a woman's work is never done

the woman who cursed the beast.

the emerald witch. they put your face in their stained-glass windows to remind the sun to fear you. 

the roses you tend yell. you put a spell on an eleven-year-old boy. how dare you! for what, for not taking your rose? and to curse the servants as well - what had they done. who were you to decide to undo them? you hush them.

the woman he will love has a fondness for stories and a kindness that you lack. a sense of self-sacrifice. 

like your mother. she had gentle eyes and good hands. her back hurt all the time. when you picture her, you see her hunched. sad. she looked so old, sometimes, for someone who was young. she worked so that you may play, you blissful and full of chatter, not seeing how frail she became. france was never known for feeding the people, not then, not in this time. your mother’s magic was earth magic. the only thing she could call her own was her patch of roses. beautiful and soft and the only color in her life, besides you. or at least, that’s what she told you.

every day her joints swelled. one night she stays late into a storm, begs for shelter, finds none. when she came back to you, you had nightmares about monsters. great wracking coughs like roars. her face ashy, brown with dirt. her hair matted, her knobby hands - those hands that raised you - bloody and gnarled and curled into claws. you told yourself you could not fear her. but you hid nonetheless.

when she died, you still believed in king and in country. you went to beg for a tombstone from them. it was the first you’d seen of the castle. so wide and full of things you’d never explored. for the first time in your life, you felt poor. you learned, in that moment, that you were starving. before, it had just been the way things were.

you couldn’t find the courage to face the royal family. you joined the staff. every day, you handled things that could have bought her a better life. a single spoon would have saved her; paid not for her grave but instead for the care she had required. it could have fixed her back and undone her bad bones. you gain a reputation for being soft in the head, staring at things long and hard, thinking about what you could have done with them. you watch servants in their own petty cruelness. a spot in the castle was worth fighting over. they framed theft, started rumors, purposefully injured each other. 

when you first meet the boy, you think - he is not much younger than me. and he has lost his parents too, hasn’t he? maybe - if you are good and kind like your mother, he will see. you only want her name to last permanently. to be a stone, to be back to the earth like her magic was. the boy who does not know hungry is spoiled, you think. you see him crying over his choice in toys and think of what those toys could have bought another family. 

resentment grows in you the way ache grew in your mother’s body. it starts somewhere ugly and spreads in thorns along your heartstrings. every early morning, every late ball, every pointless expense, every moment you are demeaned and insulted and humiliated. every tiny payment, barely enough to make your rent, every day after putting food you’ll never taste into hands that don’t care if you disappeared forever. it sits in you and you nurse it, let it grow in ivy vines between your teeth, let it in. every time the other servants are cruel, you stare at them, map their features in your head, calculate exactly what would be the best for them.

you go to the boy on the night your mother died. it is dark and there is nothing but lightning. you feel her, somehow, and that is why you wear her old clothes and crook your back and you give him - for her, and only for her - one chance to prove that this castle of taking isn’t all of sin. for a moment, you wear your mother’s skin. the way you remember her. old and gentle, carrying a single red rose she grew with tired hands.

you knock on the door, and try not to think how many homes could have used the wood it was carved in. the servants are asleep, and the boy you have enchanted: he glints one eye out into the darkness. and you, as your mother, you offer him a rose. for one night in the castle. you offer him: if he had known her, would he have accepted her? taken her under his wing? saved her from what would happen? you offer him one starving single mother, only asking for a little bit of rest, to be paid for with the most precious thing in her life, the effort of her every breath.

he laughs at you. a rose? he asks, when i have hundreds? 

sire, you say, you so have hundreds of rooms, too.

and he laughs more. and closes the door. you hear at once the sound of her closing coffin. 

