already said), worship (our whole beings aflame with love and adoration, offering every moment of every day to Him), and community (the authentic pursuit of loving, living with, learning from those God places around us). The world groans for our awakening, creation stands at attention — praise already on its lips — waiting for our response, for the anointing of God’s power and authority at work in us.

#design #art #heart #Jesus #christian #church #Gateway Church #Stephen James Hart

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halinski · 3 years

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Buck’s New Year Resolution

This was started in December 2019 lmao and I guess thank goodness I didn't? Idek man, I'm hungover and slightly dissociated and just sad and tired but I managed to spit out some words, because I just wanted some fluffy, confident&happy!Buck, buddie pre-slash^^

Happy New Year everyone

They don’t have to work for New Year’s Eve and that’s a sign, if anything, that this turnover into a new year is going to be a good one. They’re all celebrating with family and that means- everything is the same as christmas, really. The only difference is that they’re celebrating at Bobby and Athena’s house (and well, the group home isn’t there but that isn’t a thing one could easily remedy). It’s like they’re really a family and Buck feels 100% a part of it again and it’s crazy when he thinks about it. After everything he’s done with the lawsuit, which… doesn’t even make sense to him anymore. He’s not sure how it ever did. Though he can still feel the intensity of the burrowed emotions like a wound deep in his chest.

Sadly, this happens way too often. Though he tries to keep his feelings controlled for as long as he could, work them out with himself if need be, sometimes they go through with him. Like the way he had hidden in bed after his legs had been crushed, and again, after he had lost Christopher in the tsunami. It made clear to everyone around him how vulnerable he is. He was afraid the lawsuit would do the same, just prove to everyone how insecure he was. Thankfully, it was chalked up to his stupidity. That turned out to be an easy cover for some things. It’s not like it’s a lie. He flunked out of college because he couldn’t handle the pressure. A smarter person would manage.

The problem is though, he’d hurt other people with that lawsuit. It wasn’t just a consequence of him not reaching the bar by a little. He had actively gone out of his way and hurt everyone. That… required a whole lot making up for and Buck was going to dedicate his life to doing so. What else was there to live for but to fix the pain he’d caused others? Being a firefighter has always been part of that but Buck is slowly understanding that to be able to achieve his highest potential in helping others, he is going to have to go inward and actually mend a few of his wounds, not slap band aids on bullet holes. He’s already started down that path ever since he joined the family that was laughing around him.

Bobby sets a hand on Buck’s shoulder, urging him closer with a smile. Buck couldn’t help but beam back at him, grateful beyond words for everything Bobby has given and continues to give him.

Someone’s tooting a horn somewhere and Buck almost wishes he had the ladder truck there for the blare. He sweeps his gaze across the billowing commotion. They’re all gearing up for the countdown, the start of a whole new decade, a new era. He’s going into this with so much more than he thought he’d have 3 years ago.

“10!”

Bobby gives him a squeeze, almost like those little moments in movies. The ones where the father tells his son, I’m proud of you.

Buck tries to swallow the lump in his throat and blink away the glaring lights.

“7!”

Maddie is only a few paces away, closer than she had been in 3 years, shining in a way he had /never/ seen her do before.

“6!”

Chimney is holding her hand, satisfied in the most relaxed way, no boasting posture or show off clothes. He was just Chimney, smiling to his side as if he’s found the solution to all his problems.

“5!”

Athena is holding up a bottle of champagne to a cheering crowd, ready to pop the corkscrew because everyone in the room knows she’s the only one who could actually make this look cool.

3!”

Christopher shouts loudest from in between the other children, arms raised as far as they can go, reaching for the stars in full faith he will reach them one day and Buck knows he will.

“2!”

He catches a glimpse of Hen pulling Karen in for a kiss.

“1!”

Eddie…

The world erupts into cacophony of shouts and cheering, a rushing explosion to Buck’s ears. Incomprehensible and deafening. He thinks he loses all feeling, almost like he’s drowning. Bobby’s hug barely registers as his head pounds. One second Bobby’s there, the next he’s gone and Buck is getting pulled into an all too familiar scent, checkered flannel underneath his chin and somehow his arms find a grip. The pat on his back knocks all the breath out of him and Buck is sure Eddie must feel him falling apart against him but as suddenly as he appeared, he’s gone again, searching for Chris.

Buck’s lips are left yearning.

Maddie tugs on his hand and elbow, and Buck returns to his senses with a jolt. He congratulates her with a metallic taste in his mouth and a harried smile. It’s not a lie when he spouts about them welcoming the new year together like this being the only right way, but he feels numb to the feeling of it. What he feels instead is like someone clobbered him with a brick and for a single moment he wonders if possibly, he had a blood clot left to take him now, in this very moment, where he felt more himself than ever before.

Buck doesn’t know how the rest of the night goes. Or how much of the next day he spends thinking, remembering, agonizing, panicking but deciding anyway, rather than sleeping. He’s so abuzz he can't keep track of anything anymore. All he knows is that eventually he's in front of Eddie's door.

He never used to be much of new year's resolution sort of guy. Instead, Buck takes things as they come and he runs with them. Planning and setting things in stone is not how he works, but he has goals. And honestly, he's not sure how much longer he could keep lying to himself and stay sane.

So here he is, on Eddie's doorstep on the first day of the year, and he's yearning to shout his truth out into the skies. Buck's heartbeat is thundering in his chest and he can't dampen the giddy expression on his face. No more hesitation.

Buck rings the doorbell and waits. He can already hear the questions between Eddie and Christopher inside and Buck bounces a little. It almost feels like he's about to run into a fire fighting drill. Energy, warmth, clear cut thoughts.

The door opens.

"Buck? Hey, I wasn't expecting you today," Eddie says surprised but warmly, already opening up the door wider to invite him in. Perpetually welcome. Like he'd told Maddie, he's not a guest at this house anymore. His heart blooms stronger in his chest.

There's no denying it. The first and last time Buck had truly been in love he had been 15, and head over heels for his best friend, Luke. That crush ended quickly and bloodily when Buck received a punch to the face and a broken nose for trying to kiss him, and was then strictly avoided and never talked to again. Buck isn't going to make the same mistake. He may be pining hard after his best friend again, but he's not messing this up. He knows how to read people better now, knows how much of a good guy Eddie is, knows that this family he has now isn't homophobic. He'll be okay.

"Hi Buck!" Christopher greets him eagerly as he hurries over to throw his arms around his favorite firefighter. Buck maintains his position. Eddie has the dad title and therefore doesn't qualify.

"Hey there, buddy! How are you? Did you manage to catch up on some sleep?" Buck asks, crouching down.

Christopher shakes his head. "I don't need sleep," he announced proudly.

"And what about us old people? You had to get me out of bed at 8 too?" Eddie teases as he returns to folding the freshly washed kitchen clothes.

"You're not old! You're a firefighter," Christopher protests, making Buck laugh, and then leading him over to the living room table, where he's spread out a bunch of Legos.

"You know what? I think your dad might be getting a little old. The other day I was sure I spotted a grey hair." Buck grins over at Eddie and receives a playful glare in return.

"Really?" Chris looks up over at his father.

"Don't listen to him," Eddie says, waving a cloth at them. "You know how much he loves to talk, even if it's made up."

"Hey now," Buck wags a finger at him. Sobering, he rises slowly. "There was actually something I wanted to talk to you both about."

The two most important people in his life. Beside Maddie and well, she already knew. Buck never quite understood how she had figured it out. Maybe she had heard the rumors from back in town after all.

But this is his choice coming out, this is all his. There's nothing he wants more at this point in time, than to share himself with these two beautiful people.

Eddie gazes over, concern immediately prominent on his face. Buck smiles fondly.

