elspeth

Art by Kei Acedera www.imaginismstudios.com

[vonbaghager]

A faerie introduces himself. Then, holding out a hand, asks, “And your name, please?”

And, like a fool, you give it to him.

[monstersdownthepath]

I got asked for clarification on this (but can’t reblog that particular post cuz on mobile), which I’m more than happy to provide.

In this post, a faerie is asking for ‘your’ name. The way he is wording it, however, and the accompanying beckoning motion, makes it seem as though he is asking for you to physically hand your name over. Which, because of how some faeries operate, he is.

In this instance, saying your name aloud to the fae would be literally giving your name over to him, the exact consequences of which are left up to the imagination–usually, a fae even knowing your name gives it some measure of power over you, but giving something your name would likely let it completely take over your life.

In this instance, the wording you want to use is something like “I will not give you my name, but I will tell you that it’s [name].” Alternately, you can just lie to him.

[ayellowbirds]

Might i suggest the less direct yet still name-preserving “you may call me…”? It dodges the request while still giving an answer of a name, which does not even have to be yours, but any name you feel like telling the fae they can use to refer to you. I would recommend “Ainsel”.

[linkedsoul]

The first time he asks for your name is the first time you meet him. He appears as you walk by the færie ring, that you have not entered because your grandmother has repeated so many times not to do so, and, curious of your presence, watches as you jump when you notice him.

You recognize him instantly. It is the Fæ whose influence your village is under, the one the elders have told you and your friends to be wary about, for the people who have been seen walking away with him have never come back.

You don’t know what he does to them. The villagers have never dared to confront him about it, never dare to address to him at all. He is not evil: he sometimes speaks blessings upon the cattle, talks the horses to calm after a storm, ensures a good harvest for the farmers, makes the flower bloom in spring even when the weather is still too cold. He is, simply, a Fæ, whose ways humans cannot understand.

“Hello, little one,” he says as you stand very still, back straight, hands fidgeting with the fabric of your skirt.

You do not go away - you cannot. This, your grandmother has taught you, would be considered as an offense, and you could be cursed, or he could take out his wrath onto the village. You do not shy away from his stare, however, even not knowing if this will displease him or not. You are eight, have the courage and the recklessness of your childhood innocence, the boldness of those who have not yet learnt how to fear; but you have been warned against the Fæs, who like to toy with humans and play tricks upon them, so you do not defy him either.

He walks up to you. You pray he will stay in the færie ring, as it feels like a protection, and fortunately, he does. He isn’t too malicious to the youngest ones, you have been told once - just do not know if this is true or not. You knew a girl your age called Nimia, that has been caught a year ago, and she has never come back to the village, and her parents have cried all week cursing the Fæ.

You summon to your memory everything your grandmother has taught you to ward off Fæs, and protect yourself against their tricks. You do not want to be the next Nimia.

He introduces himself as Áed, although you suspect it is merely a nickname. Then, holding out a hand, he asks, “And your name, please?”

There is your grandmother’s warning at the back of your head: names give power over people. The Fæ is asking you to literally give him your name, and who knows what he’ll do with it - he might as well use it to take you away, like he surely did to Nimia. To all the people who have never been seen again. To your own mother, two years after you were born, even though she was too clever to be caught by a Fæ’s trick.

So you remain quiet, watching him with wide eyes, until his own stare darkens, and he shakes his hand under your nose.

“Your name, little one.”

You pull yourself together. He might curse you if you don’t answer. You gather your courage, and, with the spontaneity of children who have freedom in their veins and do not bend to rules, you stretch out your hand back without touching his.

“I am sorry, lord Fæ. I haven’t heard you very well. Can you give me your name, please?”

He looks at you with surprised amusement. “Oh, well played, little one. You’re clever. Just for this one, I will let you go.”

He retreats his hand, and you scramble back as quickly as you can, bowing to him clumsily before taking your leave.

You had passed by the færie ring to go the well to wishes, even though the elders forbid the youth its access, disobedient little child that you are. You just wanted to wish for your father to let you wear your mother’s necklace - ‘not yet’, he always says, ‘when you are thirteen’. You forget about going there, after this encounter. You go back home, and your grandmother scolds you for having been gone for so long.

You do not tell her about the Fæ. She has already lost her daughter to him. If she knew he had tried to lure you, you would not be able to leave the house again - and you value your freedom too much for that.

The second time he asks for your name, you are fifteen, and you have ran to the well to wishes again, forgetting the elders’ warnings. You have sworn to yourself you would not go back home anyway. You are not sure what you want to wish for, but at least for all this pain within you to fade; just to be more, or maybe less, like your mother, to accept the village’s rules better, to simply fit in and be happy that way.

Eyes full of tears, breath uneven, barefooted on the grass, your mother’s necklace beating against your chest as run, you have not made a detour to avoid passing by the færie ring. You trip and fall in front of it, and Áed finds you curled there, crying and cursing to the world.

“Those are not pretty words,” he says.

You freeze. You push yourself on your elbows, sees the færie ring, feels dread slip into your head. It is only the second time you see him, and you are not a child anymore. You have learnt to fear.

The Fæ, who has taken Nimia, then Lettie, on the day of her wedding, and even the old Mack, hovers over you curiously, at the edge of the færie ring. You remember to keep still, not to offend him. You feel the fear you should have felt when you were eight; and yet again, as tonight sadness and despair have already filled your heart, you do not manage to remain terrified.

“I don’t care,” you answer, sitting on your knees.

He finally sits down, too. He does not talk, so you do not feel compelled to talk either, and silence stretches between you for a while.

“Were you going to the well to wishes?” he asks eventually. You nod. “It does not work anymore. Whatever you wish for, it will not grant it.”

You feel your chest tightening.

“You might not say the truth.”

He smiles. “Indeed. I might not. But you can try yourself.”

It might have been his way to allow you to leave - but you do not find it in yourself to do so. You are tired. You have run as fast as you could from your home. Your grandmother must be worried about you, and she will probably never let you stray from the village again. Your father’s shouts still resonates in your ears, saying you are not a good daughter, that you will never be, asking why you feel such a need to always run free, just like your mother, then asking why you cannot be her.

You know you should listen to your elders, tame yourself, learn to properly take care of your household, and stop fleeing from your duties and your classes to explore the wild. You just cannot help it. You were already a disobedient child; but the teenager you are now cannot bear authority.

Freedom.

Is it too little to ask?

“Are you going to stay here?” Áed asks.

You shrug, unable to answer properly. You feel too pitiful to try to talk with a Fæ - a tricky exercise, as Fæs like to twist words as they like and get human souls from a clumsy sentence.

“You can,” Áed then says. “I will watch over you.”