you stand there, and if it is the magic of your mother, of her rose, of the black soil, for once in your life you are powerful. the castle opens itself to you, and at once, like a map of blackness, you find every corner and expose it for the ugliness inside. for the sharp man who beats you every time he perceives you being slow: a clock, so he can feel the time strike him. for the pretty ladies who are constantly using their looks to hide how cruel they are to each other: a duster, so they can settle in their own dirt. and for the leery man who touches you - day after day after day - his hands will be fire, so he never stops burning. even the stones turn dark, the corners full of gargoyles, the eves covered in spiderwebs. every place a shadowed hell. the way it’s always been.

and for the boy? the boy who would have let your mother die in the night? for him you give him exactly what he turned away; the beast from your childhood dreams. does the boy scream, when you turn him into who your mother became? his clawed hands and bent back and growl of a voice? this question haunts you still. did he scream? you heard nothing but the echo of his voice, laughing.

you stood there. ivy around you in a dress. your mother’s earth magic maybe holding you back from changing even yourself. it was too late. you were already something different now, made cruel by a cruel place, made ancient by long hurts. you were panting, maybe crying. the air smelled of roses. 

his way out. to find love. that’s all. just to teach him the value of a single human life before his own. so that he may know what it is to love and to have that love one day be gone.

you were fair. you were beyond fair. you just did what had to be done.


this week was so nice!!! lectures will end in two weeks and I’m a little sad and also a little glad :DDD I’m gonna miss some of my teachers :’) I’m so tired of studying but I need to keep going :)) I’m really looking forward to the holidays because my dog is going to live in my apartment for a week while my family is on vacation and it’s gonna be so nice

My smile is no longer for you! But for myself! Something that was supposed to last for ever and ever, came crashing down unexpectedly.. You broke promise after promise! Me, believing in you, trusting you whole heartedly, and having faith in us… I just wanted so bad for this to work! But it won’t and never will! I did everything I could, and yet it wasn’t good enough! I’m too insecure and jealous? You’re too pig headed and stubborn to open your damn eyes to a beautiful woman who did everything you ever wanted her to.. I wanted to fight for us, for you and you want nothing to do with it! With your text messages of “ you can do better than this, you deserve better this emotional roller coaster I’m putting you through ”. Well, you’re right! I do! I do deserve better!

My favorite text, you’ve sent me…
“ And if it happens that I want to pick up the dice again and you’ve walked away from the table to play the game with somebody else that would really suck for me. But they are the consequences I will have to live with ” This wasn’t a game! It was our lives, relationship and love!

I’m not saying I’m completely over you, but I’m over wanting to be with you, I’m over you being my daddy, my boyfriend, believing you’re my soulmate, and most importantly I’m done believing in you and trusting you!

Thanks so much for showing me this world/life style! I was destined to be a little girl, just not yours!

So I work in a coffee shop, and ofc lattés are a popular drink. They’re made with one or two shots of espresso depending on the size and then topped with steamed milk. That’s it. So this woman comes in and asks for a large latte with just one shot, and mostly water instead of steamed milk. I tell her I’ve never done that before so I’m not sure how it will taste, but she says she gets that all the time so I make it, she takes it and leaves. About an hour later she comes back, and I’m a helping another customer my manager goes over and I see her face and mentally I’m like “ok here we go”. I see my manager take some money from the till and she leaves. He comes over and asks what I did to her latte and I tell her what she asked for and he goes “wtf”. She came back to complain that her latte was too bland and tasted like it had been watered down. ?????? That’s what you asked for???????

A huge and special Fuck You to the gross old man (who literally looked like Johnny Knoxville in his old man makeup, red sweater and everything) who decided to say, very loudly, “A Woman’s Work Is Never Done.” when I was sweeping near him and his shitty old man friends, like implying that my cleaning the lobby, like… doing my job… is simply Womens work.

