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honeyynymphh · 2 years

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| Nothing Ever Lasts Forever |

Papa IV x FemReader rating: E word count: 6k warnings: dark copia, dub con, dom/sub, knife play, decap (flashback), abuse of power. please check ao3 for all tags

“You still wear his paint.” Not a question. Just a statement. He hardly ever asked questions. There were orders, demands, requests—not to be denied. “He is dead, sorella.”

The Emeritus line is finished. There is a new Papa now to serve, but you are hesitant to throw your loyalty and love aside.

But he gives you no choice.

read on A03

🗡️🕯️👑🗡️🕯️👑

You should have been happy today. The nerves surging through you now were meant to be ones of joyous anticipation, not sick dread. As you stood there before the altar, barely listening to the bishop performing the ceremony, your stomach twisted. It was an effort to keep your eyes locked onto the unholy bible held in the bishop's hands, you didn’t wish to look next to you—though the heat of the man by your side burned through your many layers of clothing.

The bishop spoke, his words echoing in the cavernous cathedral. Nobody else made a sound, not a muttered whisper or cough escaped from the pews behind you. Not a soul would dare to speak. You could feel their eyes on you; some pitying, some relieved—so grateful it was not them standing where you stood—and others, though only few, seethed with jealousy. Those were the eyes of siblings you did not trust.

Gratefully you would have traded places. You did not wish to be stood here, before Satanas, in this elaborate gown. The inky fabric shimmered under the candlelight and bounced off the threaded gold and blue embroidery. Your face painted, though not painted to honour the man you were to be tied to. No, to his predecessor. When you had made that horribly long path down the aisle, you had sworn his eyes had burned at the sight of your paint. But it had never been required for any sibling to change the paint they wore during ceremonial affairs. It was easier if you pleased the man next to you. But this one small act of rebellion he would not take away from you. The droning words of the bishop suddenly stopped. The silence of the cathedral was heavy, it felt like it sucked at your feet and pulled at the skin between your fingers. It made you itch. But it was only brief, for another Sister of Sin had come forward to help you move the mountainous fabrics of the skirts of the dress to face him.

Gloved hands reach for yours and clasped them tightly as you try to focus on a spot above his right ear. The veil donned upon your head, lace shimmering like a spider's web, made everything look all dreamlike and hazy. It felt like a shield. It was one.

The bishop was speaking in Latin now, one hand making patterns in the air before you, the hum of magick burning against your wrist as ropes of fire materialised before you and twisted around your clasped hands. It wrapped around your arm like a snake, the smell of magick tickling your nose as it went. It was a strange heat, you could feel the power of it coiling in your gut, could feel it tugging at your lips, your hands, your breasts.

If it had been your Papa standing before you, you would have welcomed it. Would have easily let the arcane magick of the Rite of the Prime Mover sweep through you and let it take over. But it wasn’t Emeritus the Third that stood before you now.

The guilt felt heavy in your chest at that thought, but nothing compared to the weight of the ornate ring that adorned your finger. It was like an anchor, weighing you down and keeping you in place. It should have been one of comfort, but it wasn’t. It was not the ring you had originally worn. That now lay buried in a stone coffin underneath the abbey all the way down in the catacombs along with your dead lover and his two dead brothers.

“...bound eternally to His Unholiness, Papa Giacomo Copia,” came the voice of the bishop as the bonds flared before fading. He then moved to carefully pick up a deep goblet before handing it to Copia. “Accepting our Unholy Lord internally for the gifts he may bestow in return.”

Taking a deep sip, Copia’s eyes never left yours. He pressed the goblet against your lips, the veil caressing your skin as he gently tipped it up. The wine was sweet and heavy, and you swallowed it greedily before it was taken away.

“Nema.”

The echo of the congregation reverberated around you as Copia came even closer, the surrounding candlelight flickering over the jewelled mitre and casting strange shadows across his handsome face. You felt his hands lift the veil before his mouth pressed against yours. Such a quick kiss, but the intention behind it made your stomach clench and your blood sing, the brief taste of him lingering on your lips as he pulled away—those mismatched eyes full of something purely predatory.

There was no time to think on it because you were being pulled away by your other Sisters of Sin as they lead the congregation out of the abbey's basilica and towards the audience chamber. Tonight it would be filled with food, music and wanton entertainment. Your muscles tensed as you entered through the large doors and were ushered to the long table that had been set up in front of the throne. Usually, this room was empty save for the throne that sat on a raised dais. Now it was full of tables piled high with food and wine while flowers and vines bursting with fruits snaked up the columns that lined the circular room. Like the rest of the abbey, the ancient walls were decorated with exquisite artworks and the tiled floors gleamed. It was a beautiful and airy space, the large arch windows letting the last of the sun's rays come spilling through the stained glass to cast specks of colour everywhere. It was hard to see the beauty in it these days though.

Looking around as you carefully took your seat at the head of the table you noticed that everyone seemed to have relaxed now; ghouls, siblings and other clergy members chatting away as they selected a table and immediately began to snatch at the feast before them. They were probably relieved it was over. You were certain some of them had been sure you'd run—maybe you should have. But no, running would not solve anything. Before you, lying between all the meat and fruit was a sharp steak knife, his metal blade looking sharp as the light glittered off of it. With a quick glance around to see that nobody was paying attention, you grabbed it and hid it beneath the folds of your dress. It was probably not going to help, but it was somewhat comforting to feel it there. And as the night wore on you barely paid any attention to your surroundings, everything around you was a blur as the hours ticked by. You did not feel like eating and merely pushed the food around your plate.

Your eyes fell on the tiled floor in front of you. It shone in the light of the red candles that had been lit around the room when night fell. You were dimly aware of the sound of happy chatter, clinking glasses and Copia's low laugh in your ear as a gloved hand grasped yours. You would have flinched if you had been paying attention but your mind was lost staring at that marbled floor.

Had it been only a few months ago that you had been in here? Had everyone really forgotten?

It felt like a lifetime ago that the man next to you had been but another clergyman. Cardinal Copia had been kind, polite and mostly quiet—if not a little awkward. He had just been another member of the abbey, albeit an important one. But he had not been threatening. Perhaps you could have called him a friend if you had taken the time to get to know him better. Terzo had always said that Copia was a good man, though it seemed your Papa had been wrong.

They all had.

Dismissing Copia as nothing but the man who took care of the numbers, who kept the library in order, or the one that was just simply at the beck and call of the Emeritus family. But he had been the person who had kept the entire abbey from collapsing in on itself. The man knew everything. He had been part of the shadows—always there, always listening and always watching.

Now he loomed around every corner, his face stitched into fine tapestries or depicted in large paintings that hung throughout the abbey’s many halls. Most of the tapestries and paintings of the Emeritus line had been taken down, and so centuries of history had been rolled up and stored in the abbey cellars along with the rats.

Some had laughed. Some had simply rolled their eyes at the sheer ludicrousness of the little rat man getting so high on becoming Papa that he just had to lord it over everyone by making sure nearly every wall of the sprawling abbey held his face. Some—you are certain a particularly mischievous ghoul—had scribbled rat ears and a tail over one painting.

That had ceased when the three brothers had been found dead and Sister Imperator the one charged with murder. Her screaming and kicking as Copia’s ghouls had brought her in before him in this very room had been horrifying. Nihil had stood there with her, begging Copia to send her to the dungeons beneath the abbey. The sight of the old man pleading to that expressionless face had been haunted you for weeks.

“You can’t do this!” Nihil had shouted, his hagged breathing had echoed in the large chamber as everyone watched in frozen silence. “No matter what you do it will never compare to the Emeritus line!”

“There is no Emeritus line anymore, old man.” Copia had said, that voice so calm and sure. No stutter, no awkward pauses. The smoothness of his speech had been unnerving. Who was this man?

“Cardi—please!” Imperator managed to get out. “Have mercy, I am your—”

Her words had been cut short by the piece of cloth placed over her mouth, muffling any further protests. You had not been able to see her face, though you are certain that you could imagine the horrible terror in her eyes.

Copia gestured then to the ghoul holding her before she was made to kneel.

The sound of Imperator’s head thumping onto the ground after a ghoul had swung an impossibly sharp sword to sever it from her shoulders had shaken the entire clergy. Silence had fallen, a sucking soundless chasm had filled the room as the body had toppled to the ground and bled out, the tendrils of blood seeping over the white marble and filling the gaps like rivers. You had watched, unable to look away from the horror of it all as the blood had soaked the edges of Nihil’s white vestments.

“You’ve gone mad, Cardinale!”

Copia had not even glanced at the old man, he had just waved a gloved hand towards the sword-wielding ghoul before there had been the hiss of the sword slicing through the air once more and the second thud of another head hitting the stone floor.

“I am Papa, not Cardinale.”

There had been no jokes, no graffiti, no disobedience since that day. The heads of Nihil and Imperator had been spiked and stuck next to the throne for a whole month before the smell had been too much to bear. But it had been a warning to any that would not follow orders.

You blinked, trying to shake the memory from your mind. It was not good to dwell on it, best not to think of the awful things he had done. The whispered rumours that flew about the abbey grew more abhorrent and absurd with each passing day. What had happened to the Cardinal? To that quiet and kind man who had always been so gentle and eager to help you.

The rumours were all different and it seemed everyone had an opinion—though quietly whispered whenever the man was not in residence lest he hear. Some said he’d always been like this, the shy and awkward man they’d all known had merely been an act. A way for him to seem unthreatening to Papa Nihil and worm his way to the top. Others claimed he’d been possessed by an unwelcoming spirit bent on havoc after a ritual gone wrong. Some said he’d simply gone mad with power. And there were some that believed that in his madness he had killed the three brothers, framed Imperator and taken that coveted position to lord it over them all.

And then there had been one other rumour. One that had been whispered by that same mischievous ghoul. That the Cardinal had made a deal with the Dark Lord: in exchange for becoming Papa, he had been brought down into the bowels of hell and had his body possessed and reborn with the unholy spirit of the Antichrist.