“This sounds too nice, lord Fæ.” You haven’t been able to prevent the dryness of your tone. “It might be another trick.”

And yet, you lay on your back, somewhat desperate, arms crossed behind your head, not knowing where else to go or what else to do. The Fæ, after all, is not evil, you remind yourself. He also does good things, occasionally. You might just be lucky.

“Aren’t you afraid, little one? I know you do not trust me.”

“I am too tired for that.”

He laughs. “Will you not give me your name, then?”

“I cannot give you my name,” you reply. You know what it would lead to. Giving your name to a Fæ is giving him the power to take over your life. “But I will tell you that it’s…”

You hesitate. The Fæ knowing your name would also give him some power - that is what has lost Lettie, you’ve been told.

“Elaine.”

You close your eyes, and Áed simply laughs. He does not speak afterwards; yet you remain wary, and heavy thoughts are on your mind, so you do not find sleep easily. You end up turning towards him, and opening your eyes again, wondering if he has left, too bored to stay watching over a sleeping human.

But he’s still there.

“Little liar,” he says, not smiling but not sounding angry either. “This is your mother’s name.”

You are somehow not surprised he has noticed. Your grandmother said your mother used to go the well to wishes often - she might have met him too, talked with him, before he took her away. Just like you, your mother didn’t fear the way to the well to wishes and the færie ring. The same recklessness, the same need for freedom runs into your veins. That might be why your family is so afraid to lose you.  

“You remember her?”

“I do. I remember Nimia, also. That foolish girl, Lettie. The old Mack, who tried to cut the færie ring. And all the others.”

“Why do you take them away?”

He looks at you. “Humans are fascinating. You poor little things, so weak and powerless, your lives are so short, and you do not know half the wonders that exist. And yet. You manage to find happiness.”

You feel yourself drifting off to sleep, listening to the soothing velvet of his voice. Exhaustion has caught up to you. Your eyes are already closing off.

“It is no reason to take it away from us,” you murmur, tiredly.

He keeps on staring at you, but does not answer. After a while, you simply close your eyes again, and this time, sleep finds you after a few minutes.

When you wake up, Áed is gone. You go back home, and your grandmother cries when you arrive. She forbids you to leave ever again. Your father apologizes for his harsh words, and you apologize for your rebellious attitude.

“Where were you?” your grandmother asks, once the calm has returned to the household.

“I slept by the færie ring,” you say. “But the Fæ wasn’t there.”

You can hear it in your head, ‘little liar’ said with his voice, and it somehow makes you want to smile.

“You shouldn’t,” your grandmother admonishes. “Your mother used to do that too, and look where that led her. You were lucky.”

“Yes,” you reply, and this time you think it, too.

The third time he asks for your name, four years have passed ever since you have slept by the færie ring, and your grandmother has still not allowed you out of the village. She does not like the longing looks you throw to the forest and the valleys beyond either, says you are now of age to be married, and should do so before she picks you a husband herself. This annoys you. She has, however, loosened her strict watch, and you can come and go out of the house mostly as you please.

For a few months, now, Kevan has been courting you, and you enjoy having the freedom to spend time with him. He is the blacksmith’s son, has had several lovers before you; but he assures you he can only look at you now, that you are the special one, and he swears if you marry him, he will make you the happiest woman of all Qelt.

You always laugh at that. He is cute and charming, but freedom is still your keyword, and you do not see yourself speaking vows to anyone yet. He shrugs, whenever this is your answer, then takes you in his arms, and makes you laugh some more.

But tonight, he doesn’t shrug. He has drunk, you know, maybe too much, and you look at him in slight fear when he grabs your arm too tightly after you have refused him once again.

“Why?” he groans. “I’m nice to you.”

“I know, Kevan,” you reply, trying to keep your calm. He is simply drunk. You have talked to more drunk boys than one, nothing has ever happened to you. “Now let go of me, please. I told you, I simply do not want to marry yet–”

“You do more than that. You refuse yourself to me. I’m courting you, but it never goes further than an embrace.”

“I do not owe you more than an embrace. If this bores you, you’re free to woo another woman.”

He pulls you to him, and his grip hurts, this time. “I do not want another woman!”

“Kevan, you’re drunk!”

You put a firm hand on his chest to keep some distance between you, keeps your head away from his. You know what he wants, but you do not want it.

“Why don’t you love me?” he asks, accusatory.

Part of you feels guilty. Part of you feels angry.

“I don’t owe you feelings.”

“You’ve seduced me. You’ve let me court you.”

You thought you loved him. You simply wanted to take it slow, to grow a friendship with this charming boy, before doing anything. You enjoyed his attention. You enjoyed playing this little game of cat and mouse with him, thinking it would end well for the both of you once you would have decided your freedom could also be with him.

But not anymore.

Your freedom cannot be with a man who will not wait for you, yet will not move on to someone befitting him better.

“I just wanted time, Kevan,” you try, despite knowing the idea of a future with him is over. “Can you understand that?”

“No!” he roars. “I’ve waited enough. You’re mine, you hear me?!”

“You’re drunk, you don’t know what you’re saying, you-”

“YOU’RE MINE!”

He pulls you closer, and you break free. He screams your name, but you’re already running out of the inn, under the confused eyes of the other villagers who have always seen you two getting along so well, and do not understand what has happened.

Kevan screams your name again, chasing after you.

Fear takes over.

What is he going to do? He is drunk, simply, he surely himself does not understand his own acts. But what if he catches you? Will he just shout? Will he cry? Will he stop himself, being the charming boy he has always been?

Unless this charm of his was nothing but a way to get into your bed, and this friendship you wanted, he has never had any use of it?

And if he catches you, he will get his way with you, whether you want it or not?

No, he wouldn’t do that. He isn’t like that. He might not go that far.

But you can feel his need for bruising kisses, for his hands on your skin, at least, and you can see yourself crying as he holds you tight and calls you his, because it is not how it was supposed to be - and this, you do not want at all.

He calls you names. Yells insults. You run, never turning back, never slowing down. You cannot lead him to your home, you think. Your grandmother and your father are sleeping and you should not even be out, and he would get you before the door.

So, you keep on running.

Your legs carry you to the only place where you’ve found safety outside the village, and when you hear Kevan’s voice louder, his steps closer, you scream before diving into the færie ring.

“ÁED!”

He receives you in his arms. You fold against his chest, trembling and still unable to believe the man you thought could become your husband has gone as far as chasing you outside the village, to the færie ring all villagers avoid.

You do not even want to know how Kevan has reacted. You breathe in and out, slowly, letting Áed hold you and stroke your hair.

“Easy, little one,” he whispers to your ear. “Easy.”