I didn’t even look up, I got visibly angry and stopped cleaning and went to the back.
Huge spoiler alert: I’m a trans boy.
I don’t give a shit what customers call me bc they don’t matter to me tbh
But to say some Misogynistic bullshit like that IN FRONT OF MY FACE

I told my GM what the guy said and he got SO MAD, he asked if I wanted him to talk to them, but I was just like “No, I just need to calm down rn” I was so pissed and kind of on the verge of a dysphoric panic lol heck


Summary: Nygma pledges to himself to change for the better this new years. But a new assistant coupled with a new officer may just make that a little bit difficult

Nygma X Reader

Word Count: 1,169

Warnings: Some cursing, non-descriptive assault, death

Originally posted by gothamfox

He could stop killing. He had never done it before and he could get back to that, he knew it. It was going to be 1937 and he couldn’t keep being a murderer. He would continue his work, think of some more riddles, and move on from the death of Ms. Kringle.

But first, he had to meet his new assistant. They had surprised him that day at work, not telling him anything other than he would need to “play nice”. He was angry, but kept under control, shooting back a riddle with a particularly insulting answer.

“Oh, hello!” He was taken aback as the woman before him extended her hand “I’m (Y/N). Your new assistant, though from what I’ve heard, I doubt that you need one. I mean, the poor have it, the rich need it, and as do you. What is it?”

“Nothing.” He answered, and now it was her turn to be taken aback.

“Are you a fan of riddles Mr…”

“Nygma.” He filled in “Edward Nygma, and yes, I have a passion for riddles.”

“Then I think I may be better company to you than I’d originally thought.” She grinned.

“As do I.” He smiled.

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She Shoots, She Scores - HaxanHexes (PineNeedles) - Overwatch (Video Game) [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Rating: M+
Fandom: Overwatch
Pairing: Lena “Tracer” Oxton/ Amélie “Widowmaker” Lacroix (Widowtracer)
Characters: Lena “Tracer” Oxton, Amélie “Widowmaker” Lacroix, Hana “D.Va” Song, Lúcio Correia dos Santos, Gabriel “Reaper” Reyes, Sombra, Fareeha “Pharah” Amari
Word Count:  6269

“You guess appearing open is easy enough, but being really, truly vulnerable is another, scarier thing. That’s why you’ve never done commitment. Opening up to someone for a night is simple. You and another woman share in each other’s beautiful, intimate facets—and then you leave before you can get hurt. Or hurt her.”

A one shot AU where-in Lena Oxton, super fast track star and accidentally promiscuous gay co-ed, pursues the icy and mysterious Amélie Lacroix. But what she gets when she finally draws the Frenchwoman’s attention is far from the expected.

Written in the second person.

An idea for a one shot college!au Widowtracer fluff fic that was supposed to be small and ended up being over 6,000 words. It was really fun to write, and is my first published fic in months! It’s also my first time writing in the second person.

I hope you all enjoy it!

I work in a place that mixes ice creams on a chilled slab of granite. I love the work, i love my coworkers most of all, but after a year of abuse i’m pretty done. In the year i’ve worked here, we have never been properly staffed. Our gm is so bad, our new workers usually start and quit the same week. Most people last two days. The male workers usually leave because our gm, a very old crazy woman, makes so many sexual jokes and advances towards them. The girls leave because our gm will scream so loud you can hear her two stores down about any very tiny thing, like over filling the size cups for a customer.
We are located in one of the busier outdoor malls, and all summer, with a huge rush lasting open till way after close, lines down the block, we usually had 2 people working, because, while the tips are great, it’s not worth the mental abuse and such hard work for so long. I went months working 8 AM to 2 AM just because i couldn’t bear to leave the coworkers who do stay with us alone to work a rush by themselves for 9+ hours
Today i was working alone (our gm shows up, does nothing, screams, tells you that you should thank her for getting everything done, and leaves.) She came up to me and starts loosing her shit that i hadnt stopped helping customers to mop the back walk-in. She called me, in front of a line, a lazy piece of shit, and a fuck up. Ive only cried in front of customers one other time, im usually tough as nails, but i guess i finally broke. I started sobbing trying to help very uncomfortable customers (most of whom left without ice cream) with her screaming in my ear. I’m so done. I’m so tired. After all this, she wont find me a coworker for tomorrow nights rush because i missed one meeting.