You weren’t sure what to believe. Nobody dared say to ask questions. And it seemed the more time that passed, the more people seemed to forget. The Clergy was flourishing. You’d barely seen any of Terzo’s ghouls about the abbey these days. It had also been rumoured they had been sent back to Hell by Copia because they would not serve him—they would not serve a false master. But nobody seemed to care.

A voice was speaking to you and you turned your head to see one of the new ghoulette’s at your shoulder, her angular face observing you carefully.

“Come with me please, Sister.”

Everyone was looking at you now but you stood, your hands carefully holding the skirts of your dress to cover the knife within it before you followed the ghoulette out of the chamber. You could feel the eyes of everyone burning into the back of your head as you departed and the clanging of the large doors shutting behind you as entered the hallways echoed in your mind. The nerves in your stomach returned, making you feel as if a pit of snakes was twisting in your gut. You'd walked this path to the papal suites so many times before but you did not stop at the door with the ornate "Emeritus the Third" carved into it. As you passed you could see it was locked and it looked like someone had tried to scratch the name out of the wood. Your feet moved down the hall until the ghoulette was pushing another door open and leading you into an intimately decorated sitting room.

It was so similar to Terzo's room yet so different. It was far tidier—it had a manic sort of neatness about it—and the velvet hangings and damask furniture were a deep blue instead of a royal purple. There were books stacked in neat rows along shelves and through an open set of double doors you could see the large four-poster bed. you felt the ghoulette's hands on your head as she removed your veil before she left you there without another word, the door shutting softly behind her. A tingle ran down your spine, you could feel the surge of the magick from the ritual still pulsing through your veins and fluttering over your skin. It wanted to be embraced. A large window with the drapes pulled back so you can see the moon full and bright hanging in the sky makes your chest ache. It would have been so beautiful if your Papa had been here. You would have cherished it but now you feared it.

"There you are, little bird."

Your hand gripped the knife rightly through the fabric as you turn sharply to see Copia standing there. You hadn't even heard the door open nor his footsteps. He reaches for the mitre on his head and gently lays it on a nearby table before he removes the vestments and carefully folds them before hanging them over the back of a chair. Underneath he is wearing the black and gold vest he usually wears on tour with that black poet shirt and those ridiculously tight pants. By all rights, he should look more approachable without the papal vestments but he somehow seems more intimidating. Maybe it's because he seems so much more real and not some horrible yet enthralling symbol of power. He still looks powerful but it's a softer kind, understated.

It's unsettling. And so is the way he looks at you as he moves closer until he's within arms reach. You know why you are here and what you are meant to do. The rite is meant to be consummated on the night of a full moon. You can barely move, you feel too highly strung, like a string about to snap. One of his hands reaches out and lightly touches your cheek and you flinch.

“You still wear his paint.” Not a question. Just a statement. He hardly ever asked questions. There were orders, demands, requests—not to be denied. “He is dead, sorella.”

“I know.” You can feel the emotions catch in your throat, the thick feeling of grief and guilt making your throat want to close. Maybe you can appeal to his sense of humanity. “He was my Papa. My friend. My heart.” That was a mistake. You should keep your mouth shut. Copia has that look on his face, his brow furrowing and his jaw twitching as his eyes narrow. But once you've spoken it can’t help but pour out. The emotions you had tried to keep locked away all day could no longer be contained as something within you twanged. “I love him," you say. "He was everything to me, Your Unholiness. He was mine and I was his.”

“Mmm.” The anger slides away from his face until his lips quirk in a small smile—which is so much worse. “Was. Was, sorella.” He takes your free hand, though there is little reassurance to be found in his touch. It was not a gesture of comfort but of possession. “You are mine, now.”

A hand was at the small of your back as he lead you further into the room, the heat of his hand searing through the fabric. The heat licked at your veins, a soft tease of arousal. You knew it was part of the binding magick, but it did not create false attraction. It merely guided it, tended to it and let it run free.

“I promise you will enjoy this so much more, amore, if you remember that.”

Amore.

The way Copia looked at you disguised nothing, his regular eye had grown darker and that one white eye positively glowed. The desire was clear, the entire clergy had enjoyed their feast earlier but now it was his turn. And while you could not deny that there was a certain rush that a man like him did want you, it was not the same. The anxiety spiked in your chest as he seated you on an ornate settee, and you tried to casually rearrange the knife by your thigh so that the skirts covered it as you gripped it tightly.

A flicker of fear tingled down your spine as he sat next to you, maybe it was best to acquiesce. You did not want to meet the fate of Imperator or Nihil. But you did not want to give in so easily.

“Why me?” you ask, trying to keep him talking. Distracted.

“They think I killed them," he says. "I did not, cara mia. But they did not do this church justice. Too prideful, too greedy, too much thinking with their cock and not their head—” A low laugh escapes him. “Not to say there is no merit in these things. But they were too soft. Particularly the Third.” His face comes closer to yours as he leans towards you on the settee, his breath tickling the side of your cheek as you feel his nose graze against the shell of your ear. “But he did have good taste.”

Sucking in a breath you try to keep your nerves in line and your hand on the handle of the knife grips even tighter. You are sure your knuckles are white by now and you can feel your own nails digging into the palm of your hand.

“Your Unholiness, I—”

“Papa.”

The pang in your chest aches sharply. “I can’t—”

“I am doing my best to be polite, amore,” he interrupts again, his voice slowly losing the amicable tone. “I am trying to give you the choice to submit even when we both know there is no choice. I am your Papa now. It is Satanas’ desire that you be mine…and you are.”

There is a jolt there from his words, and a gloved hand touches your thigh as he leans in closer. His fingers are so close to your hand and the fear makes you tremble. You can't help but glance down and the fear must have been clearly etched on your face as he follows your gaze. With a horrible sort of slowness you watch his leather-clad hand reach for yours. He grips your wrist and the knife falls onto your lap.

“Do you think me a monster?”

Yes. “No,” you say quickly, shaking your head.

His eyes never leave yours as he picks it up, the edge glinting in the low light of the room.

“Would that be easier if I was, hmm?” he whispers, turning the knife in his hands. “Do you want me to make you crawl on your hands and knees before me? Do you want me to fuck that mouth of yours until your crying for me to stop? Do you wish to be tied down with nowhere to run to? Hmm, cara mia?” The tip of the knife is pressed gently under your chin to tip your face up towards his and you dare not breathe. He leans in and the slide of his tongue against your neck makes you shudder. Your whole body is a conflicting storm of emotions. Anticipation makes your muscles tense.

Your Papa had never spoken to you like this, it had been all sweet praises and tender words. Of course, he had fucked you in every conceivable way but there had never been any malice. The cold feel of the metal against your skin is a welcome reprieve from the heat burning across your skin. Copia's words should not have made you feel the way they did. There shouldn't be excitement at the thought of him taking you nor should the knickers you wear already be damp.

Without warning, he's got the handle of the knife between his teeth as he moves to his knees before you and hastily pushes the multitudinous layers of fabric of your dress to bunch about your waist. Your hands grip the edge on the settee as you rest on your elbows to watch as he removes your shoes and presses the knife against the stockings you wear, the fine fabric tearing away underneath quick movements.

"You can scream if you like, little ghuleh," he says, the feel of cold steel burning against your inner thigh as it inches closer to the seam of your underwear. "I am hoping that you will." You feel the fabric give way and you are certain your face is burning in humiliation as his other hand peels the fabric away. You know he will be able to see how wet you are and hating the way your body has betrayed you, you try to close your legs but there is a prick of steel against your inner thigh in warning.

"No," he says. "Desidero il tuo sapore sulla mia lingua, pet."

You watch his head dip between your thighs and feel his hot breath against your wet folds before his tongue swipes over you, the feel of it making your eyes roll back. His free hand travels up your other thigh as his hot mouth latches onto your clit before you can feel a gloved finger against your flesh. You can feel how wet you are as he slides a finger into your pussy, the feel of it far too sinful with that knife still pressed against the soft flesh of your inner thigh. A moan escapes you as he adds a second finger, the feel of it far too good.

Those fingers twisted and caressed while that wicked mouth nipped and sucked. It was all so much and yet not enough. There was also still the feel of the knife pressed against your skin and your hips squirmed as you felt the orgasm building. There was a sharp prick of pain as you felt the blade prick your skin. The burn of it mingling with the pleasure before his tongue gave one languid swipe against your pussy before soothing the sting against your thigh.

“Please,” came your desperate cry as his fingers continued to pump at a languid pace. “Please!”

The tension was unbearable. The coiling feel between your thighs and the magick weaving through your entire body was making you feel feverish. Your eyes had closed but they snapped open when you heard the sound of the knife clattering to the floor. You watched with heavy-lidded eyes as his hands hastily grip the dress and tear it, the layers of fabric giving way with ease before it parted to leave you bare before him. A hand brushes across your breast until two fingers pinched a nipple, the shock of the pain sending another delicious thrill down your spine and loosening a low moan from your lips. Copia’s fingers returned to their ministrations between your thighs, the siren call of release just out of reach as they pulled you so close to the edge before they slowed. It was torture. A painfully decadent torture that made you crave more.

"I need to cum," you manage to breathe out.

“Ah, cara mia,” came the hum of his voice, the puff of his breath hitting your overly sensitive flesh. “You know what you must say, hmm, what you must do?” A long stroke of that sinful tongue swept through your folds. “You must give yourself to me as Satanas intended.”

Your hips bucked, your back arching as you desperately sought relief but one of his hands was pressing you against the settee. Another pinch on your nipple had you gasping, this time sharper and harder. The sting of pain blurred with the pleasure between your thighs and you couldn’t help the delirious moan that tore from your lips.

“Please, Copia.” It was more a pant than anything else. “I need to cum! Please!”

Your hands instinctively reach for him, trying to grasp at the front of his vest but he just grabbed both of your wrists with ease, lazily holding them to your sides.

“Oh, little ghuleh,” he tutted, his brow furrowing in mock disappointment. “You need to keep your hands to yourself or I really will have to restrain you.” That sent a little thrill down your spine and made your pussy throb with excitement.