"What is it, Buck?" Christopher asks, meeting his eyes shortly before stealing some attention back to the Legos.

Buck looks up at Eddie again, nerves jumping still as he opens up.

"You know how I've had girlfriends before?" Buck asks.

Christopher hums. Eddie almost looks apprehensive now.

"Well, I've also had boyfriends," Buck admits. Breathes. Swims in relief and happiness when the world doesn't collapse beneath his feet.

"So you also like boys," Christopher states. "Like Hen likes Karen."

"Yes, exactly."

"That's cool." Christopher smiles happily at Buck and returns to his task at hand.

"Thanks, buddy." Buck knows he can't contain his happiness, cheeks almost feeling sore already. Eddie is smiling at them as well, shrugging a little and nodding when Buck looks over. As if to say, good for you.

"Is that all?" Christopher asks, and Buck laughs.

"Yes, that's all."

"Okay. Do you want to build something too? You can use those blocks over there." Christopher points over to the corner where Buck is sitting at.

"I'll join you in a bit, okay? I want to talk to your dad a bit," Buck says, standing again.

"Boooring," Chris sang quietly but not quietly enough.

"I heard that young man. Careful if you want pizza for dinner," Eddie reminds him.

"Pizza! Are we celebrating?" Christopher gasps, holding still for a moment.

"I suppose we are," Eddie says, pointedly throwing a look Buck's way. And Buck isn't sure what he's supposed to do with that enormous fluttering, fuzzy feeling inside him.

"Buck, you're staying, right?" Christopher whips his head around to look at him.

"Well, I can't say no to pizza, can I?" Buck grins, ruffling the 9 year olds hair as he cheers.

Then he saunters shyly over to Eddie, sticking his hands in his pockets. He looks up to him, feeling vulnerable.

"Thank you," Buck says, his heart in every word.

Eddie shakes his head. "Nothing to thank me for. You're family."

Buck swallows down the happy tears that threaten to emerge, but he's sure Eddie knows.

"Wait, Buck!" Christopher calls out, making them both turn.

"Yeah?"

"Do you have a boyfriend now?" Christopher asks and Buck shakes his head.

"Nope."

When he turns back to Eddie, he finds the man hiding a smile, and somehow, Buck feels like he's looking at a whole world of potential.

#buddie #i wrote this #happy 2021 #new year 2021 #911 on fox #buck #eddie

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infjtarot · 2 years

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Hanged Man ~ Deck of the Bastard Tarot

In ancient times, hanging a person upside-down was a form of torture combining pain and humiliation. Often it was used on people with non-orthodox beliefs. In the Roman empire it was applied to Christians, and in medieval Spain to Jews and Muslims. But in the hanged man’s inverted view everything is upside-down: suffering for your faith isn’t a humiliation, but a great honour. Many authors saw this card as a representation of Jesus on the cross or connected it to other sacrificed gods such as Odin in the Norse mythology. Odin hanged himself on the world tree Yggdrasil, looked down into the depths of existence, and thus discovered the magical Runic letters. The card can also remind us of a bungee jump, whose origins are in a rite of passage of native islanders in the Pacific ocean. The Hanged Man receives a punishment In some old Italian decks, the card is called “The Traitor.” This may be a reference not to Jesus, but to Judas Iscariot who hanged himself on a tree after betraying Christ. In such a view, the querent may be receiving punishment for an improper or unacceptable action he has done. The punishment might be inflicted by an external source, or the querent might be chastising himself for real or imaginary faults. Even if we forgo the traditional link between hanging and punishment, the hanged man is clearly in an unpleasant situation. The wooden frame encircles and isolates him from the surroundings and from other people. The red tips of the cut branches indicate sharpness and aggression, pointed outward (to others) and inward (to himself). The card can also describe a feeling that “everything is upside-down,” meaning that one doesn’t understand anymore what is going on in one’s life. The Hanged Man makes a sacrifice The mythological link to a god who sacrifices himself motivated many authors to see the card as an expression of giving up one’s personal interests for the sake of a higher cause. In some new decks, this interpretation is emphasized by a calm expression and a halo of light around the head. Perhaps the querent accepts the process of undergoing difficulties or renouncing vital interests for the sake of someone else, for some political or ideological cause, or as part of some process of spiritual initiation. The Hanged Man refrains from action The hands of the hanged man may be tied behind his back or held there by choice. Either way, they signify a passive acceptance of whatever comes. The hanged posture and the surrounding wood frame give no space for manoeuvre. The 12 tips of the branches may symbolize a whole range of possibilities, like the full circle of the zodiac. Their cutting can signify giving up all possible ways of action. There is pain involved with the relinquishing of all initiative, as the red tips which look like blood drops indicate. The card may describe the querent’s being in a helpless and paralyzing state. Alternatively, he may be reacting to a complex situation by giving up any action and accepting whatever happens, even if it turns out to be the inverse of what he expected. The card can thus indicate surrender and reconcilement with reality as it is. Alternatively, it can describe the emotional state of regarding oneself as a passive and helpless victim, either to avoid taking responsibility for one’s situation or as a means for emotional extortion. The Hanged Man sees the world upside-down The hanged man’s position seems distressful, but this is only a matter of perspective. As he is hanging upside down, his point of view is the inverse of the normal perspective. The card has no landscape except for the green ground on the sides, which can also resemble treetops. This may hint that it is impossible to decide which is the correct point of view – the hanged man’s, or the accepted views held by people outside his frame. We can also find some similarities between this card (number 12) and the central figure in The World (21) in an inverse position. The card may describe a unique person who sees things in his own way. It can also be encouraging the querent to think in original and nonconformist terms, which may be opposed to the common logic. If an inverse card is beside the straight hanged man card, it may be that from the special perspective of the querent, what is usually seen as a handicap or a crisis can look like an advantage or an opportunity. The Hanged Man accepts being different When The Hanged Man is held inverse we have supposedly returned to the normal situation with the head up. But now the figure gives a very strange impression. The figure remains enclosed and isolated, with a sense of lacking a hold on the ground. We can see here a futile attempt by someone to be “normal” and to conform to common values at all costs. In contrast, in the upright position with the head pointing down, the card depicts him recognizing the fact that he is different so that the standard solutions are not valid for him. Instead of making hopeless efforts to “straighten himself up,” he accepts himself as he is, and strives to make the best of his unique qualities. The Hanged Man examines the depth The horizontal axis of earthly reality is completely blocked by the wood frame on both sides. The vertical axis is also blocked from above, and the only direction open is through the hole in the ground. This can mean that the only way to advance is to refrain from action and to engage in a profound self-examination. It can also hint at deep knowledge, like the mysterious runes in Odin’s story, or “the depth of the matter” in some situations. Symbolically, hanging with the head down means giving up all previous assumptions, including the self-evident distinction between up and down. This means that unlike The Hermit, who seeks truth while taking for granted his existing beliefs, The Hanged Man is ready to put everything in question. The uneasy position and the isolating frame indicate readiness to pay the price of personal difficulties and social reclusion. Similar to the passage rite of the bungee jump, this can also be some kind of test or initiation Yoav Ben-Dov. Tarot - The Open Reading

#hanged man #tarot #major arcana #Deck of the Bastard Tarot

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wisdomrays · 3 years

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QUESTIONS & ANSWERS: What is the Purpose of Spiritual Tension?: Part 1

Spiritual tension (or metaphysical tension) is an inward posture, a sort of standing to moral and spiritual attention. In its positive aspect, it means that believers hold an exceptionally strong and determined disposition for all that is good and permitted. They are preoccupied with such matters, and always work to achieve them.