19th-century female artist finally gets credit for works attributed to men
Gallery learned Caroline Louisa Daly was rightful artist behind Prince Edward Island watercolours after her great-grandson raised doubts
By Ashifa Kassam

Sexism is when they literally claim your painting was done either by a man who never did any art but shares your surname, or an artist with our surname but who has never even visited the place he is supposed to have painted, because of course a woman couldn’t have painted great art. 

I was taught that the way of progress was neither swift nor easy.

Marie Curie

Marie Curie never professed to be a feminist. But she was certain that she was a scientist that encountered many difficulties in her career related to her status as a woman – difficulties that she diligently worked around.

She graduated high school in Poland ahead of her peers. But, unable to enroll in higher education in Poland because of her status as a woman, she became a governess and supported the expenses of her sister in medical school in Paris. All the while, she devoured giant books at night when her duties were done for the day – anatomy, physics, etc – eventually settling on physics as something she loved.

After her sister was finished, she went to study at the Sorbonne in Paris, living on meagre funds. She would rise many flights of iron stairs each evening, up to her barren, unheated apartment, furiously studying away. She eventually earned a physics degree and later a math degree, finishing among the top of her class.

Marie’s first Nobel Prize almost did not happen. The Nobel committee first intended to award her husband and another male scientist, until a mathematician insisted Marie also receive the award. For some time after, the media swarmed the Curies and swathed their relationship in myth, including, on one occasion, a report that she believed her husband to be the one who drove the reigns of their work together. Curie promptly fought back, publishing a column in the same paper the next day calling out the lie.

Years later, after her husband had died from a fatal crash with a cart and horse, she picked up another romance with a physicist. Far from atypical for marriages in that day, the physicist had a wife. Mistresses were usually unknown, but the scandal of Curie as a well known woman set the media aflame. It was during this time that she won her second Nobel – another near miss. She was told by the Nobel committee she would not have won if they had known about the scandal previous, and encouraged her to not come to accept the award until the scandal had been cleared. She ignored them and accepted her award. The media gave mere mention to the occasion, giving it a short blurb in the back of the papers, while other laureates took front page space. Public opinion of Curie spun on for some time thereafter, often considering her to be a poor example for women.

Curie continued her work after that, eventually agreeing to go on a tour of America to raise funds to buy a piece of Radium and equipment for her lab. It is through that tour that she became famous in the US, becoming an icon for women in science. And although she was reluctant to take center stage in the public eye, her life is indeed a remarkable artifact of women in STEM.

Today is my one year anniversary since medically transitioning.

The average life expectancy of a transgender woman of color is 35 years old. I am currently 19. Maybe transitioning at 18 years old will make this journey less traumatic for me in the long run, but this past year increased adversity, and my safety is still never guaranteed.

This day is my celebration, but today is also the day I want you to recognize the ways we, as people, have been geared to work around unfamiliar identities. I don’t want this post to overly simplify my journey. I have come ways, although the work has yet to be done. But what /is/ the work to be done?

I open up Twitter to see my newsfeed jammed with headlines of trans women who have been beaten, raped, even lit on fire, prior to their deaths— trans women who aren’t far from my age, trans women who are in a different country, and trans women whom I personally know. Which goes to say one year transitioning is wonderful, but what good is it if the rest of society remains stagnant?

I open up Tinder to see a line of men who are ready to consume me simply for being a different kind of body. At times I give in for personal validation, but what standards of self-love (and self-hate) have you imposed on us for us to need validation to begin with?

I open up the doors to leave my room, the only sanctuary space I have where I get to live away from the systems that have caused these traumas for me and my sisters. Moments before leaving, I still question “How woman do I look today? Do I have to take the long way to class if it means less risk of interaction with people who may harm me? Will this be the last time I leave my room whole?” This is not normal. But it is strangely acceptable. As humans, we desire conformity, we have settled for comfort and the easy way out, which sometimes is passivity. We point fingers to redirect accountability because it makes it easier for us to deal with the fact that whatever problem out there is not ours. But being passive is a major contribution to the problem, for you are unconsciously feeding into this violent cycle.