“What are you doing?!” Kevan’s shout. He sounds afraid. “Get back here! It’s–”

“Hush, human.” You have never heard Áed speaking so coldly. Kevan falls silent - drunk or not, every villager knows to respect the Fæs. “This one is under my protection.”

There are no words exchanged for what seems to be a long, long time. You can hear Kevan’s ragged respiration behind you, just one meter away. The færie ring feels like a protection once again; yet you’re inside, this time, and that’s where you feel safe.

“Leave.” There is the hint of a threat in Áed’s voice. “Now.”

Kevan’s steps finally hurry away after a few seconds of hesitation, and you break. You cry. You cling on Áed’s tunic, and you shed your tears, resting your forehead on the crook of his neck.

“It’s okay, little one. He’s gone. You’re safe.”

You somewhat forget he has taken your mother, Nimia, Lettie, the old Mack, and all those other missing villagers from before you were born, during the centuries he has lived. You somehow forget of what you risk, being in a færie ring, in a Fæ’s embrace.

And Áed does not lie to you. You’re safe. He lets you cry in his arms, without asking anything of you, without taking you to Fæqelt, the holy land where his kind resides, without any tricks or malice.

“I do not want to go home,” you murmur.

“It is okay, little one. You can stay here. The færie ring is safe for you.”

You pull away to look at him. “Are you not going to trick me?”

“I won’t.” He is grinning. You believe him, even though you should not.

“Not even ask me for my name?” you try to joke, pathetically.

He raises a brow. “Would you give me your name?”

“No,” and this time you’re smiling, even just a little. “But you may call me Ainsel.”

He laughs and ruffles your hair, and keeps on calling you ‘little one’ - he’s a Fæ too old to be tricked back that way. You end up laying down side by side in the færie ring, and he talks with you until you fall asleep.

When morning comes, you’re in your bed. When you finally stop avoiding him, a few days later, Kevan apologizes to you, then never talks to you again.

You prefer it that way.

The fourth time he asks for your name is very soon after. You come to the færie ring at night, darkness being the only way to escape your grandmother’s watch to leave the village, though you do not enter it.

Last time seemed like an emergency situation. You are not sure you can be so lucky not to be tricked by the Fæ again.

You are not so sure why you have come here either. Maybe it is the fact that you have started appreciating Áed, despite all his evil deeds - that he yet does not see as evil, simply as a Fæ’s doings. Maybe it is because you are starting to understand that your parents’ wedding and your birth was, for your mother, more of a curse than a blessing; and that the same fate of having to bend yourself to what everyone is expecting you to do might be awaiting you as well.

But maybe, it is just the freedom of being able to run under the moon wherever you want, and feel the wind into your hair, away from a village you love but which has started to grow too small for you.

“Little one!” he calls when he appears. He seems surprised, but pleased. “I did not expect to see you so soon. Are you going to the well to wishes?”

You shrug. “No, I wanted to see you. Please do not ask me why.”

“Why?” he maliciously asks.

You shake your head, raise your eyes to the sky. That makes him laugh. He is infuriating, in a way; yet you cannot help but smile.

“How are things, with the ruffian?”

“He has apologized, but has stopped talking to me. He thought me going into the færie ring was a dream, though. I’m glad of it. Had he talked about it, it would have caused me troubles.” You grimace. “My grandmother would have locked me in the house, and married me off immediately.”

“And I could not see you again?” he exclaims. “Horrible. Why would she do such a thing?”

You look at him quietly, and his expression shifts to a less mischievous one.

“She has already lost her daughter to you,” you say, voice soft. “She does not want to lose her granddaughter.”

He opens his mouth to talk, closes it. You are convinced that years ago, he would not have reacted the same way. Would not have taken it so seriously.

“Do you miss her?” he asks.

“I was two, when you led her away. I did not know her well. But my grandmother and my father miss her, and I have always been able to feel there was something lacking in our home.”

He nods. You nod back. There is something strange, in the atmosphere, though you cannot say what. You are not sure he regrets what he has done - how could he? He remains a Fæ, after all -, but you know he has no intention to talk about it with any kind of pride anymore.

“Come here, little one,” he finally says. “And I promise, nothing will happen to you. I will not bring you any more harm.”

You step into the færie ring, standing proud in front of him. Your heart is strangely beating hard in your chest, and he smiles at you, eyes gleaming with a light which is not mischief, but something much softer.

“Will you give me your name, little one?”

It is not a bargain. He already knows your answer.

“You will let me refuse, won’t you?”

He winks. “I will.”

“Then, I can’t give you my name,” you decide, amused. “You are still welcome to call me Ainsel, however.”

“Oh, ‘little one’ suits you better.”

You laugh, and you two sit in the færie ring to talk again, and you tell him things you cannot tell anyone else - you tell him about your dreams of freedom, your wish to explore the world, even Fæqelt, the fact that the village has started to be a prison for you, instead of a home, that your family is your anchor but not your guide, about your need to leave.

He listens. He gives you some answers. Tells you about Fæqelt, about how færie rings can be used to travel within all Qelt and beyond, about himself, also.

And you start thinking it wouldn’t be so bad, traveling with him.

You start coming back to the færie ring more and more often. You are curious about him. A strange bond has started developing between you two, and the more you know about him, the more you notice the constellation of golden freckles on his cheeks, the way his eyes glint with a reflect of starlight, how his laugh sounds when he’s particularly happy, the softness of his smiles which are not tainted with mischief.

Soon, you find yourself craving for those interactions.

There is no one else in the village able to understand you, to support your desire to wander around the world. No one else to talk about travels and adventures with. Even your childhood friends, who have shared all your ups and downs, cannot get why you do not want to become a fine housewife, and live the rest of your life surrounded by what you have always known.

You know, now, why your mother has walked with her hand in Áed’s, while she was too clever to be taken away.

It was the craving for freedom.

She should have known better than abandoning her family; but you can understand how trapped she must have felt in this little village, especially if a marriage and a baby was not what she had wanted. She must have looked longingly to the forests and valleys beyond the village, as you now do, and must have thought it would be better to be led astray by a Fæ than to remain chained down and become a shadow of herself, needing freedom as one needs oxygen.

You understand.

You would have done the same, had you married Kevan as you planned to, all those months ago.

But one night, you stay too late, and your grandmother is waiting for you when you come home at dawn. She notices the grass on your dress, asks for explanations, does not believe any of your lies.

So you tell her the truth, for she has always been one of your pillars, but she screams the moment she hears you have bonded with the Fæ - and her screams wake your father who cries and despairs when learning what you have done.

For the first time in years, he says again you will never be a good daughter. He cries that you are too much like your mother, with the same craving for freedom, the same desire to leave the village, that if he does not keep an eye on you, you will run away to Fæqelt and never come back. He accuses you not to love him, for your mother surely did not love him and the idea of a family with him - or not enough to stay.