It has other meanings as well: a desire for religion and all things related thereto; the pursuit of religious thoughts and sentiments, ascetically and yet with love; the mind's devotion to religion, as lovers in mystical poetry constantly think of each other; peoccupation with religion at all times and in all conditions; yearning for religion to become "the life of the life," just as lovers long for union again after separation. It also means trying to awaken everybody to the thought and sense of religion, especially your own people, as the very purpose of life; being distressed and suffering for the sake of religion; establishing systems and institutions to serve people and God, and ensuring that they continue to function effectively; loving God and His Prophet more than anything else; and clasping tightly and sincerely to the way of life that the Prophet brought.

In its negative aspect, spiritual tension is being averse to unbelief, immorality, and corruption; expressing this aversion constructively; fleeing evil, vice, and destructive ways and things; and continually resisting sin and temptation.

This is how spiritual tension can preserve the vigor and vitality of believers' faith and way of life. If the believers have any weakness or are lacking in zeal, they cannot be effective servants of God, for bringing what He wills to realization is possible only through ardent desire and strenuous effort to establish the harmony, order and system that God wills. If we lack determination and perseverance, or our ourselves influenced by unbelief and misguidance and unable to free ourselves, we have lost our spiritual tension. True believers cannot step into misguidance, and our tension must be full and exact, just like our love and desire for faith.

The attitudes to be adopted and rejected so as to retain spiritual tension are defined in the Hadith. Among many others are the following: "None of you can be a believer until you love me more than you love your parents and children" and "There are three things that enable you to taste the sweetness of real belief. These are: When God and His Prophet are dearer to you than anything else, when your love for anyone is solely for God's pleasure, and turning to unbelief is as abhorrent to you as being flung into the fire."

Those who find and sense these in their conscience are aware of their belief. However deeply innate and natural filial love and relationship are, one's interest, love, relationship, and devotion to God and His Prophet ought to be stronger. We say this in the light of logic, reason, thought, and judgment. In fact, our interest in and attachment to God and His Prophet is an expression of meditation and perception, of searching and finding. Nothing else is preferable to this love, if we can reach it in our conscience by searching and meditating, and it is the first attribute of those who have tasted the sweetness of belief.

To prefer God and His Prophet to everything else means, in a broader sense, to prefer the basic elements of belief to everything else. If the love of God is in our hearts and the light of God is on our faces, everything exists and its being existent has meaning. Otherwise, there wouuld be no difference between existence and non-existence. Believers who integrate themselves with such an understanding love all believers, and to some extent all creation, without prejudice, partiality, or ulterior motives. This is because by immersing themselves in the love of God, believers can love other persons and things only for the sake of God. This is a very important part of establishing the congregation that God wills.

It is also important to hold the spiritual tension against unbelief. Believers, if they have experienced the sweetness of belief, should feel disgust and aversion—even hatred— toward unbelief, corruption, perversion, immorality. and ingratitude. One who loses this aversion cannot desire to see unbelief eradicated from the hearts of people and replaced by belief. To realize that aim, believers must have a profound enthusiasm and love for belief and a strong hatred for unbelief. For believers' spritual tension, and even for that of a nation and humanity, it is necessary to oppose all sorts of unbelief: evil, vice, anarchy, unrest, and disorder.

The greatest harm or enemies have inflicted upon is is to destroy our spiritual tension. They have described jihad (struggle) against unbelief as oppression and cruelty, conquest and invasion. As the poet Iqbal said, they turned lions with a glorious history into sheep. Treated in this way, those Muslims who have lost their spiritual tension remain largely unaffected by invasion, exploitation, and humiliation. Nor do they resist if their personal pride, honor, honesty or good name are attacked and blemished. Believers who maintain their spiritual tension acquire what they long for and then avoid and seek to remove what God dislikes.

In short, spiritual tension means having an aversion to unbelief and error, as well as a passionate desire for belief. The crucial point here is that this tension does not mean fighting in the streets. Rather, it means living the excitement, enthusiasm, agitation, and emotions generated by the thousands of daily fights in your conscience; being in pain because of mental and spiritual suffering; being preoccupied and busy with people's problems; being ready and willing to risk all for the sake of others; "dying" and being "revived" many times a day; feeling the people's sufferings in yourself when you see them led astray, dragged toward Hell, and pulling each other down; feeling others' pangs of conscience and the tortures of Hell in your own conscience, while living in such a suffocating and lethal atmosphere of unbelief, deviation, and unawareness.

Such believers can earn the reward of martyrdom through displaying such dedication and commitment. Nothing can depress or terrorize such people—not worsening conditions, difficult circumstances, or the darkness, fog, or smoke (of ignorance)—for they are immune to unbelief. This is what we understand by spiritual tension. A society that loses this tension has perished in its spirit already, even though its outer form continues to exist. God allows oppressors and tyrants to attack such societies, to send their corpses the way of their already departed souls.

Death begins in the soul and heart, and later takes the body away. Physical defeat always follows spiritual defeat. God never lets people who keep their souls alive to be downtrodden. Those who cannot sustain their spiritual tension are destined to die. It is mere caprice and fancy for such people to suppose that they have a religious life. If a revival does take place, it is because some people have retained their spiritual tension. The only reliable support and power in all affairs is from God only.

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hisunshiine · 3 years

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Money Heist | knj | Part 2

moodboard 1 | moodboard 2 | playlist | Netflix ReImagined BTS Masterlist

↳ #NetflixReImaginedBTS: Kim Namjoon x Reader starring in a bank robbery au

↳ M-18+, implied sexual content, major character deaths, bank robbery actions (violence, use of weapons, deciet)

The world around me began to collapse. Brick by brick, the space I had occupied for a month began to fall apart. The foundation was shaking beneath my feet. This was it. There was no place I could run or hide. Like a mouse caught in a maze, I was trapped inside the walls of the Bank of Korea.

The enemy was about to enter. Blasting through a wall in the basement, I could hear faint and muffled voices shouting on the other side as my mind attempted to comprehend the explosion that occurred right before my eyes. The ferocious ringing in my ear made me light-headed as I fell on the floor, clutching on to the L85 as I crawled, evading the bullets that kept shooting toward me before I hid behind a metal object.

Every inch of me shook, my heart pounded against my chest, reaching its breaking point while I desperately tried to collect my accelerated breath. There was no way in hell they were going to take me. I would never surrender.

The sound of Gwacheon’s voice shouting my name pulled me out of the mind-numbing situation I had caught myself in. Senses were slowly recovering as I caught his gesture. He kept waving, leading me to safety beside him but I knew I could not make it over to him. One of those bullets was inevitably going to meet my flesh.

“I can’t,” I shouted before taking a quick glance at my surroundings, “The hostages fled,” I explained. Gwacheon had asked for more hostages, preferably the strongest men, to assist him to create a way for us to escape the bank unscathed. But I had stupidly gone by myself. Despite the big gun in my hands, they overpowered me and as soon as I thought they would shoot me, the explosion happened and they ran through the wall the police had created.

“Damn it, London!” I watched him as he began to fire back, ignoring one of the Professor’s sacred rules to successfully pull off the heist, ‘no casualties’. He kept firing his weapon, disabling the authorities from entering and momentarily ceasing fire. I rushed over to him, “Are you hurt?” he asked out of breath as he hastily began to add more ammo to his gun.

I nodded as I attempted to shake off the close encounter. Had I been closer to the wall, I was certain that those heavy bricks would have buried me. The grace of God was the reason why I was still breathing.

➰

Gwacheon and I separated as we escaped the basement. I heard another explosion and figured that he had managed to block off anyone trying to enter the bank from below us. Before we parted ways, he told me to inform everyone and to activate phase four of the plan.