The man fully removed himself from you then, leaning back on his knees before you. His paint was smeared completely off the bottom half of his face. He sucked his teeth and gave a little disappointing shake of the head, some strands of that dark sandy blonde hair falling across his face.

“Bene allora,” That devilish smile was back on his face. It should have been frightening and it was, but the arousal that seared through you was stronger. “Perhaps I was wrong, maybe you do wish for the monster?”

Quickly he was on his feet, his arms reaching for you and pulling you against him. You could feel the heat and hardness of his cock pressing against your stomach through the fabric of his pants as his hands moved to bring your face to his. That sinful mouth was devouring yours, you could taste yourself on his tongue. It felt like you were drowning in him as he easily manoeuvred you towards the large bed before the back of your legs hit it forcing you to sit unceremoniously upon it.

"Will you be a good girl for Papa?" His hands moved towards his pants, undoing them and letting his cock free. "If you are, sorella, I will let you cum." A hand shot out and brought your face closer towards his cock, the sight of it heavy, hard and leaking in front of you making your cunt clench with want. A hand twisted in your hair causing you to gasp, but it was enough for him to press the head against your parted lips. The urge to please him took over, and you tried to ignore the feeling of guilt and shame at how greedily you sucked and licked as you took more of him in your mouth. The sound of his moans only spurred you on as you bobbed along his length. Your hands gripped his thighs as he forced himself even further into your mouth, and you tried to focus on breathing through your nose as tears spilt down your cheeks. His hand tugged at your hair, the grip almost too painful. Your eyes locked with his and the raw lust that you saw made you moan around him as more tears leaked down your face.

"Così bella," he moaned above you. "Such a good whore for your Papa." He thrust eagerly, and without a care. "Receive all of me, pet."

His cock pulsed in your mouth, and you let him continue to thrust into your mouth. The grip on your hair tightened before you felt the hot spill of his cum hit the back of your throat. You swallowed, bleary eyes looking up at him above you. The hand in your hair moved to your face, a thumb dragging over your swollen lips. Your face was surely a mess now. And for a moment you thought it was over. But that was stupid. The whole point of today was to celebrate becoming Prime Mover, and this man was not letting you hurry back to the safety of your own room—this was your room now.

"Copia—" you start to say as you stand to leave.

"You were doing so well, little ghuleh," he says. "Being such a good girl but now you do not want to? No flying away, little bird."

He pushed you back and you fall onto the bed, hurriedly scooting back as he crawls towards you. He peels off his gloves and flings them somewhere before reaching to grab one of your wrists. There is the slide of soft silk before it tightens around your wrist. Your head snaps to the side, seeing the dark inky fabric against your skin as you feel him do the same to the other arm.

“You think I am done?" he tuts disapprovingly and you can see that his cock is already hard again. "I am going to fill you up, cara mia. And you will beg for it. Capisci?" Leaning over you, you feel his hands move everywhere, caressing your skin and making your back arch off the bed. The arousal from earlier returns in a hot rush and a whimper escapes your lips as Copia's mouth descends on yours, his tongue demanding and harsh. You relish the feel of his teeth biting at your lower lip and the way his hand digs into the side of your waist as he holds you down. "Don't you want to please our dark lord?” his velvet voice whispers in your ear. His tongue drags across your skin before his teeth bite at the soft flesh between your neck and shoulder. “Don't you wish for our clergy to flourish?” Another bite before he was marking his way down your side before his mouth hit the curve of your breast. “Do you not crave the gift that is being chosen for this purpose?”

His mouth envelops your nipple, those sharp teeth of his scraping against the hardened peak and then immediately soothing it with his hot tongue. Eyes closed you writhe beneath him. Sucking and biting, he pulls endless ropes of pleasure from you until they were all tangled up and connected to him. You were certain, in your lust-addled state, that you would let him do anything. All he had to do was pull on the strings like a master puppeteer. The sensations were overwhelming and the denial of release was driving you mad.

A nudge between your thighs and your eyes flew back open. He was naked between your legs, muscles moving sinuously under hot skin, his cock once more hard. Your stomach clenches at the sight of it, the tip leaking as he lazily fists a hand over it. His knees prodded your legs further apart as he then ceased his stroking to lean over you, the burning heat of his cock against your thigh.

Hot breath ghosted against the shell of your ear as he positioned himself above you. Your hips twitched as you felt him slide the head of his cock through your wet folds, your cunt desperate to be filled. “Do you want me to fuck you, pet?”

No words escape you as he slides the head in, it was a delicious sort of torture. Already so on edge and desperately wanting more, this only made it worse. Nerve ends firing as the magick stirred within you, recognising the act and encouraging your legs to spread further apart. The promise of being filled has you trying desperately to get him deeper but you merely struggled against the bonds that held you down.

“I—,” you tried to speak but the heat between your legs was making it hard to concentrate. “More.”

He frowns down at you. “You did not answer my question, sorella.”

“Yes.” It hisses between your lips. "Fuck me, please."

“Yes, what?” he asks as slides in at a tantalisingly slow pace.

He’s finally filling you, the stretch of it so satisfying after such endless torture, but you need him to move. Hips squirming you try to create friction but the man above just leans back as he tilts your hips up, causing his cock to slide in even deeper. Another moan escapes and you feel like you want to cry—and you do. You can’t help the few tears that manage to slowly spill down your cheeks. The frustration is driving you mad, the lust amplifier by the magick making every part of him that touches you throb. But now that he’s inside you, it’s even worse, The desire to be taken is overriding everything. You should feel guilty that you’re letting him do this, that you’re not fighting.

But Terzo is dead. Copia is Papa now. And the things he was making you feel were intoxicating.

“Do you not want to fucked by the son of Satanas?” The words are growled out as he gives one sharp thrust, making your clit throb and your pussy clench around him. “That is what the rumours say about me, no?”

Sucking in a breath as your wrists pull at the restraints you try to focus on him. Your mind feels like fog but you muster a frown at him.

“I don’t believe everything I hear.”

“Perhaps you should.”

A feral kind of delight appears on his face before it manages to both stay the same yet look entirely different. The eyes look red and the planes of his face sharper. An arm moves with inhuman speed to clasp gently around your throat and you can feel the prick of sharp nails on your skin. The smile on his face stretches until you can see the sharp teeth and a dark tongue that flicks out—you swear it looks forked.

Another sharp thrust into you makes your body shudder, the feel of him hitting you just where you need making you moan. The hand around your throat squeezes ever so gently, the delirium making your head spin.

“I am very patient,” he says in a voice that vibrates through your mind and makes your pussy throb in terrible anticipation. “I can do this forever. Submit.”

Another thrust and that makes you scream in anguished pleasure. The feel of him is electric and you can't help the thrill that fires through you at the sight of his not quite human face as it looks down upon you.

"Please, fuck me, Papa, please." The words are spilling from your lips and the satisfied grin he gives you before his hips snap into you is demonic. "Give it to me."

The hand around your throat tightens and as he pumps into you, his body pressed against yours, his mouth against your neck before his teeth bite down on your shoulder. The sharp pain makes you sob out his name as you feel the climax between your legs build.

"Cum for me like a good girl," he rasps against your skin. "Milk Papa's cock, cara mia. Let me fuck you full of my unholy seed."

A growl tears from his chest and you can feel his cock throbbing inside you, the feel of it finally pounding into you sending you hurtling over the edge as you cum hard.

"Papa, please fill me up," you whinge as the waves of your release crash over you. "Make me yours!"

Another unwordly growl escapes him at your words and his movements speed up and become more erratic. It's not long before the undeniable feel of him spilling inside you causes another orgasm to rip through you. The ripples of it sear through you and cause your whole body to pulse in satisfaction. You feel delirious.

"Was that so hard, amore?" asks Copia as he leans back, his face and voice back to normal. His cock slips out from you and you can feel his cum drip down your inner thigh. His hand releases your throat and you feel his thumb brushing the tears away from your face.

You try to sit up and tug at the silk bonds. His head quirking to the side as he watches you.

"Again you think I am done?" He laughs, the sound making you shiver. "Not at all, pet. No freedom until that delicious cunt of yours is overflowing with my seed."

When his hands begin trailing down your body you squeeze your eyes shut and let the feel of him take over again. Tomorrow you will let the guilt set in. Tomorrow you can beg for forgiveness from a stone coffin. Tomorrow you will hide away. But for now, you will play with the monster and let him take you again and again until you can take no more. ------- Been staring at this for too long so I said fuck it and posted it. Apologies for any mistakes. Desidero il tuo sapore sulla mia lingua, pet - I crave your taste on my tongue, pet Così bella - So beautiful Bene allora - Well then Capisci - Do you understand?

#fanfic #ghost fanfiction #the band ghost fic #papa iv x reader #cardinal copia x reader #dark copia #my-writing

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 6 months

Text

Sin Separates Us from God

1 Behold, the LORD'S hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear:

2 But your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid his face from you, that he will not hear.

3 For your hands are defiled with blood, and your fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies, your tongue hath uttered perverseness.

4 None calleth for justice, nor any pleadeth for truth: they trust in vanity, and speak lies; they conceive mischief, and bring forth iniquity.

5 They hatch cockatrice eggs, and weave the spider's web: he that eateth of their eggs dieth, and that which is crushed breaketh out into a viper.

6 Their webs shall not become garments, neither shall they cover themselves with their works: their works are works of iniquity, and the act of violence is in their hands.

7 Their feet run to evil, and they make haste to shed innocent blood: their thoughts are thoughts of iniquity; wasting and destruction are in their paths.

8 The way of peace they know not; and there is no judgment in their goings: they have made them crooked paths: whoever goeth therein shall not know peace.

9 Therefore is judgment far from us, neither doth justice overtake us: we wait for light, but behold obscurity; for brightness, but we walk in darkness.

10 We grope for the wall like the blind, and we grope as if we had no eyes: we stumble at noon day as in the night; we are in desolate places as dead men.

11 We all roar like bears, and mourn bitterly like doves: we look for judgment, but there is none; for salvation, but it is far from us.

12 For our transgressions are multiplied before thee, and our sins testify against us: for our transgressions are with us; and as for our iniquities, we know them;

13 In transgressing and lying against the LORD, and departing away from our God, speaking oppression and revolt, conceiving and uttering from the heart words of falsehood.