Your grandmother locks you into the house, does not allow you out again except under her watch. She promises to marry you soon, as she did for her daughter when she understood her daughter would one day leave her if she did not. The world is too wild for humans, she tell you. Binding you here is the only way to protect you.

This is for your own good, they say, but it does not do you any good.

The village learns about it. Kevan understands what he had seen that night was not a dream, reveals you have stepped into the færie ring, into the Fæ’s arms. And then the villagers, those people who have raised you, seen you grow, watched you live, whisper that you are lost, and that you are a Witch. They say you will bring bad luck to the village, that you are a channel through which curses and tricks from Fæqelt will pass; but they cannot get rid of you and risk the wrath of Áed.

You are not even sure they know what a Witch is. You do not, not really. Witches are wanderers who have strange powers, people say, obtained through a pact with a Fæ. It is like making vows with mischief itself: Witches might be human, but like Fæs, they cannot be trusted.

You cannot go anywhere without hearing the whispers, or feeling the heavy stares in your back. One day, at the market, you receive a stone from Lettie’s former husband, who did not know better. Your grandmother, ashamed, as she cannot even marry you off to a villager anymore, does not defend you.

After that, you stop leaving the house at all.

And you understand your mother’s decision even better.

The fifth time he asks for your name, it’s Early Summer Night, the beginning of the warmer days, celebrated by the entire village around a banquet. Your grandmother and your father have left the house. They are convinced you will not. No one would want to see you at the banquet, after all.

But your need for freedom is still there.

You escape your home which has become your prison, and you only feel like living again once the wind is in your hair, the grass under your feet, and you can breathe in fresh oxygen. You run. Your legs welcome the dearly missed sensation blissfully, take you to the færie ring.

You do not know where else to go.

“Áed,” you whisper when you step into the færie ring, and he’s there, and you’re in his arms, and he’s holding you so tight you realize he must have missed you like you have missed him.

“Do you know how scared I was, little one?” he asks in a strangled voice. “I thought– I thought you would never come again.”

You break in tears. Everything is too much, feels too much, has been too much ever since your grandmother has discovered you had approached the færie ring. You feel like shattering - and in a way, you do, pressed against his chest, pouring your heart out and wishing this night would not end.

“I thought they had killed you,” Áed murmurs, caressing your hair.

“They wouldn’t,” you sob. “They scorn me, now, but they’re not murderers. And I have done nothing evil.”

“What’s inside you, what you are capable of, it scares them. And scared people lose their minds far too easily.”

You shake your head like a child. “They would not harm me.”

“Not physically. But they could have harmed you in other ways. Your beautiful mind, for example. They could have killed this spark in you.” He pauses. “Forced you to give up on your freedom.”

You think of all those days spent the same way, cleaning, cooking, sewing, all nice tasks as long as they’re not the only ones in your life, looking by the window and desperately wishing to feel the warmth of the sun on your skin again, to walk around without fearing to be called names or to receive stones.

You think of how, had you not known him so well, you would have already escaped and given him your name, for getting lost forever in Fæqelt will always be better than the life you now have.

“They almost did.”

You realize, belatedly, how terrified you sound. Áed takes your face between his hands, looking so worried you think he might cry too.

“Little one, you do not have to remain here. You can leave. That is what you have always wanted.”

“But,” you weep, “they are my family.”

“Family should push you forward, and not hold you back. They might warn you, but they should not bind you. Leave, little one. Take your freedom. They do not own you. Come back to this village a fine traveler and a proper Witch, and show them they were wrong to outcast you.”

You manage to smile weakly. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Because it can be. Witches are travelers who venture into Fæqelt and explore it, little one. That, you can be easily. You have the wit and the courage for it.”

You take a breathe, in and out, the despair in your stomach slowly turning into a glint of hope.

“Aren’t humans supposed to lose themselves in Fæqelt?”

“Not with the blessing of a Fæ,” Áed replies softly, and your heartbeat fastens.

The future, all of a sudden, seems open with a thousand possibilities. You see the roads, the travels through færie rings, the foreign people in the inns, the new towns, the vast, vast world you have always dreamt of seeing, the holy land of the Fæ, mysterious and enthralling, only ever told in myths - and Áed by your side, being his usual self, smiling at you so brightly.

“Yes,” you say to this future, to this everything. “I would want that.”

There is relief on Áed’s face, relief and fondness - as if he had wanted you to say that, for your sake and because that was something he wished for, but was not sure you would bring yourself to do so.

“I will come for you during Midsummer Night, when Fæs can leave the færie rings, and blend in with humans. Be strong until then, little one. Do not let them bind you.”

“Thank you, Áed. Thank you.”

“Just give me your name in exchange,” he jokes to cheer you up.

It makes your chest so warm the tears pour out again. Áed smiles, kisses your humid cheeks gently.

“Next time”, you promise, crying. “Next time.”

You still want to give your village a chance.

Or at least a goodbye.

The last time he asks for your name, you are ready to leave. You are but the shadow of yourself, now. The days until Midsummer Night have been endless. Your grandmother has suspected you had gone out during Early Summer Night, but has not been able to prove it - she now barely talks to you at all. Your father has managed to marry you to a farmer in the next village, who hasn’t heard of you.

You have long wondered why their worry has turned into anger and resentment, why they have caged you, when they simply wanted to protect you. No matter your apologies, your explanations, they won’t listen to you at all.

Now, you suppose it is easier to hate than to forgive, especially when there is finally someone to blame for your mother’s disappearance - for all those disappearances. But they have not realized what they are doing is what drew your mother away from them, what is also drawing you away.

They cannot understand. And what they cannot understand, they fear; and what they fear, they try to keep it locked somewhere until it dies.

“Gather your belongings,” your father tells you when the night is falling. “Tonight, you will meet your future husband. We will celebrate the wedding when the dances end.”

They are taking you to celebrate Midsummer Night in the next village, and are getting rid of you the same day, so that no villager will have to bear your presence ever again. You tell them all goodbye in your head, sat in your father’s cart, the bag containing your few belongings on your lap as you watch the little houses and the streets where you have grown up fade away into the night.

Your future husband is introduced to you as soon as you arrive. He is nice, and his family welcomes you warmly; but you can see they are just like the people of your own village, thinking everyone should be content doing what they’re expected to do, and they would frighten of your need for freedom. You already suffocate when they say everything is ready for the wedding, insist on celebrating Midsummer Night first - and fortunately, they all agree.

You embrace your father and your grandmother before joining in the dances. They do not quite understand when you already bid them farewell.

You share a few dances with your future husband, a charming man who would never be able to understand you, and would fear you if he really knew you. He feels guilty leaving you to go dance with his sister, but you laugh and encourage him to do so.