I entered the main part of the bank. The tall ceiling, huge chandelier, and mosaic art tiles greeted me as I walked past the hostages who were bound together by the wrists, sitting on the floor with a terrified look on their faces. I ignored every single one of them as GC caught my signal and approached me.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked quietly, trying not to attract too much attention from the hostages.

“An explosion. The way we planned to escape, we can’t anymore.”

“We heard gunshots.”

“It was the police. Gwacheon blocked them out,” GC visibly sank his shoulders as he let out a sigh of relief.

“And the hostages you took?”

“Escaped.”

“Goddamn it, London.”

“That’s not our biggest concern right now. The police are getting impatient.”

“As are we. We’ve been here for days.”

I sensed his growing frustration and placed my hand on his shoulder as a gesture of reassurance, “Gwacheon wants phase four,” GC's eyes enlarged as he straightened his posture. I stared out at the hostages and met a pregnant woman’s teary eyes, “We have to leave them,” I whispered, “They want them safe.”

GC matched the direction of my gaze, “We can’t hand all of them over. Without them,” he paused as he ripped his eyes from the hostages, “You know this. They will shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Stay here.” I requested and heard GC behind me as he ordered the hostages to listen to him. He was going to do his part and initiate phase four. We needed the most valuable hostages to ensure our survival and everyone else would be handed to the police camping outside the bank.

➰

I entered the CEO’s office that had turned into our discussion room. Everything happened here. With the President of the bank, himself, tied to his own chair present. Including the only real leverage we had and the reason why the police had not stormed the bank, the President of South Korea.

During our planning phase, Busan discovered that twice a month President Moon would visit the bank. Often he would speak with the President of the bank and we would secretly listen in on their conversation.

It was Ilsan’s idea and the Professor liked it. We would rob the bank on the day the President of South Korea would be there.

I laughed when Ilsan said it was poetic, in fact he said, there was something beautiful about robbing the nation of its money while the savior of the country had to forcibly watch as we fucked him in the ass. Ilsan was a sadistic fucker and it made me fall harder for him. He did not care but the Professor made sure he, along with the rest of us, understood that no harm was allowed to be done to the President.

President Moon’s eyes grew wider as I entered the office and explained everything that happened to Ilsan. As the person in charge, I informed him about Gwacheon’s need to activate phase four. He glared at me momentarily before he turned his attention back to the wall behind the two Presidents.

Neatly hung every cellphone of each hostage, including their wallets, “54 hostages in total,” Ilsan was deep in thought and would often talk out loud as he contemplated something, “We only need ten,” he then returned to the room and smiled at me, “Actually we could release every hostage except,” he paused as he teasingly pointed at the Presidents, “These two.”

“Where is my daughter? What are you doing?” The President of the bank hulked in desperate anger.

“You should contact the Professor.” I dismissed the man and asked Ilsan.

“No. I will call the negotiator, tell that bitch what’s happening and buy us some time by releasing some hostages.”

“Some, not all.”

“As a sign of good faith, we will release those in dire need of medical attention,” he smiled at me as he brushed away the hair strands from my face, “You have dust all over you.”

“Yeah, cutting it close.”

“Your gun?” He raised an eyebrow as he bit his inner cheek.

“They took it when they ambushed me.”

“I see,” he grabbed my face and slowly examined the bruises the hostages inflicted on my jaw, “You shouldn’t have gone alone. You don’t get to go alone.”

“I’m fine.”

“They could have shot you too. Busan is still critical.”

“I’m aware, Namj--” I paused mid-sentence as I remembered we were in the middle of a heist. The Professor explicitly did not want any of us growing close and he certainly did not want anyone falling in love.

No real names, city names only. Those were the rules.

However, Ilsan and I engaged in something that none of us could have foreseen. Love. Despite how hard we tried - in those initial months in Jindo - to resist and fight our urges, they grew stronger. Regardless of how intriguing he was, how smart, and how utterly attracted I was to him, I tried to cast aside all emotions until I gave in until he did as well.

One weak moment and I found myself in his room. And before I knew it, months of boring planning the heist had turned into months of planning for a heist while secreting and daily breaking a sacred rule.

We got closer, closer than intended and he and I were on a first-name basis and after the beach house found out the Professor did not agree. Busan did not either and could not see why I would choose Ilsan over him. Soon, however, everyone eased to the idea and Ilsan made sure our relationship would not interfere with our collective wish to see the heist through. And I agreed. He was not going to get in the way of me receiving my cut.

Ilsan glared at me briefly, irritation spewing through his eyes as he ignored my unintentional slip-up, “How far is Gwacheon? And Gwangju?”

“We need a new route.”

“Go find out how much we have. We might be able to leave sooner.”

➰

If the Professor was the planner then Ilsan was the enforcer. He called every shot and assessed each problem as they emerged and chose the strategy he saw fit.

Back in Jindo, the Professor made sure everyone else knew that Ilsan was the ringleader. Gwacheon did not appreciate having someone with less experience as the leader of the heist and unfortunately, Daegu and Gwangju followed pursuit with the same thought and it caused some tension between them.

Essentially it was boys being toxic as hell. Who had the biggest dick?

However, Ilsan proved himself with the knowledge he possessed and it caused Gwacheon to ease upon him. Daegu grew fascinated and requested Busan find information on him. Curiosity got the better of me and I read the information about him.

Ilsan was suspected to steal from the Queen of England, breaking into Buckingham Palace by himself and gathering her jewelry, some going as far back as seven generations. Ilsan was not just a thieve but a deadly one. Daegu could admire that including Gwangju and with this information, they figured it was better to keep him happy.

The guys were excited to have him part of the team whereas I grew more inward. At that point, I was aware I had some interest in him. However, I could not admit it to myself.

In all honesty, Ilsan terrified me slightly. He was not someone I could read well and that alone scared me. He could express himself with little or no words but at the same time, he would let his guard down and simply be a guy around the others. I did not know where to place him.

Something changed, however, within those first few weeks after he entered the beach house. He hardly spoke to me. We avoided each other, almost religiously. A part of me was relieved but if I was, to be honest with myself and the emotions I was developing, I only avoided him because I was afraid to be alone with him.

I was not too sure whether or not he could sense it but I found myself running into him at the most unintentional moments. Although it was innocent at first, those run-ins would become more frequent. Sometimes, despite the hesitation and resistance at first, we would talk and those conversations became longer. Other times we would steal quick glances and before I knew it, it naturally turned into something I swore I would not do with any of these men.

A mere accidental touch would turn into lingering gazes that later became a need to be closer to each other.

I was not certain when it happened but I had developed strong feelings for Ilsan. And after the first physical connection, I had not been able to take my hands off him. It was primal, needy and above anything else, it was a vigorous emotion. It felt as if he was someone I had longed for without even knowing.

So, it became easy to take directions from him. Despite everything I knew and any opinions I had, I became disloyal to them and strictly loyal to Ilsan.

It felt real. He felt right.

The cafeteria area of the bank was where we had placed Busan. I entered with a heavy heart, slowly approaching the table we had set up for him. Ilsan had spoken to the negotiator and demanded a doctor and a nurse to enter the bank. They complied but only if we released two hostages and we did.

The red-haired nurse stood up from her seat as she nervously eyed me, “There’s nothing to report, Miss.”

“Did I ask?” I dismissively brushed off her statement as I kept my glance at Busan. I towered over him and gently placed my hand close to the gunshot wound the sniper from across the street had fired yesterday. A low sigh evaded his lips and he gingerly whispered my city name into a weak smile, “How are you?”

“I’ve been better.”

I caressed his golden locks and grew aware of the two strangers observing me. Leaning closer to his ear, I murmured, “Phase four,” he stared at me and I nodded as soon as I could tell he understood what was happening.

Hastily, he began to sit up but I held him down, “No please, I can brush it off.”