14 And judgment is turned away backward, and justice standeth afar off: for truth is fallen in the street, and equity cannot enter.

15 Yes, truth faileth; and he that departeth from evil maketh himself a prey: and the LORD saw it, and it displeased him that there was no judgment.

Salvation is Only of God

16 And he saw that there was no man, and wondered that there was no intercessor: therefore his arm brought salvation to him; and his righteousness, it sustained him.

17 For he put on righteousness as a breast-plate, and a helmet of salvation upon his head; and he put on the garments of vengeance for clothing, and was clad with zeal as a cloke.

18 According to their deeds, accordingly he will repay, fury to his adversaries, recompense to his enemies; to the isles he will repay recompense.

19 So shall they fear the name of the LORD from the west, and his glory from the rising of the sun. When the enemy shall come in like a flood, the Spirit of the LORD will lift up a standard against him.

The Covenant of the Redeemer

20 And the Redeemer will come to Zion, and to them that turn from transgression in Jacob, saith the LORD.

21 As for me, this is my covenant with them, saith the LORD; My spirit that is upon thee, and my words which I have put in thy mouth, shall not depart out of thy mouth, nor out of the mouth of thy seed, nor out of the mouth of thy seed's seed, saith the LORD, from henceforth and for ever. — Isaiah 59 | Webster's Bible Translation (WBT) The Webster Bible is in the public domain. Cross References: Exodus 4:15; Leviticus 26:28; Numbers 11:23; Numbers 32:23; Deuteronomy 7:10; Deuteronomy 28:29; Ezra 9:6; Job 5:14; Job 8:14; Job 16:17; Psalm 55:2; Psalm 61:5; Psalm 82:5; Psalm 98:1; Psalm 125:5; Proverbs 4:19; Isaiah 1:15; Isaiah 1:21; Isaiah 3:8; Isaiah 5:7; Isaiah 5:23; Isaiah 10:2; Isaiah 28:20; Isaiah 33:2-3; Isaiah 34:15; Isaiah 38:14; Isaiah 46:12; Isaiah 50:1-2; Jeremiah 7:28; Matthew 2:16; Matthew 8:11; Matthew 10:33; Mark 7:21-22; Luke 1:79; Acts 2:38-39; Romans 11:26-27; Ephesians 6:14; Ephesians 6:17; Titus 1:16; James 1:15

#sin #separation #God #man #covenant of the Redeemer #Isaiah 59 #Book of Isaiah #Old Testament #WBT #Webster's Bible Translation

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inhaledpie4 · 2 years

Note

Sorry in advance for stating objective facts but women with bipolar disorder or bpd cannot be Christians. They are predisposed to promiscuity and adultery and a disturbing number of them are bisexual. Autistic women can be better if they're willing to unlearn their mannish behaviors though.

Where are you getting your facts from? Repent from your lies. Who are you to put limits on God? Your words are not from Him, therefore you are not of Him.

Have you not read?

Ah, Master יהוה! See, You have made the heavens and the earth by Your great power and outstretched arm. There is no matter too hard for You,

JER 32:17

Look, the hand of יהוה has not become too short to save, nor His ear too heavy to hear. But your crookednesses have separated you from your Elohim. And your sins have hidden His face from you, from hearing. For your hands have been defiled with blood, and your fingers with crookedness; your lips have spoken falsehood, your tongue mutters unrighteousness. No one calls for righteousness, and no one pleads for truth. They trust in emptiness and speak worthlessness; they conceive trouble and bring forth wickedness. They have hatched adders’ eggs and they weave the spider’s web. Whoever eats their eggs dies, and when one is broken an adder is hatched. Their webs do not become garments, nor do they cover themselves with their works. Their works are works of wickedness, and a deed of violence is in their hands. Their feet run to evil, and they hurry to shed innocent blood. Their thoughts are thoughts of wickedness, wasting and ruin are in their highways. The way of peace they have not known, and there is no right-ruling in their ways. They have made crooked paths for themselves, whoever treads in them shall not know peace. Therefore right-ruling has been far from us, and righteousness does not reach us. We look for light, but there is darkness; for brightness, but we walk in thick darkness! We feel for the wall like the blind, and we feel as without eyes. At noon we stumble as at twilight, in deserted places, like the dead. All of us growl like bears, and moan sadly like doves. We look for right-ruling, but there is none; for deliverance, but it is far from us. For our transgressions have increased before You, and our sins witnessed against us. For our transgressions are with us, and as for our crookednesses, we know them: transgressing, and being untrue to יהוה, and turning away from our Elohim, speaking oppression and apostasy, conceiving and pondering words of falsehood from the heart. And right-ruling is driven back, and righteousness stands far off. For truth has fallen in the street, and right is unable to enter. And the truth is lacking, and whoever turns away from evil makes himself a prey. And יהוה saw, and it displeased Him that there was no right-ruling. And He saw that there was no man, and was astonished that there was no intercessor. So His own arm saved for Him, and His righteousness upheld him. And He put on righteousness as a breastplate, and a helmet of deliverance on His head. And He put on garments of vengeance for clothing, and wrapped Himself with ardour as a mantle. According to their deeds, so He repays, wrath to His adversaries, recompense to His enemies. He repays recompense to the coastlands. And they shall fear the Name of יהוה from the west, and His esteem from the rising of the sun, when distress comes like a flood, the Spirit of יהוה drives at it. “And the Redeemer shall come to Tsiyon, and to those turning from transgression in Ya‛aqoḇ,” declares יהוה. “As for Me, this is My covenant with them,” said יהוה: “My Spirit that is upon you, and My Words that I have put in your mouth, shall not be withdrawn from your mouth, nor from the mouth of your descendants, nor from the mouth of your descendants’ descendants,” said יהוה, “from this time and forever.”

ISA 59:1‭-‬21

Seriously... read your bible

Anyone can choose to repent. Repentance is an active choice each of us make every moment of our lives. There are no excuses for those suffering from mental illness, as they stand to benefit the most from close relationship with God. Struggling with something does not give you the excuse to fall into sin and turn from God. In reality, it should only serve to cause a greater reliance on His loving-kindness, His mercy, His strength which can deliver us from all things, including temptation.

Also idk what bible you are reading but first off, there's absolutely nothing prohibiting masculine tendencies in women. Plus it is absolutely possible for autistic women to be feminine, especially when they have a strong righteous man - example: me and my husband. Based on the fact that most autistic women go their whole lives without a diagnosis so you can hardly even tell they're autistic... what it comes down to is that it's not exactly a good look to say that women who struggle socially are inherently less worthy of being saved by God and therefore need to work harder or something to fit your narrow ideal of womanhood before they're allowed to be in your little club.

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timdcook4 · 7 months

Text

Behold, the hand of Yahweh is not so short That it cannot save; Nor is His ear so dull That it cannot hear. But your iniquities have made a separation between you and your God, And your sins have hidden His face from you so that He does not hear. For your hands are defiled with blood And your fingers with iniquity; Your lips have spoken a lie; Your tongue mutters unrighteousness. No one calls in righteousness, and no one seeks justice in truth. They trust in confusion and speak worthlessness; They conceive trouble and give birth to wickedness. They break open vipers’ eggs and weave the spider’s web; He who eats of their eggs dies, And from that which is crushed a snake breaks forth. Their webs will not become a garment, Nor will they cover themselves with their works; Their works are works of wickedness, And a deed of violence is in their hands. Their feet run to evil, And they are quick to shed innocent blood; Their thoughts are thoughts of wickedness; Devastation and destruction are in their highways. They do not know the way of peace, And there is no justice in their tracks; They have made their paths crooked, Whoever treads on them does not know peace. ¶Therefore justice is far from us, And righteousness does not overtake us; We hope for light, but behold, darkness, For brightness, but we walk in thick darkness. We grope along the wall like blind men; We grope like those who have no eyes; We stumble at midday as in the twilight, Among those who are vigorous we are like dead men. All of us growl like bears, And moan sadly like doves; We hope for justice, but there is none, For salvation, but it is far from us. For our transgressions are multiplied before You, And our sins answer against us; For our transgressions are with us, And we know our iniquities: Transgressing and denying Yahweh, And turning back from our God, Speaking oppression and revolt, Conceiving in and uttering from the heart lying words. Justice is turned back, And righteousness stands far away; For truth has stumbled in the street, And rightness cannot enter. So it is that truth is missing; And he who turns aside from evil makes himself plunder. Then Yahweh saw, And it was evil in His eyes that there was no justice. And He saw that there was no man, And was astonished that there was no one to intercede; Then His own arm brought salvation to Him, And His righteousness upheld Him. He put on righteousness like a breastplate, And a helmet of salvation on His head; And He put on garments of vengeance for clothing And wrapped Himself with zeal as a mantle. According to what they deserve, so He will pay in full, Wrath to His adversaries, what is deserved to His enemies; To the coastlands He will pay what they deserve. So they will fear the name of Yahweh from the west And His glory from the rising of the sun, For He will come like a rushing stream Which the wind of Yahweh makes flee. “A Redeemer will come to Zion, And to those who turn from transgression in Jacob,” declares Yahweh. “As for Me, this is My covenant with them,” says Yahweh: “My Spirit which is upon you, and My words which I have put in your mouth, shall not depart from your mouth, nor from the mouth of your seed, nor from the mouth of your seed’s seed,” says Yahweh, “from now and forever.”

Isaiah 59:1‭-‬21 LSB

https://bible.com/bible/3345/isa.59.1-21.LSB

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awxward · 3 years

Text

A3! Boys + My Stuffed Animals

Spring Troupe:

Sakuya

Gabriel

Gabriel is a small elephant with big ears that constantly make him fall over. He has a pink bowtie that says 'I Love You'

Makes Saku feel safe and Gabriel is a reminder to himself that he's loved and appreciated by everyone at Mankai.

Named after a friend from theatre class :)

Masumi

George Washington

George Washington is a tiger. He is small, but his arms are like those slap bracelets so you can wear him on your wrist (or let him hang on the side of shelf like I do).