You do not tell him you will dance again anyway.

That would be a lie.

You watch as he nods and hurries to his family, then change partners yourself, taking the hand of the first man who approaches you–

“Hello, little one.”

–and you nearly cry when your eyes meet his. He is so beautiful, in the light of the high flames lit in the middle of the village, you almost think he is a dream - but he is not, oh, he is not, and you have never been so happy.

“You are of exquisite, tonight,” Áed says.

You are wearing the wedding dress you have sewn yourself, all those days spent in your house, and your mother’s necklace resting on your chest, that necklace you longed for so much when you were just a child, which is the only thing from her your father has allowed you to keep.

“Thank you,” you tell Áed, for calling you exquisite, and for everything else.

He laughs and makes you twirl, and for the first time in what feels like centuries now, you laugh too. He does not let go of you. You do not want him to.

“Will you give me your name, little one?” he asks; but this time, you know what he will do with your name, with your life.

He will set you free.

So you stand on tiptoes, and you give him your name, finally, and he wraps his arms around your waist to whisper his own, real name into your ear - then, when the dance comes to an end, you run hand in hand to your father’s cart to pick up your bag, laughing like children, before disappearing into the night.

No one sees you leave.

It means you might come back one day.

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

This is the most beautiful thing i have ever read and i hope everyone it comes across reads it and feels the same intensity that i felt beacause it is truly a work of art

[trynottodrown]

[meglyman]

Mimic Octopus has had enough of Dancing Crab’s shenanigans

[bugcthulhu]

darn dancing crabs and their jazz crab hands

[blue-bower]

‘HELLO MY BABY HELLO MY H-“ “NO”

[batchygyo]

i cant control my hand suddenly

[hms-siren]

NEED

[cyborg-sevalle]

antriebsloosigkeit replied to your post “Mainstream abuse discourse simultaneously posits that A) the most…”

Why are we concentrating on “what an abuser is” instead of “how does abuse occur”, like, id rather focus on the fact that everyone has had abusive behaviors. The act not the person sth like that.

This is something I’ve been talking about with a lot of people lately, and it’s part of what got me started talking about all this. 

I feel like people want to maintain this idea that you can spot an abuser by things like looks or mannerisms or even hobbies is born from a desire to feel safe, like, especially among victims because, I know for me, I wish that my various experiences with it provided me some sort of, like, abuser-sense, but if anything, it’s left me realizing that, like, anyone can be a potential abuser.

And this is also why I hate this idea of, like, assuming that abuse is the product of inherently toxic/abusive people, as if there just exists people who were born abusive, because experience demonstrates that, in the majority of situations, toxicity isn’t localized in the individual, but in the dynamics between individuals, with  power imbalance being a huge factor that contributes to it.

Age gaps, class/financial stability differences, health differences, racial differences, all of these things and more can contribute to an abusive dynamic forming, but I find that a lot of people, most people even, still have this sort of “love will find a way” attitude towards these things, or rather they ignore them in the pursuit of attraction/desire for friendship, and that’s what starts things down the road to toxicity.

Which is another scary thing about it is that abuse can arise just as much from ignorance as it can from intent. Lack of ability to navigate those above factors, lack of emotional intelligence, poor communication skills (on the part of both involved parties) can all turn the relationship between two people toxic and abusive without either person realizing it, and I think that is the root of a lot of abusive situations, people wanna think they just inherently know how to treat other people right, but like, that’s a learned skill that has to be partially relearned every time you enter a new relationship, and that doesn’t excuse it, like, at some base level, it’s important to be aware of how your actions are affecting other people, but the sad truth is that that idea of love or camaraderie, as something you have to learn to do right, is not what we’re taught love is, instead it’s just this thing that we’ll “know” when we feel it and everything will just fall into place.

Like, my first romantic relationship lasted about 3 years, and it was really good at first, but around year 2, they wanted to leave and didn’t know how to communicate it, so they started doing things like avoiding me, not answering my calls, and when we would meet up, acting with lowkey hostility towards me, the relationship had turned toxic. Now, my own trauma signaled that that meant I just needed to try harder or do something different, and it wasn’t until a year later that I finally worked up the courage to be like “why are you doing this?” and they finally told me that they felt trapped by our relationship and had wanted to break it off back when this started happening, but didn’t know how to communicate it.

Granted, some of their inherent traits contributed to that toxicity. They were very egotistical, ambitious, and charismatic, but with an acute lack of self awareness, but that doesn’t mean they were inherently toxic. We’ve stayed friends since then, and I’ve seen them in their other relationships, making the same sort of missteps as they did in ours, but with people who didn’t possess the vulnerabilities that I did/still do, and with time and experience, they found people they could engage with in ways that weren’t toxic.

So I think, what good would the current paradigm of handling abusive situations done either of us in that situation, or really any of the abusive situations I’ve been in? Focusing all resources on disseminating the graphic details of what happened in order to render the other person persona non grata while I’m, what, performatively coddled for the duration before being promptly forgotten? I would much rather have been able to turn to people who could have intervened and bridged the gap of communication between the two of us and, like, yes, held them accountable, but not in the form of public spectacle that accountability takes now, but in a way that meant that they were aware what they needed to be doing differently and having people keeping tabs on them and helping guide them toward better behaviors and ways of approaching relationships.

And that doesn’t even touch on situations where things become mutually toxic/abusive between people which I feel is where this entire system ruptures. Like, despite what people seem to want to think, the world isn’t split up into abusers and victims, and sometimes a dynamic forms where both parties have grown to be abusive to the other, something which frequently resolves on here as outright civil war as people suddenly treat this as an opportunity to pick sides in deciding who the “true” abuser is, with the end goal of painting the entire other side as abuse apologists, when in fact, nobodies relationship problems should be dragged into the public eye like that. It’s pure spectacle and does nothing to improve the situation.

So, by focusing on what abuse is, we open new potential for positive resolutions to these situations. When people know what to look for, they know when it’s time to seek help if they are within the relationship, or when it’s time to intervene if they are observing it from the outside. If the consequence isn’t total exile and ostracization, but like, real accountability and redirection, then denial of wrongdoing no longer becomes a matter of survival and allows them to honestly confront their actions. And once all parties are separated and safe, they can all begin healing and improving, that is the system I’d like to see, or at least something approximating it because the current way of dealing with things is more reminiscent of the Queen’s court from Alice in Wonderland than anything capable of producing legitimate justice and reconciliation. 