“Your shoulder is out, you’ve lost too much blood,” I reminded him, “Focus on getting your strength back.”

“I’m fine, London.” He sat up and the monitor the negotiator had provided began to beep louder, his heart rate accelerated and I could not help but feel like shit for involving him, “I have to do my part.”

“I’ve got this, Busan.” He stared at me momentarily, confusion and defeat coated his gaze until he let out a sigh. He knew I would not back down, “I’ll talk to you soon.” With a gentle kiss on his cheek, I shot the red-haired nurse a glare and pushed her to the side, far from Busan’s wandering ear, “Take care of him or else,” I threatened before I left them.

➰

I spotted Gwangju and gestured for him to climb down from the rail. The Professor wanted to replicate his previous heist in Spain. The plan was never to rob the Bank of Korea but to print out more money. And we did. With Gwangju in charge, eight days was all we needed to print out 901 million in South Korean WON.

It was not a quick robbery but a methodical and thoroughly thought out plan. The Professor had done it before and all of Spain and Europe was looking for him.

He was bold.

If we made it through the heist with the money and unscathed, it meant that the Professor was a mastermind in the bank robbery. One, no police officer could catch. However, as excited as I was to be a part of his crew, the Professor made it crystal clear - before any of us had agreed - that blood would be spilled. He had seen it back in Spain. He lost a handful of good people during and after the heist.

The pain of it still haunted him.

All of us understood the consequences and continued on with his plan. But after Busan, I was grateful that only one of us had gotten hurt. He was not dead and that was all that mattered. Moreover, when the bullet penetrated Busan’s shoulder, I realized that this was real life. There was no going back. I was in this heist.

Ilsan froze when the negotiator mentioned the Professor’s real name including some of the other guys’. Mine as well as Daegu’s, GC’s, Ilsan’s identities had yet to be found but we were sure it was only a matter of time.

The negotiator was ruthless, adamant about knowing who the thieves were. I felt certain she would try her hardest and find all of us but more importantly, she would have us executed for embarrassing the nation and capturing the President of Korea. Thanks to Busan’s profile on her, I knew she would never back down.

“You ready?” Gwangju asked with a grin on his face as he jumped down the ground, “These hostages are the most hard-working bunch I have ever seen,” like a child eager to show his parents his accomplishments, Gwangju took my hand and guided me through the process. “Every ten minutes, we are printing 500.000 KRW.”

“Wow,” I murmured.

“Wow? Just wow?” He shook me slightly with a grin, “They are working hard, overworking, overtime,” he raised his voice to get my mood elevated before reaching for his megaphone, “We are having fun, right guys?” He yelled out and the hostages obeyed him. He laughed as he turned to me. His expression changed upon noticing my unfazed reaction, “Alright, what the hell is wrong?”

“I need the guns.”

He frowned with a small head tilt, “Daegu has them.”

“He’s not at the vault.”

“Then I don’t kno--” he paused briefly as he scanned my red jumpsuit, “Why is there dust all over you?”

“Phase four is beginning.”

“No, no. We can’t. I am nowhere near the amount.”

“The police are right under our feet and Seok--” I paused as I bit my tongue, correcting myself, “Gwacheon bought us some time but we need to leave soon. How much?”

Gwangju glanced around as he contemplated the amount he had managed to print, “A little over half.”

“It’s been four days!”

“Yeah and like I told the Professor for that amount, I need eight days. These machines aren’t the latest model, I’ll ruin them.”

“Then ruin them!”

“That’s not how it works, kid.” One of the machines began to malfunction, so loud as a jam occurred and smoke appeared from it, “Fuck!” Gwangju rushed over to the machine being operated by an elderly male hostage. He seemed fragile and I wondered why Gwangju personally had requested him. Poor man. I was sure he did not expect to become a hostage when he left his home in the morning. But Gwangju said he had experience according to Busan, and this hostage had worked at the bank for over 35 years.

“Sir,” the elderly man started, “One of the bills is stuck.”

“Shit,” he exclaimed as he climbed back up to the rail to get a closer look.

“Gwangju,” I yelled after him and he glanced down at me, “Walkie up. We need to go soon. Phase four.” He nodded as he waved at his walkie talkie.

➰

I had to search for Daegu. He was the only one left to be informed about Gwacheon’s need to activate phase four. With my walkie talkie in hand and a fast pace, I searched every room within the bank until I spotted Daegu exiting the bathroom.

He eyed me momentarily with a frown and questioned what happened to my jumpsuit. I had not seen myself but I was certain I looked like a mess. None of the bullets hit me but the explosion created a sky of dust made of brick that coated every inch of my red suit.

I explained to Daegu what happened and although his eyes were filled with concern, he hastily guided me to one of the vaults he had hidden our weaponry. “Thanks,” I murmured as he handed me another L85, “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“We’ll flush them out.”

“You and me?”

“Unless you’d prefer that GC or Ilsan take the post?”

“No, no.”

Daegu handed me a bulletproof vest and I began to put it on, “You’re hesitating.”

“I’m not.”

“London, it’s alright that you don’t want to hurt anyone but,” he paused as he assisted me with the vest while staring intensely into my eyes, “If it’s a matter of your life versus someone else’s, I hope you choose yourself above anyone else. Any hesitation on your part will lead to a bullet in your head,” he placed his index finger in between my eyebrows, “You have a duty to this team. Stay alive and do your part.”

➰

Phase four. One of the many plans the Professor had created if the heist did not go as intended. At no point were the authorities supposed to come inside the bank with their guns blazing. It was not the correct protocol. Busan suspected this and made it clear to us. The Professor had to figure out a way to secure our safety, in the events that Busan’s theory about the negotiator was right, and prevent an active shoot out. The Professor’s main focus was to make sure that there were no casualties. The murder was something he never wished to be pinned on us.

“Are you ready?” Daegu eyed me as he pressed the elevator that would take us down to the basement.

“Let’s get this over with.”

The plan was simple. Ilsan would hide the Presidents and then join us. Gwangju would collect the money he had printed and meet Gwacheon at the new escape route. Busan was out of commission, so I had to take his spot. GC would dress all of the hostages into the same red jumpsuits we wore, including arm them with fake guns, to throw off the authorities and slow them down, even for a moment. The Professor explained that that single moment of hesitation on their part meant our lives. The hesitation would make all of the difference.

Although I feared for my life, I could not allow it to cripple me. As much as I wanted to go back to my initial post of helping Gwacheon, Daegu ordered Seoul to take my spot when we spotted him on our way out of the vault. This meant that Seoul’s initial position of studying the police’s every move was unchecked. We had no idea when and where the authorities would strike from. We were at a disadvantage.

However, we had an ace up our sleeves.

Phase two was never activated which meant the police had no clue that the heist mastermind known as the Professor was the brains behind this operation. Up until now, the negotiator had only spoken to Ilsan. She knew he was the one in charge but luckily for us, and thanks to the Professor’s methodical planning, we had another pair of eyes informing us where they would strike.

Seoul had infiltrated their system as soon as we took over the bank. This enabled the Professor to be a step ahead of the police. He knew everything they were saying, contemplated, everything they could see he would know and inform Ilsan. Even our walkie talkies were undetected by them. Seoul kept changing the frequency. It made the police unaware of our communication to the outside. Moreover, due to Seoul’s technology skills, they were unable to hack into the security system within the bank because he had sneakily created software and encryption that made it impossible to hack months prior.

Seoul was no amateur. He might have been the youngest and the most naive of the group but he was by far the smartest.