So I got Georgy-Boy for easter 2020. i asked my friends for name ideas. They sent me stuff like 'Stripes'. I went offline for a few minutes and when I came back online I told my friends his name was George Washington.

//////////

Me: tiger has a name now

Friend: which name did you choose?

Me: his name is George Washington.

Friend: what the fuck. how'd you get George Washington?

//////////

Pretty sure he got the name bc I was listening to the Hamilton soundtrack.

Citron

Daniel

Daniel is mostly pink but has other pastel colors that look like watercolors. He's a unicorn. And a ketchain. And he's one of those dream lites, so he lights up. (He's supposed too anyway, but he's never lit up since i got him like 7 years ago at a yard sale).

Named after Daniel Howell (formerly danisnotonfire) [YouTube]

Tsuzuru

Lucifer

Lucifer is a small panda pillow pet. Very easy to travel with bc he fits in most backpacks.

My mom told me she wanted me to have a stuffed animal with a biblical name, i picked him up, looked her in the eye and said "His name is Lucifer." My mom tried to protest. "You said a biblical name, Mom. Lucifer is in the bible."

Itaru

Pao(???)

Pao is a panda. They are also a phone holder thingy. Like it'll hold your phone if you're watching movies or whatever.

Like 5-ish years old. Got them from a friend. They have a tag with their name on it, but I read it once and then just called them "the panda" for some reason instead of their actual name and now the tag is too faded to read the name, but i am 38% sure it says Pao or something close to that.

Chikage

Tsuki

Tsuki is a dinosaur. Tsuki is a sparkly dino. He's green rn, but if you brush your hand over him, the sparkles turn over and he becomes orange. I like green tho bc his tummy and the bottom of his feet are orange and so are his eyes.

Named after Tsukishima Kei (Haikyuu)

Summer Troupe:

Tenma

Hinata

Hinata is a narwhal. A bright orange narwhal. Infact he is the same color as Tenma's hair.

Named after Hinata Shoyo (Haikyuu) [bc its the same color as his hair. there is a theme with this narwhal and the anime boys i associate with them]

Yuki

Steve

Steve is a regular teddy bear, except he has a shirt that has pikachu on it. (the shirt was originally Tsuki's bc i got tsuki at a friends build a bear bday party, but it fits Steve better)

I just think Yuki would try new designs/color schemes/styles by making clothes for Steve to see how they look.

I got Steve from a claw machine (my bf at time won him for me just before we watched Endgame together.)

Named after Steve Rogers (Marvel)

Muku

Eeyore

Muku most definitely loves the Winnie the Pooh movies and I will fite for this hc. He gets my Eeyore. You know how Eeyore's tail is always going missing or falling off??? Eeyore's tail comes off (velcro) but its attached to his actual body with a string so it cant be misplaced.

Eeyore has a patch that says "official disney store" but i got him for $3 at a thrift store.

Misumi

Sherlock

Sherlock is a polar bear. Sherlock is very huggable. He makes Misumi feel safe. He has a hat and scarf (that don't come off. they are sewn on him)

the hat has a pom pom on top and the scarf has a pom pom on each end. the hat and scarf and the bottom of his feet have a blue/white plaid pattern.

Kazunari

Victor

Victor is a puppy and the first big stuffed animal of mine on the list! He's all tan and abt maybe 3-4 ft long. Victor lays pretty flat so he's comfy to lay/sit on. I think Kazu would like sitting or laying on him when drawing. Probably has him on his bed so he's like a giant pillow.

Victor is from Toys R Us. I got him last August-ish from my Aunt and Uncle who found him at a thrift store and thought I'd like him.

Named after Victor Nikiforov (Yuri On Ice)

Kumon

PJ is a small white tiger. He is also a ball. He can fit in one hand. When Kumon is thinking or stressed or bored (etc) he just lays on his back and tosses PJ up into the air.

When Kumon is laying on the floor tossing PJ, Misumi sits on the bed closest to where PJ is and tries to grab him (but only if Kumon is in a good mood and okay with it) It's a fun little game they made up they like to play.

Pretty sure he was named after KickthePJ (YouTube)

liber pls give us a pic with all of autumn i am begging

Autumn Troupe:

Banri

Sammy

Sammy is another one of my large stuffed animals. He is also a puppy, but unlike Victor he is sitting instead of laying. He's abt 2-3 ft tall. His fur is the same color as Banri's hair. Great to squeeze at anytime, but very therapeutic when you're in a bad mood. Has a heart on his ear.

i got him abt 7 years ago. I had just finished spn season 2 and was upset abt the finale and had no way to start season 3.

Named after Sam Winchester

Juza

Tiggs

Tiggs is a beanie baby tiger. Tiggs is a little larger than PJ (and not a ball). He's a regular orange tiger instead of a white tiger like PJ. He'd buy Kumon PJ so they could have matching stuffed animals. Small and very comforting to just hold/hug.

Omi

Benedict (Ben)

Benedict, also known as Ben, is a small koala. Just a little bigger than Tiggs. He has a heart on one of his feet (i think the right one). very soft. very fluffy.

Named after Benedict Cumberbatch (Actor)

Taichi

Dean

Dean is my largest stuffed animal. He is a dark brown teddy bear that's abt 4-ish ft tall. He can be put in a corner and used as like a bean bag chair, or he can lay down flat and be a good pillow like Victor can.

It's very fun to just wrap around him and squeeze as tight as you can. Especially in when your in a bad mood. Very comforting to cry into.

I got him a couple years ago at a thrift store.

Named after Dean Winchester (Supernatural)

Sakyo

Lev

Lev is a lion abt the size of a regular teddy bear (maybe slightly larger). I got him a thrift store so he's slightly worn out from age. He's mostly a pastel dark yellow-ish tan and his mane is dark brown. very huggable.

He's the stuffed animal I sleep with. Smells nice all the time, like the fabric softener.

Named after Lev Haiba (Haikyuu)

Sakoda

Emotional Support Iron Man

So Iron Man is small and he sparkles. He will hurt you/someone if thrown hard enough. Sakoda likes heroes bc they remind him of Sakyo they look cool. I'd hc that he got Iron Man from Sakyo when he was younger and its one of his most valued possessions and goes everywhere with him (or stays with Azamo or Sakyo at the dorm. Maybe Izumi or a couple others are on the list of who can watch over Iron Man.) Very protective of it.

Got the emotional support part of his name from a friend.

She saw Eddie Redmayne on a movie cover (think it was The Danish Girl) and started freaking out bc she loved him. I handed her the Iron Man and the next day she thanked me and said he was an Emotional Support Iron Man and the name stayed.

Azami

[Emotional Support] Spooder-Mon

Sakoda knew Azami as a kid. He most definitely got him the Spider-Man so they could have matching plushies.

Spider-Man is square and has little blob hands doing the web thingy. The tag said travel pillow, but he probably just chills by Azami's bed. When needed, Iron Man will be placed next to him if Sakoda can't take Iron Man with him.

I brought him to school one day and we had a bio test and all the people sitting around me passed him around and gave him a pat for good luck. We all got good grades and then he was dubbed as Emotional Support Spooder-Mon, but the Emotional Support title isnt part of his name (unlike the Iron Man).

i wanted guy in the pic, but i also wanted tsumu and hiso in the pic so you get 2 pics for winter

Winter Troupe:

Tsumugi

Phil

Phil is a zebra. He is a pillow pet zebra. Like Lucifer, Phil is also easy travel size. The bottom half of Phil is pink, so I refer to him as my pink zebra.

I just think it'd be cute to have Tsumugi with a pillow pet ok. I also thought he'd probably have has Phil for many years (since he was a kid) and Tasuku most definitely brings up things from when they were kids and shit.

//////////

Tasuku: you chose the pink zebra, and for what???

Tsumugi: its a very aesthetically pleasing pastel pink.

Tasuku: THERE WAS A DOG PILLOW PET RIGHT THERE AND IT WAS CUTER

Tsumugi: dont talk bad abt Phil.

the rest of mankai: ????????

//////////

I got phil before I got Lucifer many years ago. He was old when i got him and he is very old now. I love him so much.

Named after Phil Lester (AmazingPhil) [YouTube]

Tasuku

Cap

Cap is a husky. He was won from a claw machine with Steve.

There's just something abt the grey and white that gave me Tasuku vibes. Also, Cap's eyes are abt the same shade of blue as Tsumugi's and Tasuku knows this bc they are in love. Very squishy when hugged and with the way he sits, you could make it look like he's guarding something.

Named after Captain America (Marvel)

Homare

Ushijima (Ushi)

Ushijima, also called Ushi, is the last of my giant stuffed animals. He is abt 2-3 ft tall (like Sammy) and has a tail abt the same length.

Ushi is a raccoon thats mostly hot pink. Ushi's eyes are also pink and just abt the same shade as Homare's hair, although Ushi's fur is brighter by a few shades.

Ushi hurts when thrown/swung hard enough. Very fun to hug bc he's filled with beans (like beanie babies) so unlike all my other giant animals, he doesn't have to be fixed/adjusted after everytime you squeeze him. The tail has cotton tho and makes a good pillow.

Homare would definitely just see a 3 ft tall hot pink raccoon and claim it with no explanation.

Named after Ushijima Wakatoshi (Haikyuu)

Hisoka

Vladmir Dracula the 3rd (Vlad, Drac)

Vladmir Dracula the 3rd, who has many other names but usually goes by Vlad or Drac, is a vampire (surprise).

Vlad is a squishmallow thingy, and their tags say something abt them being able to be used as pillows, and thats why Hisoka gets Vlad.

Vlad is triangular in shape, with triangle ears, and triangle fangs, so I thought abt Misumi, but i figured Hisoka bc it's a pillow.

He's like the perfect travel size and he has a cape and a bowtie.

Named after Vlad the Impaler, the real life inspiration behind Dracula (my brother thought he was named after Vladmir Putin and I wanted to punch him for that but I was too busy laughing.)

Also named after Dracula, who was a vampire.

Idk where 'the 3rd' came from, but it's part of his name for forever.