I’ve made it through a full year. That’s not good enough.

You see, none of these things are my problem. Who do we blame for the imposed trauma that led me to need to transition in the first place? Who is truly held accountable when I question my own safety in public? Whose fault is it that a person’s entitlement led to them killing someone of transgender experience?

THIS is the work that needs to be done.

So today, I will celebrate my existence.

And today and so forth, I can only hope you will do your deed to make this place easier for people like me.

anonymous asked:

OQ AU: "You never called," she says, spares him a brief glance, crosses her arms, struggles to keep her voice steady - deep breath - succeeds, it's a statement rather than an accusation.

It happens more and more often these days — he’s late, doesn’t come back to their apartment once he’s done work. He used to at least give her the courtesy of a call, but ever since she told him she was moving to Seattle (It’s at the other end of the bloody country! I already moved to the States for you; don’t ask me to uproot myself again), he doesn’t even bother with that. Their marriage is falling appart, she knows; they’ve already ordered the divorce papers.

Sighing, she waves him away from the living room, with a distant “I hope she makes you happy” when his guilty silence informs her that she is right, confirms her suspicions as to whom he’s actually spending his evenings with.

“I’m sorry, Marian,” is all she gets in response.

leave the first sentence of a fic in my askbox and i will write the next five

Just finished binging Making a Murderer and you know who we’re not talking about enough??? 



This woman drove all around the goddamn country for 18 years to visit her son wherever he was. She took the time & the resources to do that even when he was hundreds of miles away. She drove THROUGH ICE to see her son. 

She spent actual years doing every single thing she knew to do to get justice for her family. 

She is a working class woman from rural Wisconsin, but she has done more legal work in her life than any lawyer involved in these cases. Dean Strang is great & spoke beautifully & everything. But Steven Avery would still be in prison for the assault he didn’t commit if it weren’t for his mother who never went to law school. 

She showed up to court every day even when her reputation & SAFETY were at risk. 

She’s still trying to find justice in a system that has fucked her over so many times almost anyone else would have stopped. 

I don’t know if Steven Avery is guilty, but I know that Dolores Avery has done nothing but love and protect her family. She is incredible. She deserves justice for her family but she also deserves the fucking world & I swear to god I will fight anyone about this.  

rose-khan  asked:

I absolutely hate you! I was never a big fan of AU fanfic but here i am having a marathon of your fics dammit! Currently at work trying to look busy but have mutliple tabs open, ready to minimize everytime my boss passes. I got no work done today and i'm trying my absolute hardest not to laugh out loud at this awesome writing especially of Magnus Babe. I started with The Avengers Initiative and it all went downhill from there...what are you doing to me woman?!!

I would say I am sorry but that would be a lie so… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Thank you and welcome aboard! You are now a cupcake! <3

Most men make the error of thinking that one day it will be done.  They think, ‘If I can work enough, then one day I could rest.’ Or, ‘One day my woman will understand something and then she will stop complaining.’ Or, ‘I’m only doing this now so that one day I can do what I really want with my life.’  The masculine error is to think that eventually things will be different in some fundamental way.  They won’t.  It never ends.  As long as life continues, the creative challenge is to tussle, play, and make love with the present moment while giving your unique gift.
—  David Deida, The Way of the Superior Man
The Girl and Her Demon


Abandoned in the desert country of Jakku, the young Rey waited fifteen years for her family to return to her, to no avail. It was thanks to the church that Rey still had hope they would arrive. While she labored for her uncle who barely provided her enough provisions to make a living, Rey found sanctuary and safety in the church.

Every Sunday morning was a blessing, as Unkar would excuse her to go into town to attend Father Tekkas sermons. He was a gentle old man who Rey wished was her guardian instead of Uncle Unkar. Because of her newfound faith, Rey never lost hope of her families return.

When her work was done at the end of the day, she would prey, using the rosary Father Tekka generously provided her. At the end of each day, she scraped a scratch mark in a book. 