The elevator doors opened and Daegu and I stepped out with our guns positioned, ready to fire at anyone who roamed the basement. The flickering lights, million pieces of shattered bricks on the floor, and the sound of - what I assumed was a pipe that broke - dripping water made me clutch the L85 tighter. We did not speak. Through hand signals, Daegu gestured we took a right turn but to keep his back safe. I walked behind him as he signaled the coast was clear.

We walked deeper into the basement until we found ourselves close to where the explosion happened. It was walled off, exactly how Gwacheon intended but a small gasp escaped me upon realizing that some of the officers that came through the hole were now buried in the aftermath of the second explosion.

“Let’s go.” Daegu gently tapped my shoulder, “Today, we need to leave today.”

No casualties. That was the rule. One of the most sacred rules. Without rules humans were barbaric, the Professor often said. And he was right. No one was supposed to get hurt. I understood it and agreed. It did not feel morally correct to take someone’s life. However, I was the reason why Busan was still breathing. They did not care who they shot at through the window, his life, and the kind of man he was. They did not bat an eye for his well being.

The Professor could call me barbaric, he could scold me and kick me off the team but right this instance, as I stared down at the man who fired the shot against the sweetest man I had ever the pleasure to meet, I was glad that Gwacheon buried them. Trigger happy pricks.

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creativerogues · 4 years

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Player’s Guide: Meet The Archmages of Capitol!

Well the Player’s Guide is coming together really well, and thanks to @dnd-chamyra-studies, as well as @paradigmanomaly and @nickle-snatcher for providing so much help on building the City of Capitol.

But without any further delay, let’s get into the details...

Archmage of Illusion, The Archmage Indefinable

The Archmage of Illusion never shares his actual name, and often creates elaborate illusions and personas to hide himself.

He’s a High-Level Wizard (obviously) with the magical capabilities to create up to 8 Illusory Duplicates thanks to his ability to cast Mirror Image at-will, and he’s almost accompanied by his Simulacrum, who can do the same...

He’s used many fancy names and personas to hide his identity: Example names include Salem, Owahl, Zakalis and Morgan.

The Archmage of Illusion became famous for being so powerful that when the rival Kingdom of Rassumurait attempted to sail to the shores of Capitol, he disguised the stars they used to navigate so that they ended up lost at sea and where forced to retreat...

What does he look like?

He’s an older Halfling Man, lightly hunched in posture with wild curly grey hair with an arrow through it like a makeshift hairpin. He’s well over 3-foot-tall, even while hunched over, with gross old barefoot hobbit feet with excessive foot hair, his toenails have clearly never been trimmed, and he seems to have some sort of exotic fungal disease on his feet, even starting to develop small mushrooms...

Because when you literally always have a disguise or illusion on you, you don’t really need to look good or wash at all...

He carries a small wooden staff like a cane, and in his other hand he often holds a pipe.

The Archmage of Illusion is known for levitating in conversations with the other Archmages, so they can speak eye-to-eye rather than top-of-head to crotch; and he has a nervous habit of letting out a little giggle whenever he tells the truth.

He’s also recently become addicted to the Laumadorian Plant known as ‘Weeping Flak’, smoking it and adding it like spice and sugar to everything they consume, since Weeping Flak (also known as Bluegrass) is also known to increase one’s arcane powers for a short time after consumption.

Archmage of Enchantment, Father Jack

Father Jack? Well this handsome dwarven wizard used to get every girl he wanted into bed since his beard started to grow. You may be asking why the Archmages call him Father Jack, better pose that question to his 122 Sons and 99 Daughters...

He’s short, stocky, and very clearly dwarven to anyone that looks at him. His skin is slightly tanned from his days on the coast, and his face carries a big bulbous red nose at its center.

His beard seems quite magnificent, with ornate brass and bronze bands adorning their beard. Their beard is also very obviously dyed. There are streaks of grey that have been colored to match their original shade, but don’t quite match.

Another odd feature is his left eye, since he’s missing it, and it appears he’s had a chunk of solid gold carved to look like an eye implanted in the place of his left eye.

He wears a copper ring on one finger, a ring with intricate carvings on its surface, and this Archmage always seems to be followed by a smell of rum and alcohol on his breath...

Archmage of Conjuration, Archmage Butterfly

Her full name is ‘Clawed Butterfly’. A Conjuration Wizard who is always accompanied by her Faithful Hound and her Unseen Servant. She often chooses to use Misty Step rather than walking...

She’s feline and cat-like in appearance, she often wears an ombre-dyed hood that reminds you of a hunting cat. Meanwhile the feline tail of the Archmage winds and flickers with a mind of its own.

She has cat-like slits for eyes, and just to confirm; Yes, she’s a Tabaxi Wizard.

She has tattoos across her face, starting from the corner of her mouth to the edge of her eye, but barely visible under her tabaxi hair.

Her right arm is bizarre and unnatural: One of her arms is a slightly different tone, and slightly shorter in length than the other one, her right-hand having steel claws that appear to be artificially attached to her fingertips.

Her left arm is even more bizarre: She has an extra hand coming out of her left wrist. This extra hand is as small as a child’s and is blackened and seems to be of no use: A failed conjuration experiment perhaps?

She also has an eye on the palm of her left hand, something she hides behind her back in her always regal-looking pose while speaking.

Archmage of Evocation, Archmage Damascus Iados

A Tiefling Evocation Wizard with bright flames that flicker across the back of their hands, and smaller, heatless flames seem to flicker across their skin while the earth seems to tremor slightly while he walks.

In charge of the Tower of Evocation, Archmage Iados is a Tiefling Man with bright red skin, a bald head and two curling horns atop his head like those of a wild ram.

He wears blue and green robes that flow down to his feet, and every so often has heatless flames flickering across his skin before sputtering out on their own.

His left hand has three fingers, while his right hand has seven, and both hands seem to glow very faintly with a low white flame...

Archmage of Abjuration, Archmage Neskul Nyultin

Urban legends say that there used to be a Silver Dragonborn Wizard so skilled in the magics of Abjuration, yet so paranoid, that he stayed deep underground within his Tower, surrounded by a bubble of powerful magics, though when forced to go outside in-person, he sits cross-legged on a Tenser’s Floating Disk, with a globe of protective magics around him at all times...

Archmage Neskul Nyultin is a Dragonborn Wizard with glimmering silver scales, as is usually seen cross-legged on a small disk of force that floats above the ground. His legs seem withered from atrophy, and his body seems very thin for a Dragonborn...

A shimmering globe of arcane wards almost always surrounds him, as he’s almost always seen with his hands inwards, his fingers intertwined and seemingly always concentrating on the many spells that protect his being.

This Dragonborn Archmage has several scales missing and a long deep gash running along his face. He has two long, spiny and membranous ears, and a slightly off-center snout, akin to a poorly reset broken nose.

Upon his head sit two overly curled horns, and in his chest glows a dragonborn heart, a heart that glows bright enough to be seen beneath his scales and through the sphere of arcane wards that surround him.

After an encounter with a Red Dagger Assassin as a young Archmage, Neskul has become paranoid, as he knows the Red Daggers are master assassins that always get their target, one way or another.

This paranoia has caused him to become shut-off and shut-in, though he still teaches the students of his Tower through the use of Simulacrums, Projected Images and various other methods of magic, all while hiding himself away deep within the underground of his Tower of Abjuration...

Archmage of War, Archmage Leowynn Wynanthal

A High Elf War Wizard and Bladesinger, Archmage Leowynn is probably the most prominent figure in Capitol aside Archmage Iados.

An elf with pearl-colored hair that seems to glow in the light, with long and curved ears and incredibly long eyebrows with a small pointed nose. He has pale skin, his face having splotches the color of red wine, with exotic runes carved onto his forearms and a long thin rapier by his side.