Azuma

Sebastian

Sebastian is a dinosaur thats blue with a white tummy.

He's also a squishmallow, but he's bigger than Vlad by abt 2× as wide, so he'd be harder to carry around, which is why Hisoka got Vlad instead. Being a squishmallow means he looks more blob than dinosaur and i love it.

His tag said his name was Dominic or something, but I named him Sebastian before I actually checked the tag, so he's Sebastian.

Named after Sebastian (Black Butler) and Sebastian Stan (Actor)

Guy

Moriarty

Moriarty is my other polar bear. I got him with Sherlock and named him Moriarty bc Moriarty is Sherlock's nemesis.

He's just a plain white bear thats very huggable and adorable. I usually have a bowtie on him bc it makes him look fancy.

Guy would like him bc he's plain white and very fluffy.

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 3 years

Photo

* * * *

INTERVIEW: SAINT MISBEHAVIN’ WAVY GRAVY

by Richard Whittaker, Dec 21, 2010

One day I got a note from ServiceSpace founder, Nipun Mehta offering me tickets to a new documentary movie about Wavy Gravy. Would you like to go?

I went. Although I was aware of Wavy Gravy as a cultural icon, I really knew very little about him. The film is a eye-opener. Michelle Esrick’s loving documentary, Saint Misbehavin’ - 10 years in the making - is a real introduction to this remarkable man. I'd never heard about Hugh Romney, the man who later became famous as Wavy Gravy. And what a story. I'll mention just one of its surprises: earlier in his life, Hugh Romney was Lenny Bruce's manager.

A few weeks after seeing the film, at Mehta’s urging, I had the chance to interview Wavy Gravy himself.

Richard Whittaker: How are you feeling about Saint Misbehavin’?

Wavy Gravy: Oh, it’s a swell movie. I’m honored to be so well-documented, and the review in the New York Times was embarrassing. I’m not that good.

RW: You said in the film that you’re an “intuitive clown.” Would you mind saying something about what that means?

WG: I’m trained in the art of acting improvisation. That means acting on the spur of the moment rather than doing, say, the focused slow burn and all the traditional clown moves. I don’t do any of that.

RW: So that would be about sensing the moment, what’s there, and taking in who you’re with.

WG: Absolutely—and sensing what’s going on. I was, for a number of years, with The Committee in San Francisco. I taught improvisation at Columbia Pictures. Harrison Ford was one of my students and I’ve taught improvisation at Camp Winnarainbow for over thirty years.

RW: I wanted to ask you about your history. For instance, in New York in Greenwich Village, you wrote poetry, right?

WG: Yes I did.

RW: Is any of it available? And is it something you’d want people to find?

WG: There are a couple of slender volumes out there. I think you’d have to go to Amazon or eBay to find them. I don’t even have copies myself. But other people do and will lend them to me when I need them.

RW: Do any titles stand out for you?

WG: Kaleidoscope and there’s Joe’s Song, which is taught in a poetry class at the University of California at Berkeley. Would you like to hear it?

RW: Please.

WG: Okay. It goes like this: “Once upon and ever since I was a child in a child’s world. I have wept a child’s tears and built a child’s wall of clay and stone and colored years of poems in paint and virgin gold. I sought to build a wall so tall from lion eggs from Gallilee, a brick of song among the dregs of silver nails and lesser men a mile long to kiss the sun and climb again. Once ago and ever now I stood a man on a child’s wall. I stopped and prayed to spider webs and roses of the sea. I spoke as one with all the earth and knew the pain of birth and death to be the same without my wall. Once upon and ever furled I stand alone with all the world.”

RW: That’s beautiful.

WG: I wrote it in 1960 or about then. I don’t write lyric poems very often. These days I mainly write haiku, usually when friends pass away, which is happening more and more frequently from natural causes. Also I’ve been having the good fortune to have my art exhibited, and I do a haiku to go with each piece.

RW: I’m imagining that, as a younger man, you had certain visions and deep feelings that could have been a liability for living the conventional life.

WG: I don’t think I ever had to contend with that one [laughs]. I live in the land of one thing after another. [speaking with an east Indian accent] “The sand only goes through the hourglass one grain at a time,” as some Hindu sage proclaimed. I’ve discovered that to be true.

RW: Did you have mentors who supported you in Greenwich Village?

WG: It was kind of amusing. I was going to theater school at Boston University, which was an amazing theater school. The finest directors in the world would come in and the whole college would read for a part. A freshman could get a lead. It was extraordinary. And if you weren’t cast in the production, you would be cast in the lighting crew or the costume crew or the stage crew. Then there was an upset about theater students not doing their social studies and the university attempted to move the campus of the theater school over to where the rest of the university was laid out. Just at that time, the teachers who had all been hired during the McCarthy blackball because they couldn’t work on Broadway, well, the blackball ended and they all quit. They went to work at the Neighborhood Playhouse in New York City, and they took me with them.

But while I was at BU, I had read in Time Magazine about jazz and poetry in San Francisco. I thought, hey, I’ve written a couple of poems and I know some musicians. I can do that! So I got together with a bunch of artists from the museum school and we proceeded to take the basement of a bar called The Rock on Huntington Avenue. The place in the basement was called The Pebble in the Rock. We put in black tables and black clothes and mobiles and paintings and began doing jazz and poetry. It was the first jazz and poetry done on the East Coast. So I had the privilege of inaugurating the East Coast to jazz and poetry. I persisted in doing it for years in, of all places, Hartford Connecticut. On every Monday I would grab a bunch of musicians and go to Hartford and make substantial money. Otherwise I was going to the Neighborhood Playhouse and reading my poetry in the evenings at the Gaslight Café in Greenwich Village, as you saw in the movie.

RW: That’s an amazing story. There was another thing you said in the film, “put your good where it can do the most.”

WG: Which is the advice I gleaned from one of my mentors, the author and adventurer, Ken Kesey.

RW: Did that kind of focus something for you?

WG: Well, it lit up. It lit up. I had discovered that, somewhat. Whenever I would do a good thing, it made me feel good. I think I heard a preacher of color on television in the late fifties. He said, “It’s nice to be nice.” And that kind of hit a chord for me.

RW: Do you think there’s a mix in what artists do? That in your poetry, part of it was trying to give something?

WG: Hmmm, I don’t know. I was just trying to get out of the way and let whatever was inside of me come to the surface. In the early days, I was not all that consciously altruistic—although, in the early days of poetry, the poets were not paid. We used to pass a cornucopia around after an hour or so and people would put money in it. We made an embarrassing amount of money that way. Myself and Len Chandler, who was one of the first folk singers I brought into The Gaslight, he and I put on these capes with hoods—Len was an African-American and he had a motor scooter. And we would jump on the motor scooter at the end of the evening and drive down into the Bowery and find somebody passed out on the sidewalk. We’d stuff his pockets with money and drive off and find somebody else until we’d given away at least half of what we’d made in the course of the evening. It was a lot of fun.

RW: That’s incredible. What do you think led you to do that?

WG: I don’t know. It just seemed like a fun thing to do. We didn’t need all that money.

RW: Do you remember the moment when Ken Kesey said “Put your good where it will do the most good”?

WG: No. But he told me a lot of stuff—like, “You should honor your mother and your father.” This comes out of the Bible. As soon as I learned that Kesey had written that, I forget how he worded it, I immediately called my mother and my father and honored them verbally as best I could. And it was illuminating for them and for me. Afterwards, I called Ken up to thank him. He said, “Well, it’s just so darn simple.”

RW: I want to ask about giving and receiving. Do you have any thoughts in general, let’s say, about giving?

WG: Giving seems to be easy for me. Receiving is the thing I’m just beginning to learn how to do with grace. It’s a work in progress, like the rest of me. Over the last thirty years I’ve experienced considerable physical difficulty, having had to receive a series of spinal surgeries and spending amounts of time in body casts. You have no alternative, or you starve. So it was necessary. I tell people I learned patience in the hospital. [there’s a pause] That’s a pun.

RW: You’re right! [laughs]

WG: And as my infirmities persisted, I learned to acquiesce to the moment and accept, with as much graciousness as I could muster, the assistance of people who offered it.

RW: I bet this is true for lots of people, that it’s easier to give than to receive.

WG: Right, but as I pointed out, I didn’t have much choice, as with a lot of the stuff that has happened to me in my life. Life situations have presented themselves and it was either sink or swim.

RW: This reminds me of another part in the film. This is at Woodstock. You and the other members of The Hog Farm were brought there to be the police force for the whole event. You called yourselves “the please force.”

WG: We were the Please Force. And we had also set up what we called the Trip Tent.

RW: And there’s a part in the movie where you describe helping a young man who was having a bad acid trip.

WG: As he came in ranting, this three-hundred pound Australian doctor laid on top of him and said, “Body contact. You need body contact” [said with an accent] and then a psychiatrist leaned in and said, [using another funny voice] “Just think of your third eye, man.”

Then I figured it was time for me to make my move. I said, “Excuse me. I’d like to try something here.” And they all backed up. What’s this hippie going to do? That’s when I said, “What’s your name, man?”

RW: And he mumbled something…

WG: I said, “No, your name.” He told me his name and I said it back to him. In fact, I said it back to him several times.

RW: I noticed how very clear and emphatic you were when you got his name. “Okay, Bob. Bob, that’s your name.”

WG: Your name is Bob.

RW: Where did you get the knowledge of using that simple directness?

WG: We’d spent some time on the psychotropic frontiers through the prankster days and beyond. It was not unfamiliar territory.

RW: You knew something about being really concrete, and focused.

WG: And through the greatest professor of them all, professor experience; and from courses at hard knocks university.

RW: You’ve had a lot of hard knocks university experience, I think.

WG: Yes. Well, that’s how you learn things.

RW: You said in the film how you’d found you could get high without the psychotropic assistance. Could you say something about that again?

WG: There are many ways to alter space. I do lots of breathing exercises, and I do mantras. Different people have different recipes to get to a space of consciousness and then to dwell in it for as long as you can, I guess. My own way is an amalgam of many different practices from many different lineages.

RW: You evolved from Hugh Romney doing the poetry to where you were wearing a jester’s hat.