And yes, there are serial abusers who are fully aware of the abuse that they perpetrate and intentionally seek out situations where they can abuse others, and there are also those who abuse through physical or sexual violence, both of which demand a harsher communal response, but I feel like using those to justify the system as-it-is is akin to people who say “abolish prisons? then where will we keep people like serial killers?” like, a system which does immense harm to people who need other forms of intervention just to accommodate those edge cases is inexcusable, and like, I feel it’s not an incredibly complicated thing to identify those cases where separating and working with both parties will be insufficient.

But all of this, it takes work, it takes admitting that we all shoulder some amount of guilt for letting our communities get this way, it means no more self-righteous highs from engaging in witch hunts, it means no more superficial sense of safety by relying on cues we find in people, rather than in situations, to reveal to us where, why, and how abuse takes place, it means actually doing the work of using our interconnectedness to affect real positive change in people’s lives, enlisting each of ourselves in the social machinery that keeps people on the right path to healing and self-improvement, rather than the easier road of letting people just rot in intentional neglect. And maybe the former just isn’t possible, maybe the melange of personalities, cliques, and general beliefs that make up our communities disallow the sort of harmony something like this would take, but I refuse to participate or contribute to the latter, so pipe-dream or not, it’s what I’d advocate for.

[bisharoncarter-archive]

my professor spent our entire seminar whining about how there’s too many girls in our group and not enough boys. he was like “i’m not saying women can’t be good surgeons but we need more men” no, we don’t. men suck. deal with it.

[bisharoncarter-archive]

CRY ALL YOU FUCKING WANT YOUR TEARS DON’T MEAN SHIT TO ME. YOUR TEARS MEAN DICK TO ME JUST SO YOU KNOW

[blueannawriting]

Okay so not to be that person who adds on to a post with their own story but my mom is a doctor and when I was eleven she took me to these all-female seminar led by a woman who was the head of a hospital because my mom is an empowered and independent woman who wanted her daughter to be the same way and so there’s like thirty females surgeons in the room, all sitting around his huge circlular confrenece table and talking about their experiences in becoming surgeons

most of them were like “everyone told me I should become a nurse or a pediatrician” and “people assume that I don’t know what I’m doing” you know, your average sexist bs

one of the women’s last name was starboard (yeah I know great name) and she was talking about how even though now she was one of the most accomplished surgeons at the hospital, the male scrub techs (read: guys who didn’t go to fucking medical school) and some of the male doctors call her starbitch in the OR because they (scrub techs mostly, strangely enough) try to suggest different ways to care for the patient and she always tells them no you didn’t go to med school and I did and so they would go out of their way to get the male doctors to treat the patient differently and then she would have to argue with him to prove what she was doing es right but sometimes the male doctor would come and take over the case anyway and this went on for a while

but then the hospital statistics changed bc this woman was literally being prevented from treating her patients bc the men were interfering and so the administrative head heard about this (she was female) and she was like y’all better stop or y’all better start looking for new jobs and then starboard was allowed to work on her patients and got the scrub techs replaced and all of the sudden, the patients were suddenly doing much better during and after surgery.

when she told this story she was like “people still call me a bitch, and maybe I am because I won’t let them walk all over me, but when you’ve got something to do, when you’ve got a life to save, you have to ignore their bullshit so that you can save someone’s fuckin life. Sexism should never stop you from accomplishing that”

and little eleven-year-old me still remembers that bc I was insecure and awkward and here was this woman who just did what she had to do and ignored all the people trying to stop here and she really was better than all the male doctors (like her patient stats were better) and I thought I should share with you this inspiring woman with the cool last name

[dateagirlwhosweird]

date a selkie, but don’t hide her cloak. let her go home and visit her family now and then, knowing that she’ll come back and hang her seal cloak in the closet like she always does. trust is important.

[lustfulpasiphae]

The first time she lets the redhead take her home, she’s diligent about hiding her cloak. She folds it carefully against tears and rips and abrasions, and hides it in a sea cave whose entrance is concealed by the tide.

She does the same, the second and third and fourth times, careful, wary, mindful of her mother’s lessons. Remembers the way her mother’s hands had chafed on her soft cheeks, rough with cooking and cleaning for her fisherman husband, the way her mother’s peat-dark eyes had been tense and harsh with the lesson.

“Mind me, Niahm. Never let them find your cloak.”

The way her mother’s mouth had curved, a sickle of dissatisfaction and relief and envy, as she had escaped into the waves.

So she minds her mother’s lesson, and she takes care with her cloak.

Would that she had taken as much care with her heart.

The fifth time, she wears the cloak to the girl’s door, clutched about her throat, dripping along the darkened lanes.

She enters the home, welcomed with soft kisses and gentle touches and kindling passion. She drapes the cloak, artful in her carelessness, across an old wooden chair, the one that creaks and tilts slightly if you don’t sit just right.

When she wakes, in the wee hours of the morning, even before her lover, the cloak still rests, supple and dappled by the sea, on the back of the chair.

She frowns into the softening dawn, dons the cloak, and returns to the sea.

And again, the sixth time. And the seventh.

The eighth time, she finally breaks, prickling and hurt with longing, gripping a handful of russet hair in her hand, firm with emphasis.

“Surely you know what I am,” she says to her lover, the cool froth of sea foam and the call of gulls curling around her voice.

“Of course,” her lover responds, soft and tender in the dawnlight, throat arched willingly, pale as the inner whorls of a shell. “You taste of the sea,” the girl whispers, reverently.

She shakes her lover’s head gently, fingers tangled still in russet locks. “Why?” she demands. “Why won’t you keep me?”

A long silence that waits and fills, like a tidepool, stretches between them. Cool as a current. Deep as the Channel.

Her lover’s eyes are dark and tender. “Must I trap you to keep you, my heart? Is that the shape of love that you desire?”

She sinks into the thought, struck and stymied, remembering her mother’s harsh hands, her cold eyes. Her hand eases into russet waves, caresses where her grip had punished. Her lips press cool and damp as the sea against the arching curve of her lover’s shoulder. “What shape of love will you give to me?”

The answer is easy, quick, certain. “Myself. Only myself, whenever you should wish it. Your cloak by the door, your body in my bed, and the freedom to go, whenever you must. As long as you wish.”

It’s not an answer a fisherman could ever give, nor would think to.

The ninth time, she hangs her cloak by the door, draped in careful dappled folds next to a drying oilskin jacket.

[catchymemes]

The best kind of neighbour

[loki-against-onision-deactivate]

*smashes foot into door* THIS IS SO CUTE

[girls-to-avoid]

everyone always talks about the wendys twitter, but

let’s talk about moonpie’s twitter

[helthehatter]

Moon pie is so nice and responsible

[girls-to-avoid]

He’s a very good boy

[queen-of-dirt]

Ohhh my God

[being-elspeth]

I didn’t grow up with the understanding that parents cared about their kids. I just didn’t. Abuse and neglect can have that affect.