He wears flowing robes that looks as if they’re made from specks of starlight, he also wears elven ear clasps made of spun silver and an engraved leather archery bracer on his left wrist.

He has many scars and callouses along his forearms, perhaps formed over many brutal sparring sessions.

But his hands can sometimes be the most fascinating thing about him. He has a recessive finger on each hand, and a Holy Symbol of the Black Hand of Bane branded onto his right hand.

Leowynn is maybe my favorite Archmage out of the lot. He’s the Archmage in charge of both the Tower of War that trains War Wizards, and the War College that trains up the regular infantrymen and soldiers.

He’s probably the most publicly seen figure, and his whole host of magic items, from Bracers of Archery to his Robe of Stars to everything else he carries, also makes him look the part of an Archmage (he’s also the only Archmage to travel to another Plane of existence...)

He’s also known for his spats and arguments with the other Archmages, since the War College has always had an uneasy alliance with the Edhel Halls Library, and with Archmage Leowynn being one of the few Archmages to of taken part in the War Underground between the Elves of the West and the Drow of the East over 50 Years ago, he’s probably the oldest Archmage in the King’s Council, but he seems to favor Archmage Iados and students from the Tower of Evocation especially...

Archmage of Necromancy, Archmage Froja Dundrek

Ya haven’t heard of the old tale of Froja’s head? Well let me tell ya!

There was once a Wizard called Froja who got sentenced to death for using Necromancy and black magics back when it was still a crime, before the War Underground basically. She managed to break free and sneak into the Archives of the Edhel Halls, the place that holds all the scrolls with the old magics in ‘em. She found a spell in those forbidden pages, one that granted her eternal life.

After she cast the Spell, she went in-front of the King himself and asked for forgiveness before demanding her freedom, he refused. Put her in Jail and chopped off her head the next day.

Well as it turns out, she’s still alive! And she now teaches other Wizards. But they still keep her head as a training object for young students...

The best way to describe Froja’s apperance is that of a headless corpse.

She’s a shadowy and shrouded figure, wearing boots and thick black leather straps around the ankles. She also wears grey patterned pants and a slender thin belt made of the same black leather.

A shimmering feathered shawl drapes from her shoulders like a pair of dark wings, and a brooch that seems to be made of woven strands of pure silver hangs from her left breast.

And above her shoulders is a collar made of woven tree twigs, the twigs and sticks thorny and withered black.

And finally, above this collar, where a head would be, there’s nothing at all! No head, and yet the body lives on...

Archmage Neskul has been at odds with Archmage Froja since the beginning, with Archmage Neskul begging Froja time and time again to reveal whatever magics and spells she used to maintain this life (or un-life) for eternity, never being able to truly die. And time and time again Froja had refused his advances, never revealing even a single detail about the spell she used to gain this eternal life...

Archmage of Transmutation, Drasaaria Argal

There once was a Transmutation Wizard so prolific that eventually any gold coming into her city was treated like scrap metal to her...

Archmage Argal is a Half-Drow Transmutation Wizard, and probably the only figure with a dark elf bloodline that’s tolerated by most people in the Capitol. When she joined the King’s Council, the uproar was tremendous, as the War Underground between the Elves of the West and the Drow had ended not a decade before...

But you wouldn’t think she’s a half-drow if you looked at her, because her skin isn’t dark... It’s metallic!

Her skin has a shine to it like a fine polished metal, and some might even mistake her for a statue standing in the room if you didn’t know her...

She wears very little actual clothing, but hold onto your thirst because she still wears clothes, specifically a pair of white gloves woven from the finest spider silk, while an ornate ear-cuff in the fashion of an orchid spirals around her left ear.

Her leggings have an opalescent sheen, and she’s also one of the many Archmages that likes to stand and walk barefoot...

Argal is another one of my favorites, and I knew I wanted to put a Drow on the Council because I just wanted to see what would happen...

And trust me when I say she’s no pushover, as my Players have found out time and time again.

That shiny skin she has: That’s Adamantine. Yep, she transmuted her skin to become living adamantine, so you try facing down a 20th Level Archmage with 23 AC...

And she’s also been known to horribly torture people the Council wants dead, or wants answers from. She’s turned a guy’s brains into mercury, polymorphed a guy into a robin before turning said bird into a tiny solid gold statue, she’s even wiped a Player’s memory clean using Programmed Amnesia... She’s a mean one...

She’s also one of the Wizards (alongside Archmage Froja) who’s at odds with Archmage Neskul, since he keeps asking her how she got her adamantine skin and she keeps refusing to answer him.

And due to most of the other Archmages just barely tolerating the presence of a Drow on their Council, that just means she trains up her students in the Tower of Transmutation even harder, which often results in the Tower of Transmutation producing some of the most powerful Mages...

Archmage of Divination, Archmage Ofyne Yuvidet

There used to be a Wizard so skilled in divination magics that she never bothered having a conversation, because she already knew how it was going to end...

Ofyne is a Human Wizard and the Archmage of Divination. She wears old dull blur robes over tattered clothing. She has long and frizzy graying-brown hair that falls just below her shoulders, with what looks like small woodland critters wriggling around in her hair...

Her body seems incredibly damaged. Her hands are stained multiple colors of brown and green, and acid burns that run along both hands.

On her right hand is a small blackened sixth finger that twitches of its own volition. She also possesses what’s left of a still-attached left hand. It looks like it was crushed but was never amputated. She also has a horrid burn mark running down from her left elbow to her crushed hand.

One leg seems severely deformed: Ofyne uses a set of double crutches to walk, but more often floats and flies around as she finds it far easier on her body. She’s also one of the Wizards that walks barefoot, and smells of burnt tea leaves!

She seems blind, her eyes pale and clouded over with cataracts in her old age, with bags under her eyes that suggests she probably hasn’t slept comfortably in many years...

She has no nose, instead having a big hole where her nose would be, and her mouth is permanently crooked, giving her a cocky smirk and almost wicked grin. However, Ofyne wears a prosthetic nose and mask made of silvery-blue mithral, which keeps the prosthetic in place while partially obscuring her face to prying eyes.

Small mushrooms emerge and grow from her neck and shoulders, she also has several scars around her neck, some apparently self-inflicted, almost like she’s had her throat slit multiple times and healed from every wound...

Ofyne (or Archmage Yuvidet if you want to call her that) is probably the most interesting Archmage. She hasn’t cut or groomed her hair in over 8 Years, and her eyes seem to glow when near poison or fresh blood.

She’s in charge of the Library of Saturnity in Fostin, ans she’s also one of the very few Archmages that’s actually allied with Archmage Neskul.

However, the Archmage of Divination is currently missing and has been missing for some number of months now, but this has yet to become public knowledge...

Ofyne is probably the oldest Human on the Council (aside from Archmage Froja and that eternal life thing she has going on...) and Ofyne’s seen a lot.

You’d think for a Divination Wizard she’d be fine right, no scratches at all because she knows the future...

Well when you have to take orders from the King, the Hand of the King, and a bunch of Archmages (lest you be straight up murdered), you’re forced into situations where you know you’re going to get messed up. (Google ‘The Seven Against Thebes’ if you want to see where I got some inspiration...)

And that’s all the Archmages!

And yes, I know there’s other Wizard Schools like the School of Invention and the School of Onomancy, but since those aren’t Official Subclasses yet, I’m yet to make them canon in my world, so no, there is no Archmage of Onomancy or Archmage of Invention... Yet!

But tell me what you think of the Archmages of Capitol, what are your first impression, are they to be trusted?

Let me know in the Comments with your Replys and Reblogs!