WG: Between poems I used to talk about the bizarre things that happened to me during the day because it was really tedious just reading all these poems night after night after night. Then a guy came along and said, look, skip the poetry. Just talk about your bizarre experiences. That’s how I got into doing stand-up.

Lenny Bruce became my manager. I put out a couple of albums and toured the U.S. —and in fact, something of the world—doing stand-up before these other things came along.

RW: Somewhere you left the jester’s hat and started dressing as a clown.

WG: I was asked, when we had moved to Berkeley in the mid-seventies, to go the Children’s Hospital in Oakland and cheer up kids. On the way out the door of my house, someone handed me a red, rubber nose. I discovered it enabled me to get out of myself and be entertaining to the kids. After awhile, I began to paint my face up as a clown. Somebody gave me a costume, and a clown who was retiring from Ringling Brothers gave me his giant shoes. I worked with kids, with kids who were terminal, even, and did this almost every day for about seven years.

At one point I had to go to a political rally at Peoples’ Park and I didn’t have time to take off my clown stuff. I discovered that the police didn’t want to hit me anymore. Clowns are safe.

RW: Can you say more about what your experience at Children’s Hospital working with kids was like?

WG: I discovered that not only was I helping the kids, I was helping myself. As I began to do this work, I’d gone through three major back surgeries and was in quite a bit of pain. But working with the kids I discovered that as I focused on the children and the pain they were in, I lost track of my own pain.

RW: Is the clown an archetype you can inhabit?

WG: Sure.

RW: Do you think, “I’m a clown?”

WG: I don’t know. I can’t see you.

RW: [laughs] No. I have a long way to go. If I evolved, I might become a clown.

WG: Well, you need to go to camp Winnarainbow. They’ll teach you to clown. It’d be good for you. I think John Townsend said it most brilliantly in The Book of the Clown, “A clown is a poet who is also an orangutan.” But clown comes from the word “clod” or bumpkin, and the red nose indicates they were drunk. But I found all this out later. Suddenly I have these big shoes on and [laughs] a nose and I’m painting my face up, and where does it all come from? I began to study it, and it’s very fascinating, the path of the clown and the jester.

RW: What have you found out about being a clown? What has been revealed?

WG: It enables me to go places I couldn’t go as a regular kind of guy. People feel challenged by people going where I go. But when I put on the patina of a clown I’m no challenge to them in any way.

RW: What do you wish for people when you become a clown?

WG: I wish that they would find joy in the moment. It’s like I expressed in the film, laughter is the valve on the pressure cooker of life. Either you laugh at stuff or you’re going to end up with your beans on the ceiling.

RW: At camp Winnarainbow in the film it showed the labyrinth you have on the grounds…

WG: It’s a unicursal Cretan labyrinth. The oldest one is 3000 years old and was found on the island of Sardinia. The more common labyrinth, like the one you see at Grace Cathedral came about during the 11th or 12th century when Europeans could not go to Jerusalem on pilgrimage. So they developed this other labyrinth, which is different from the Pagan labyrinth, which made it to Scandanavia, to India and somehow to Peru and to the sun temple at Mesa Verde. That’s where I first encountered it when I spent time living with the Hopi Indians for a few months.

RW: How did that happen?

WG: I was enamored of the Book of the Hopi by Frank Waters. And that’s where I first saw the labyrinth. According to the Hopi if there was a condition of planetary emergency the different races would gather on this mesa for instruction from the spirit world. So I showed up. They said, “You’re pretty early.” But they took pity on me and I got to hang out with them for a while.

RW: Was anything given to you?

WG: Not something that I would feel comfortable talking about, but yes—not so much from the people as from the geography.

RW: So you brought this labyrinth to camp Winnarainbow, then?

WG: Yes. I asked Minalanska, who was an elder, what that was. She said, “Oh Wavy Gravy, that’s just the master plan of the universe.” So I borrowed a pencil and wrote it down, and I’ve brought it everywhere I’ve gone ever since. I learned to draw it. Even with my first book, I’d sign it and draw that labyrinth.

RW: Now how do you make use of the labyrinth at camp for the kids?

WG: A teepee at a time, in the evening, the campers get to walk the labyrinth to beautiful music under the stars. If they do good things, they get strokes. If they do bad things they get strikes. Three strikes and you’re out. You can always work off strikes, but you can get enough strikes to be sent home, too. By doing things above and beyond the ordinary camper—for instance, if you get eight stokes in a two-week session, you get to walk into the center of the labyrinth. In the center, there’s also these crystals. You get to take a crystal out of the labyrinth and take it home.

RW: Do you talk to the kids about the labyrinth?

WG: Oh, sure.

RW: What do you tell them?

WG: I tell them that the labyrinth is not a maze. Mazes are designed to get you lost. Labyrinths are designed to get you found. And I ask them to think of each step as a prayer for peace. I tell them you go into the labyrinth and that there’s an energy in the center that I call the spirit of Gaia, the earth mother. I say that if you have cares or problems you can leave them in the labyrinth and come out perhaps lighter than when you went in. And that is sometimes helpful to young people.

RW: In the film you made a comment to one kid that the labyrinth is inside of you.

WG: Oh, I tell all the kids that. The true labyrinth is inside you.

RW: That’s powerful. From the film, I see that your life has been a journey. Do you feel it that way?

WG: Absolutely. It’s been a great adventure.

RW: What are some of the changes from where you were and where you are today?

WG: The things that are the most significant for me in my life are the circus and performing arts camp that I’ve run with my wife Jahanara for over thirty years. We do nine weeks for kids and one week for grown-ups. And the Seva Foundation is another. Through it I’m able to raise funds to help the blind regain their sight. Eighty percent of the blind people in the world don’t need to be—they can get their sight back.

When we first started doing the work it was about five dollars for a cataract operation. Now it’s close to fifty dollars for the operation in third world countries. If you go to SEVA.org you can find out all about us. We’ve helped to orchestrate—it’s going on three million sight-saving operations. I get to put on concerts to raise funds to do that. I’m going to be seventy-five years old in May and I’m looking forward to doing a concert in the Bay Area at the Craneway Pavillion in Richmond and in New York City at the Beacon Theater. And also I’m facing another basic spinal surgery in January. So I’ve got a lot of stuff on my plate.

RW: I know we don’t have much more time, but …

WG: Eternity now, I always say. That’s one of my favorite quotes. And we’re all the same person trying to shakes hands with our self. I think that’s a good one, too.

RW: I like those quotes. It’s clear that you’ve spent a lot of time doing forms of service. Camp Winnarainbow seems to be a service.

WG: Well, my greatest legacy is the children that have come out of camp over the last thirty years. Lots of the kids who started camp when they were seven are now running the camp. And I’m sure it will go on long after I’m gone.

RW: Is that something one begins to learn, that the deepest gifts come when one can look beyond personal wants to take in the needs of others?

WG: That is my want! [laughs] Put your good where it will do the most. I can’t say it any better.

[WORKS AND CONVERSATIONS]

#Works and Conversations #Interviews #Wavy Gravy #Clown #Camp Winnarainbow #service #improvisation

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frizz22 · 5 years

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Converts

Moonshine Madam prompt: it's not actually such a well-kept secret that the Spellman’s are Satanists, perhaps a confrontation with some Church members in Greendale? Nothing to serious, just something lighthearted?

Thanks for the prompt! Read on ao3

They were relaxing in the parlor; it was the first Sunday all month they didn’t have a funeral service and Zelda had just flipped a record over before settling down to continue working on a puzzle with Hilda. Of course, their quiet afternoon was interrupted moments later, Ambrose barreling in.

“They’re back!” He grinned, eyes alight with mischief.

Hilda looked up at him, brow furrowed. “Who, love?”

Barely able to contain himself, Ambrose clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “The oh so righteous parishioners of Greendale’s Evangelical Church. Come to help us sinners see the error in our ways.”

Zelda sat up, excited. “Really?”

“Just set off the perimeter wards. We have ten minutes at best.” He looked between them hopefully.

A wide smile spread across Zelda’s face. “Marvelous, it’s been ages since they’ve come around.” She was already standing up, waving a hand to put the puzzle away. “Places everyone.” Zelda instructed with malicious glee as she turned to transform the parlor from its everyday appearance.

Whooping in delight, Ambrose hurried off to the basement.

Hilda giggled and went to the chest pushed against the wall next to the fireplace and began pulling out various items. “They must have new blood, someone who thinks they can ‘get through to us poor lost souls’ at last.” She bit her lip to try and contain her excitement as she set a deck of tarot cards and a set of small animal bones with runes carved into them on the coffee table.

Humming in agreement, Zelda focused on her spell which was redecorating the room. Several upside down crosses adorned the walls, a pentagram appeared on the floor in uneven, red paint, Hilda’s spiders crawled along the ceiling weaving intricate webs, a Satanic bible popped up on one of the side tables and the final touch… an elaborate painting of Lucifer Morningstar with fresh wounds on his back materialized over the fireplace.

Giving her work an appraising look, Zelda faced her sister. “Yes, ‘us poor lost souls’. So prone to lust and greed and dark things.” She intoned dramatically. “And yet, I bet you I can make at least three of them think about having their way with me before they leave.” Cocking a brow, she snipped her fingers to change out of her regular clothes and into one of her racier nightgowns and robe; relishing in how horrified the parishioners would be at their spike of unclean lust for a Satanist.

An indelicate snort escaped her sister as she set out some tea and cookies. “Oh, that’s too easy. All of them will think that, if even for a moment. Mortals, despite all their supposed superiority, are no better than us; they just restrain and repress themselves.” Shaking her head at the notion, Hilda picked up her deck of cards and started to shuffle them. “Now, what I intend to do is more difficult, requires a bit more magic. I’m going to scare the Beelzebub out of them,” she grinned, flicking her wrist to turn her clothes into something more mystical.

Eyebrows raised in appreciation, Zelda turned to the mirror hanging on the wall to touch up her appearance. “The seer bit? You haven’t done that in some time. It will certainly have them sweating through those awful polyester Sunday suits.” She remarked, darkening her lipstick, mussing her hair and creating a prominent love-bite on her neck for good measure.