Just got proof that my mom cared about me up until she passed away a couple of years ago. My mom abused and trapped in a household of domestic violence until she escaped. My mom that I stopped having a relationship with because I couldn’t for my own mental health.

I didn’t know that she cared. I just didn’t.

I wish her life was better. Was happier and not full of pain and extreme gaslighting and misery. I really wish she was happy.

I didn’t know she cared but she did. I’m really glad I know. I’m very grateful. Thank you Mom.

[writing-prompt-s]

after dying god informs you that hell is a myth, and “everyone sins, its ok”. instead the dead are sorted into six “houses of heaven” based on the sins they chose.

[wpsstories]

We arrived first at the House of Lust. “House” is a misleading term. It was more of a camp, spread over acres and acres of lush forest. There was a white sandy beach (nude, of course) full of copulating couples. There were little cabins sprinkled all along the path, from which orgasmic moans regularly came belting out. Men with six pack abs and women with perky breasts strolled by without even noticing me and God. They only had eyes for each other, tickling and pinching each other with flirtatious giggles.

“What do you think?” God asked as we passed a nineteen-way taking place in a pool of champagne. Little cherubs flitted overhead armed with mops and cleaning supplies, thankfully. “Lust is our most popular sin.” I eyed the supermodel-like figures of a couple passing nearby, and could easily see why. “You can look however you want. Hell, you can be whatever gender you want. No fetish is too taboo, and no desire can be denied here.”

It was quite tempting, but I wasn’t ready to make a permanent decision here. “Let’s see the others,” I told God.

We carried on to Greed. We passed rows and rows of mansions, each more opulent than the next. Some of them were so large that they would have had enough bed rooms to fit my entire hometown. And so many different styles: one second, we were in a beautiful French vineyard in front of a gorgeous chateau with the Alps in the background. The next second, a warm tropical beach with a modern mansion atop breathtaking cliffs. After that, a ski chalet in Colorado with a roaring fire in a hearth large enough to fit an ox. Each one had various Italian sports cars and Rolls Royces parked in front, with the occasional smattering of boats, helicopters, etc.

“Any material desire you ever wanted,” God explained. “Your own world, where you can have everything. You want the Hope Diamond? You can fly to Washington DC in your own solid gold helicopter and buy it from the Smithsonian. Hell, you can just buy the Smithsonian.”

Also tempting, but I decided to keep looking.

Gluttony was next up. Tables and tables of the very finest foods: beautiful steaks cooked medium rare; butter-poached lobster tail; fresh oysters on a half shell; exotic wines in dusty bottles that had been hiding in the cellars of the world’s finest restaurants. Everyone had a glass of champagne in hand and simply lounged on couches and chairs near the tables, eating endlessly. As soon as the inhabitants took a bite, the food just instantly came back. My mouth watered even watching them.

“In every other House, the food is practically sawdust compared to Gluttony,” God explained. “You haven’t truly experienced heaven until you’ve been to Gluttony.”

I shook my head, and we kept moving.

Sloth was as you’d expect. An endless sea of the softest mattresses, stacked with cushions and pillows that made the story of the princess and the pea seem minimalist. Little angels visited each resident, giving them massages that made them all melt into their blankets.

Wrath was… well, a lot like what I’d expect Hell to be like. Fire, brimstone, whips, torture.. you know, the works. Except here, you weren’t the one being tortured. Every enemy you’d ever made in your real life was now under your thumb. “Lots of people choose their fathers,” God explained. “Lots of grudges against parents in general, you know. But you’re not limited to that. Someone beat you out for a big promotion back on Earth? Take your pound of flesh here.”

Then we arrived at Envy. It looked… well, a lot like home.

“Go on in,” God said, gesturing toward the door. I turned the knob and walked in… and found Emily waiting inside. She ran forward, wrapped her arms around my neck, and planted a kiss right on my lips. “Welcome home, honey.”

I looked back toward God. “Oh, don’t be coy,” he said. “You have no secrets from me. We all know that you were in love with your best friend’s wife.” She didn’t seem to hear him at all; she went back into the hall. “We all know that you just settled for your own wife while secretly pining after her. Well, this is your chance to live happily ever after.”

I peered into the kitchen. Emily was baking something, wearing nothing but an apron. Her curly black hair fell softly over her shoulder as she whisked ingredients. She turned back, noticed I was observing her, and an enthusiastic smile spread across her face.

“It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” God whispered in my ear.

I wanted to take it. God damn did I want to take it. But I shook my head.

God seemed puzzled. “You need to make a decision,” he told me.

“I haven’t seen Pride yet.”

He scoffed. “No one ever wants Pride, trust me.”

“Well, I want to see it.”

_________________________

Pride was boring. Just a row of workbenches in a bare white room.

“I don’t get it,” I told God.

“Yeah, no one does,” he answered. “That’s why no one ever chooses it. Doesn’t cavorting in Lust sound better than sitting here building little trinkets for the rest of eternity? Wouldn’t you rather gorge yourself in Gluttony? Or spend time with Emily in Envy?”

I considered the options again. “I pick Pride,” I finally told him.

He narrowed his eyes. “What? Look at it!” He gestured around the room again. There wasn’t much to look at. “Why would you choose this for the rest of time?”

“Because you don’t want me to pick it,” I told him. If he was really God, he’d know what a contrarian I can be. And I knew he was hiding something, trying to pretend like Pride didn’t exist. There was something special about it.

God scowled back. “Fine.” He led me over to one of the workbenches. In the center, there was a black space. A blank, empty void that went on forever. “Here’s your universe,” he said. “You’ve got seven days to get started.” He took his seat at the bench next to me and went back to tinkering in his own world. After a long pause, he finally spoke again: “You know, it might be nice for me to actually have some company for once.”

[feral-flower-child]

FUCKING I MEAN.

IT’S LIKE 7AM AND I LOVE GONNA REBLOG SO I CAN READ THIS SHIT AGAIN

[bardqueenofgallifrey]

so a racist got utterly demolished in less than 30 seconds on the New Zealand morning news on Monday and it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen

who knew a white guy could be capable of such an iconic response, he knows what’s up and is having none of that shit, every other white guy take notes tbh

[han-j1]

I love that he said Pakeha

[littlereddove]

Can someone write what its being said in this?

[kc749]

Male co-host: We have had a whole heap of feedback regarding Te Tai Tokerau MP Kelvin Davis’s proposal to institute a prison run on Māori values into New Zealand. He’s looking at potentially establishing this prison up north. It isn’t Labour policy just yet, it’s just an idea of Kelvin Davis’s. And this has been really really divisive on our Facebook page this morning. (sarcastically) Here I think we have the single greatest email, the single greatest message we have ever had on breakfast.