#dnd #DnD 5e #worldbuilding #Players Guide

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cassianus · 3 years

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Lent and Physical Illness: The Important and Timely Grace of God:

Starting off the season of Lent with sickness, although not serious, has quite naturally made me think about the meaning of illness and the spiritual life. The solitude and removal of the busyness of daily labors puts a person in a state of seeing his own poverty more clearly and so his own dependence upon God. Recently I came across the poignant reflections of Octavius Winslow about what he calls the light and shadows of the spiritual life that I would like to share with you and especially with those who perhaps suffer from chronic illness:

" . . . there are few experiences of the Christian in which the lights and shadows of his spiritual life meet and blend with such remarkable and perfect harmony as in the hour of sickness. Here are bodily disease-physical languor-torturing pain-and extreme nervousness; and, for ka while, all objects, temporal and spiritual, and all beings, the closest and the fondest, are viewed through a jaundiced and distorted medium- the mind is shaded, the heart unstrung- and shadows, many and dark, dance upon the walls of that lone chamber, and fall thick and fast around that pillow of suffering. Hard thoughts of God are cherished- wrong interpretations of His providence are indulged- it is the "fourth watch of the night, and Jesus has not come!" and Satan, taking advantage of bodily suffering, mental despondency, and the temporary absence of Jesus, is hurling a whole quiver of fiery darts at his poor, enfeebled, and dejected victim!

These are the shadings of the scene. But, are there no lights in the picture? no bright touches of the Artist's Divine pencil? Oh yes! many and brilliant! and all the more brilliant from the dark shadows which have so thickly pencilled it, the effect of which has been to bring into bolder relief the great and essential features of the scene. Let us trace them.

The first bright light illumining the picture is the submission of the will. The conflict has been long and painful, the struggle terrible and severe- but, grace has conquered- God's will has triumphed! "Not my will, O my Father, but Yours be done," is now the music of the soul- the sacred anthem pealing from that sick pillow. Oh what a beauteous light is this- how pure, how brilliant! Angels, methinks, look down from heaven's glory to gaze upon the light of grace thus bathing that scene of suffering and languor. "The cup which my Father has given me, shall I not drink it?"

When Dr. Payson was asked by a friend, in a season of severe illness, if he could see any particular reason for the present dispensation, he replied- "No; but I am as well satisfied as if I could see ten thousand. God's will is the very perfection of all reason." Sublime reply! God's will- be it His permitting or His approving will- is the perfection of infinite wisdom, righteousness, and love; and therefore must do right, and cannot do wrong! Beloved, in your present mystery of suffering and season of languor, be your experience that of the pious Payson; yet higher and holier still- that of our Lord and Savior- "May Your Will Be Done!"

Oh, what words can describe, or imagery depict, the perfect peace, the sweet repose which, like the gentle dawn of light, or the soft zephyr of evening, will steal calmly over your soul the moment the conflict of the will ceases, and, in suffering and weakness, you are brought to "Lie passive in His hands, And know no will but His!"

The discipline of patience is another light blending with the shadows of sickness. No unimportant or untimely grace of the Spirit is this; the development and culture of which finds no school more appropriate, or discipline more effectual, than that of 'pining sickness.' The continuous endurance of unmitigated pain- the prolonged and deathly weakness- the failure of skill and remedies to promote a cure- the morbid irritability and fretting almost inseparable from the prolongation of suffering- and the remembrance of duties neglected, of affairs deranged, of expenses incurred- all conspire to render the discipline of patience the most needed and precious; and when attained, to shed one of the most luminous graces of the Spirit upon the shaded picture of bodily disease.

Patience is one of those flowers of the wilderness, springing up from the seed of heaven, which never grows so truly or blooms so lovely, as amid the sharp, cutting bursts of affliction. "The trying of your faith works patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that you may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing." "In your patience possess you your souls." "Lord, subdue my impatience and rebellion, and grant that, in this hour of pain and uneasiness, I may wait Your time and mode of recovery; and that, the true posture and acknowledgment of my soul may be that of Your servant David- 'Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child."'

The strengthening and increase of faith constitutes one of the brightest lights in the picture of spiritual life- and nowhere does that light glow with a richer luster than on a sick-bed. It requires no small faith, beloved, fully to believe that you are a sick one whom Jesus loves. "Lord, he whom You love is sick," is a precious declaration, as applicable to you as it was to Lazarus. Love blew upon the health that fades; love permitted the pain that afflicts; love appointed the disease that wastes; love, and nothing but love, has done it all. "Whom I love, I rebuke and chasten. Whom the Lord loves he chastens, and scourges every son whom he receives." Thus, when fever is consuming, and pain is torturing, and the nerves are quivering, and the mind is desponding, and the harpsichord of the soul hangs mournfully and silently upon the willow, it demands no little exercise of faith in the unchanging love, infinite wisdom, and righteous government of God to feel that it is all well!

But, this light shall not be lacking amid the deep shadows now gloomily draping the spiritual life of your soul. Faith shall triumph; for there is One in heaven "now to appear in the presence of God for us;" and, in virtue of Christ's present intercession, your faith, tried though as by fire, shall not fail, but shall rise superior to the slow process of decay, and grow brighter and stronger as the shadows fall, and strength fails- heaven thus opening and letting down such streams of glory around your sick and languid pillow as that faith, which is "the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen," shall exclaim- "My heart and my flesh fails: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever." Thus, "though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day.

"But a brighter light playing amid these darkling shadows is- the sensible, manifested presence of Jesus in the sick chamber of the disciple whom He loves. Yes, He is there! He is there as the Refiner- watching and tempering with unwearied eye and infinite skill the furnace fire of the sufferer. He is there as the Shepherd- guarding this tempted one of His flock, that no power pluck it from His hands. He is there to succor with His grace, to soothe with His love, to illumine with His presence, to cheer with His voice, and to encircle with His everlasting arms, the feeble, suffering, fainting child of His heart. "Lo! I am with you aways."

The glory brought to God by a long and lingering illness, eternity alone can fully reveal- and this is the brightest light of all, gilding and softening the shadows that drape the sick and dying-bed of a believer in Jesus. The sick-bed, the languid couch, of a saint of God is the most powerful and impressive pulpit in the land! No sacred rostrum of the most eloquent preacher gives utterance to such a sermon as issues from thence! The assembly waiting upon its instructions is large! Children and families, friends and neighbors, the Church below and the Church above, intent upon the scene, are waiting and watching, as with bated breath, the practical testimony to the reality and power of Christianity as a divinely sustaining, soul elevating, death-conquering religion- to the comfort of the divine promises- to the faithfulness of God- and to the sustaining grace and human sympathy of Christ- borne from this touching and solemn stand-point of life. The meekness and patience, the submission to the divine will, and the animating hope of glory, witnessed in that scene of debility, restlessness, and pain, speak with an argument more convincing than an Apostle's reasoning, and with an eloquence and pathos more winning than an angel's voice.

God is glorified in the fires, and the Name of the Lord Jesus is magnified. Sick and suffering saint of God! your couch stands upon the borders of that blessed land, the "inhabitants of which shall no more say, I am sick." Shrink not from the near approach of the "last enemy!" his form is lovely- his voice is soothing- his dart is stingless- and his mission a mission of love- sent to open your cage and set your spirit free- free as the dove soaring to its dove-cote in heaven! "Oh that I had wings like a dove! then would I fly away, and be at rest."

"When languor and disease invade

This trembling house of clay,

It is sweet to look beyond our cage

And long to fly away.

"Sweet to look inward, and attend

The whispers of His love;

Sweet to look upward to the place

Where Jesus pleads above.

"Sweet to reflect how grace divine

My sins on Jesus laid!

Sweet to remember that His blood

My debt of suffering paid.

"Sweet, in the confidence of faith,

To trust His firm decrees;

Sweet to lie passive in His hands,

And know no will but His."

5 notes · View notes