As Rey grew, everyone noticed how beautiful she had become. A face like hers should not have been concealed by a headscarf or a veil. A woman as petite as she had no place laboring in the desert.

She was distinctly known as the girl in the beige dress, the boots, and with skin like the desert sand they tread upon.

Unkar even took notice, He was able to control his urges for some time, but they grew worse each time a young man came to request his permission to marry her. Not even asking Rey how she felt, he turned them all away with a good beating. She did not have love for any of them, but did not approve of the way her uncle treated them.

Her love was only for the lord.

Unkar came out of his room one night to see Rey at the table, reciting her prayers. The book she marked her tallies was almost full, the pages crispy with ink marks. 

“You’re wasting your breath, girl.” he told her. “You know the truth; they ain’t comin’ back. Don’t deny it.”

The church told her to never lose faith, no matter what other people said, so Rey ignored him, advancing to her next Hail Mary.

“Are ye deaf girl?”

Rey didn’t like to end her rosary session until the last prayer, but he wasn’t going away.

“Maybe you should go to church, uncle.” she suggested. “You certainly need it.”

The hulking bald man stepped closer behind her. Rey could feel the rivers in her skin run dry.

“I don’ need some church. Ah have an angel right ‘ere.”

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anonymous asked:

Why do you feel as if William and Kate won't become King and Queen in the future?

It’s not that they won’t,  as to what’s going on now that could affect their future They started picking up the pace, but we still have a Harry problem and PC has some issues as well. Lot’s a people calling for rexit, more now as the same time last year, things need to be fixed quickly to stop this from gaining strength.

The people are beginning to lose the mystique of the monarchy and MM didn’t help this situation any. The people are worried about their health system, immigration, homelessness while watching royals going on endless vacations as they work to try to keep a roof over head. MM is not their english rose and don’t want to support her in anyway, the more she campaigns for the job, the more people are saying rexit, I don’t want this to ever happen. Make a comment that they are done, this woman never will stop unless someone says it’s done.

thanks anon   

drew’s disney’s descendants auRizal, son of Jafar

Despite his power as a sorcerer and a genie, Jafar was one of the first criminals to be hunted down and brought to the Isle of the Lost. Thirteen guards lost their lives in the process. He was a leader among the people until Maleficent arrived, and even then Jafar lead a faction that strongly opposed Maleficent as leader. Their ranks battled frequently and ferociously. It was a small gesture that brought the feud to an end, however: the death of his parrot lead Jafar to at last confront Maleficent face-to-face. No one knows what happened, but he entered the woman’s chambers as her enemy and exited as her second-in-command.

Where Jafar is all intellect and ambition, his son is much more of a carnal being. Rizal’s interests lie in developing his physical prowess. He easily falls into a leadership role, often delegating when things don’t need to be delegated and is quick to take the credit without having done any of the work. But never say Rizal is not contributing; pick a weapon, any weapon, and Rizal can do some damage. Jafar has always encouraged this behavior, recognizing that the older generation relied on their sidekicks for physical back-up. He knew the value someone from the new generation would have by being someone who did not rely so strongly on their wits and could rather dominate physically. Rizal is one the biggest heartthrobs on the Isle of the Lost, and although he’s happy to oblige, he’s yet to find someone who peaks his interest; but that could change when he arrives on the mainland for King Beau’s summit and meets the son of his father’s old nemesis, Prince Cassim of Agrabah…

[by droo216, written in partnership with succubuscheerleader]

@romaniantelevision: another fun thing my sister-in-law suggested wrt my resume was listing the workshops or continuing ed I’ve done related to my current field.

It’s pretty clear this woman has no experience in hourly wage work. My jobs, with the exception of the disastrous year teaching public school while having a nervous breakdown, have never offered professional development, because they never invest in their employees as a rule.

My continuing ed has been Khan Academy and Duolingo, because I failed out of graduate school twice, because I’m mentally ill.

Also: I want out of this field.

I feel like asking her was a mistake.