(clears throat deliberately) “’Janice’ says: Good morning. I’m sick of hearing that Māori need different treatment. If they don’t want to live in our society, then maybe we should put them all on an island and leave them to it.”

Male co-host: “Janice. That is LITERALLY what happened! That is the history of our country. Last I checked, Māori WERE on an island, they were left to it, and then Pākehā (Māori term for white New Zealanders) turned up and look how that worked out. But thank you very much for that brilliant insight. Goodness me. Unbelievable. Unbelievable, they actually-“

Female co-host: “Actually, you can’t even get angry, you just actually need to laugh and then screw it up and put it under the desk. Just when you thought-“

Male co-host: (mimicking letter) “’Put them all on an island, leave them to it.’ Yeah. What a great idea that is Janice.

[dancinbutterfly]

I really need “What a great idea that is, Janice.” to be a meme filled with those stupid complete cognitive dissonance bigoted statements.

[johncribati]

[skyabove-voicewithin]

@some-kinda-sneaky-witch-thief oh my gOD

[muchymozzarella]

New Zealand is one of the best examples of tribal history being taught to non native people and assimilating it as part of the larger culture

And I’m so glad this reporter puts that into practice for someone who clearly didn’t absorb the education 

[writing-prompt-s]

Your job in heaven is to look after the pets whose owners have not arrived yet. It’s your first day

[freakingtacosamigo]

NOTE: Just wrote this on Instagram, am re-posting here.

By the end of the first week in heaven, most of the animals owners had arrived. However, there was one dog. He waited, day in, day out for his master to come. And everyday, he’d trot up to me and ask the same question: “Am I a good boy?” I’d smile. “Of course you are, Buddy!” But as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, Buddy became more discouraged. I too began to wonder where the poor dogs master was. So I went to God. He flipped through the roll and couldn’t find Buddy’s owner anywhere. 

I walked to where Buddy lay under a tree, the cooling shade playing on his soft, golden coat. He had his eyes closed, head resting on the fresh grass. 

“I know why my master isn’t here.” He said out of the blue. “He wasn’t a good boy.” I lay down next to Buddy. “What do you mean?” I asked. He continued. “He killed the little good boy. His little good boy. So I bit him. Again. And again. Until he stopped moving. Then the people with nets and guns showed up and they pointed one at me and then I was here.” 

We lay silent for quite some time. Slow tears rolled down my cheeks. The lump in my throat made it difficult to talk, but I managed to say the words.

“Buddy, you’re the goodest boy there is.”

[writing-prompt-s]

*cries*

[deliriumbubbles]

It wasn’t long after that when we found the little boy. He was with the children whose parents hadn’t arrived yet. There were bright faced kids running around, excited to be full of energy and life again. But one boy sat by himself, sad and still, and I knew that it was him. After a few minutes talking to the guardian looking after these children, some whose parents would be there soon, some whose parents wouldn’t come at all, I learned the boy would play with the others, but he wouldn’t speak.

Difficulty adjusting was common enough for murder cases, the guardian said, but so hard to see in small children. 

Buddy recognized the boy right away and sprinted toward him. The boy looked up with wide eyes and threw his arms around Buddy’s neck. The embrace seemed to last forever, but before I knew it, the pair leaped up and began to play.

Without a word, it was decided. The two good boys were each other’s now.

[spacenerrrd]

I know I’ve already reblogged this

But the addition deserves attention too

[writing-prompt-s]

My heart… The addition makes it even better!

[teantacles-deactivated20200702]

A cut transgirl romance comic by Garun

[red-valentine-deactivated201902]

This is good and pure!!! Trans positive manga is so good!!

[lukasz-buda]

I’ve always wanted to animate something sheep-related and here it is.

There will be more, but animation is very time consuming.

[tally-art-deactivated20201005]

Gorgeous

[beephomets]

dont be rude to people who choose to finish school before they get a job

dont be rude to people who choose to quit school in order to get a job

not everyone is capable to handle both at the same time

dont give me your shitty life story of “well i work 100000 hours and i STILL manage to find time for my homework. if i can do it u can do it too” like literally shut the fuck up no one cares and no not everyone can.

[ken-cat-deactivated20171110]

FUCKING THANK YOU

[jazzybot4]

THIS.

[being-elspeth]

School and work killed me. Killed the 18 year old with so many dreams. I was put on academic suspension because I was working so much (had to for my family). Spent the next three years miserably working, retaking a class I had failed one at a time. I hated my life.

When I was 26 I went back to school full time. I did not work except for internships during the summer and an internship during my last semester. Friends and strangers commented on me not working, not even part-time while in school. Landlords and roommates were very leary, even when I offered to pay several months at a time.

My life sucked in school. Being broke, being negative dollars collectively, being diagnosed with a disease with expensive treatments right before I went back full time... It was awful. The stress of school compacted with stress of financial worries and my disease. I remember a couple times when I broke down crying because my insurance changed unexpectedly and I had to pay $500+ to get my medication but the only money I had was for rent and food till the next semester. Thst was really fucking awful.

I graduated on time. I know I would not be where I’m at, without saying no to work while at school. I had support from friends and family who lent me $500 here and there as short time loans. If I didn’t have Obama Care while in school- I wouldn’t have been able to go to school. Instead I’d be working to pay for treatment of my disease.

I’m an engineer. I have my degree and a great job. I graduated with $52K in debt and my doctor informing me that due to treatment, all signs of my disease are gone (but I still have it as there is no cure). I’m now almost a year since graduating and I’m now at $40K in debt. And I fucking happy.

Seriously, do what you what you can. People who criticize rather than support can fuck off.

[pearl-likes-pi]

Steven Universe except it’s an anime opening (Sora Ni Utaneba, OP 3 of My Hero Academia)

I spent ten thousand years and put off homework to do this so i hope u enjoy bless

On YouTube here

[kookiechimchimtrash]

[dyrus]

IS THAT A SHARK?

[les-etoilles]

[furrama]

[ghost-coven-deactivated20240127]

if you watch any video today it needs to be this one

[sleepy-bookworm]

I LOVE THIS NEWSCAST AND IM NOT EVEN FROM AUSTRALIA.

[frederick-the-great]

#like that little cage is gonna help ya

[pipistrellus]

Theyre so. Honest

[danyzpractice]

Take it in your heart Take it in your heart, heart, heart, heart 🎵🎵🎶

[powerfulwizard]

I’m never going to get over this. The demon-possessed child with dance moves from the devil, while also dressed like my uncle. His dad giving him a lil’ pat on the chest right before he goes ham. The perfect 90s sunglasses indoors. The gays in the background. The perfect combination of slavic and 90s vibes in one video.