Her sister had an uncanny ability to read people; their motives, how their pasts played into their current and future actions. Hilda didn’t use it often, claimed the sensation could be overwhelming if not carefully controlled. But in times like this, well, what was the point of the ability if not to have some fun with it? And Hilda truly did make the most of it, coming off as intimidating and creepy with a sickly sweet sugarcoating.

“You’ll help sell it, right?” Hilda asked, tucking her hair into a scarf and putting her glasses on.

Happy with her debauched appearance, Zelda moved away from the mirror and towards the front door—their guests would be arriving any moment. “Of course, sister. It’s always amusing to watch them squirm under your scrutiny.” She winked and conjured a cigarette before gripping the front door handle and waiting, just a beat before pulling it open just as one of the parishioners raised their hand to knock. “Just leave out the back, Ellen,” Zelda called out to imaginary figure behind her. “And feel free to tell your husband about that little tongue trick. He’ll enjoy the result as much as I did.” Turning her head to the little group in front of her, Zelda eyed each buttoned up little false god peddler with a raised brow. “Ah, yes, right on time.” Taking a long draw of nicotine and blowing it at them, Zelda stepped aside. “Do come in.”

As expected, most of the group struggled to tear their eyes away from her, gazes lingering on her neck and chest—though Hilda was right in that it was almost too easy, Zelda still enjoyed the effect she had over the mortals, how she made them question themselves; even for a moment.

One woman among them was made of sturdier stuff, though, and pushed past her ogling entourage and walked inside. Her movement broke the trance the others were in and they shuffled behind her awkwardly, not making eye contact out of shame. When they all passed the threshold, the lights flickered, courtesy of Ambrose, and Zelda smothered a smile at how several of them jumped.

Clearing her throat, one woman spoke up, look at Zelda uncertainly. “Right on time, you said…” She murmured, warily taking in her surroundings.

A wide smile spread across Zelda’s lips and she ushered them deeper into the house. “Oh, my sister foresaw your arrival. She made tea and cookies for you,” she noted, taking her time leading the way to the parlor; wanting to play with them a little more before turning it over to Hilda. Zelda paused next to the parlor door, “could Father Michaels not make it?” She asked innocently, finger tracing the plunging neckline of her nightgown.

The priest at the church had come at least once a month for some time when he first assumed his position. Convinced he was doing the false god’s work and not only bringing the Spellman’s over to the light side, but also ridding Greendale of Satanists at the same time.

It’d been fun, at first, coming up with new and creative ways to torment the man. But the novelty soon wore off and they had things to do, a business to run without a bothersome mortal priest popping in at random times.

So, to discourage him from returning, Zelda sent him several dreams in which he was engaged in a series of passionate activities with not only her, but Hilda and Ambrose as well. Ever since then, the man avoided them like the plague and grew incredibly flustered at the mere mention of the Spellman family—or so Zelda was told.

The act bought them almost half a year of peace before a group of brave parishioners, minus Father Michaels, appeared on their doorstep. Having taken it upon themselves to purge the devil and his worshippers from their midst. From then on, the visits of the good parishioners of Greendale’s Evangelical Church were sporadic, unpredictable. But it quickly became part of the game, seeing what they could come up with on the fly.

One of the men coughed and nervously tugged at the knot of his tie. “He, uh,” the man faltered, his eyes drifting down to Zelda’s chest before he wrenched them away with some difficulty. “He couldn’t make it today. Other matters to attend to.” He informed her gruffly, the tips of his ears burning red. And Zelda could tell the man was realizing one of the reasons why the priest avoided the Spellman house.

Humming in feigned displeasure, Zelda pushed the parlor door open and walked inside. “Have a seat,” she purred, eyeing each of the false god’s puppets salaciously as they filtered past her and into the next trap.

Undeterred, though mildly ruffled, their leader marched past her and into the parlor only to waver when she took in her surroundings. The rest of the group was quick to wilt as well as they uncomfortably took their seats on the couch across from Hilda; who was shuffling her tarot cards and smiling warmly at them… as if a ram’s skull was leering at them from the wall behind her.

“So kind of you to join us on this unholy day,” Hilda greeted a little breathily.

The comment had the leader looking scandalized. “Join you?” She demanded, “we’re here to—”

Holding up a hand, Hilda silenced her. “Mary Beth, I know why you’re here. You wish to try and save us. But we don’t need saving.” She smiled blithely at the woman.

Before Mary Beth could respond, a loud animalistic screech sounded from the basement, causing their guests to jump. Zelda hid a laugh; Ambrose was really playing it up this time.

Clearly shaken, Mary Beth collected herself. “How, how do you know my name?” She asked, face pale and eyes flicking to the ground where the sound originated and where muffled growls were still emanating.

Perching herself in the chair next to Hilda, Zelda crossed her legs regally and settled in for the show. Hilda would start by naming them all before introductions were made, sometimes listing little details about the guests or their pasts to unnerve them further. While she watched this all unfold, Zelda traced the fake bite mark on her neck, her gaze lingering on each parishioner in turn. Between her sister’s hauntingly accurate readings and Zelda’s own unabashed display of sexuality and sexual interest, they soon had the entire group visibly squirming.

There was one woman, though, Evelyn, who kept peeking at Zelda and blushing every time they made eye contact. Gifting the woman with a sinful smile, Zelda couldn’t help but think she might be able to play with this one later. When Evelyn smiled in return, Zelda’s hopes and eyebrows rose.

It wasn’t until Mary Beth noticed their prolonged eye contact that she pinched Evelyn and the woman dropped her eyes…. Moments later, though, Zelda found the woman’s eyes back on her. Oh, she almost regretted what they were about to do next, for it would surely scare Evelyn away and ruin Zelda’s chances at bedding her; and she would have loved to corrupt the mortal—especially one with the name like Eve.

Before she could think of how to signal Ambrose to wait, her nephew came bursting into the parlor, the basement door still hanging open behind him and unsettling sounds echoing up the stairs. Compared to Ambrose, though, the noises were the least of their guests’ concern. Arms covered in blood up to the elbow and holding up fake intestines, Ambrose came to a stop in front of them; seemingly oblivious to the parishioner.

“Aunties, the signs don’t look—, oh! I didn’t realize we had company.” He smiled graciously at the group, and up close Zelda could make out flecks of blood along his chest and face as well. “I’m sorry, I’ll just double check the results using a rabbit. You know how unreliable weasels can be,” he grinned and shook his head in amusement. “But, I will leave these—” Ambrose laid the intestines on the coffee table next to the tray of tea and cookies with exaggerated care, “here for your consultation.” Nodding politely at everyone, Ambrose took his leave and made for the basement once more, snapping the door shut behind him.

Understandably, the color drained from each of the parishioners’ faces and they made their hasty departures soon after, not even cracking out the false god’s bible before they turned tail. As they retreated across the lawn, Hilda and Zelda bade them goodbye from the porch, waving and loudly thanking Satan for the visit. Evelyn was the only one to turn back, a small, if somewhat perplexed, smile on her face as her eyes flicked up and down Zelda once more before shifting to follow the others.

Once the group all but ran around the curve in the road, Hilda couldn’t contain her mirth any longer and snorted; and though she fought it, Zelda guffawed as well, clutching her side as they made their way back into the house where Ambrose was eagerly waiting for them.

They lounged in the parlor, consuming the tea and cookies their would-be saviors hadn’t touched and gleefully reliving the events of the past thirty minutes. It was here that Sabrina found them, having just gotten home from a study session with Roz and Susie.

“So, I just passed a group of horrified looking people on my way home….” She began, blinking when they all broke into fresh bouts of laughter. Warily, Sabrina set her bag down and took note in her surroundings. “What, what is all of this? What happened?” She demanded, gesturing to the decorations, the fake intestines still on the table and their attire.

Wiping the corner of her eyes, Hilda managed to catch her breath first to answer. “Oh, lamb, you missed it. And it would have been the first one you could participate in…” She frowned a little in disappointment, but her eyes were still twinkling with amusement.

Zelda lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and released the smoke with a content sigh. “We just had a lovely visit from the parishioners of Greendale’s Evangelical Church.” They all chuckled again, unable to help themselves, as they settled more comfortably in their seats.

Casting them a dubious look, Sabrina took a seat on the edge of one of the chairs. “I don’t think they felt the same.” She informed them, admonishment coloring her tone.

“Oh coz, don’t go getting all righteous on us. They’re the ones who felt compelled to interrupt our Sunday with their false god drivel.” Ambrose remarked, sprawled sideways in his chair, legs hanging over the armrest.

When Sabrina looked ready to argue, Zelda knocked some of the ash of her cigarette and talked before her niece could. “Besides, we can’t have them dropping by any time they please. They might actually witness something of substance. This is just our way of… discouraging their visits.” She justified with a slight shrug.

“And it’s fun.” Hilda giggled, taking another cookie.

Arching a brow, Zelda smirked. “And that.”

“Especially for you, Aunt Zee. Evelyn couldn’t keep her eyes off you.” Ambrose grinned wickedly, “going to seduce another mortal away from the false god?”

She brushed her hair back and took another drag of nicotine. “One can only hope,” she murmured, a mischievous glint in her eye. “The most devout ones are often the most fun in bed; they’ve been suppressing their desires for so long it all just comes bursting out.”

Scandalized, Sabrina’s mouth dropped open. “Auntie! You can’t mess with someone’s feelings—”

Rolling her eyes, Zelda stubbed her cigarette out. “Sex doesn’t always involve ‘feelings’, Sabrina. It’s usually about carnal pleasure, and if Evelyn wants me to provide that… who I am to object?” She inclined her head at her niece and continued. “In any case, if they are intent on ‘saving us’, it’s only fair I try and do the same for them. Though, I must say my way is much more gratifying.” Zelda leaned forward and selected a cookie from the tray.

Ever the peace-maker, Hilda patted Sabrina’s knee. “They did bring this upon themselves by trying to come and convert us, love. And don’t be upset with your auntie,” she flashed a look Zelda’s way which she dutifully ignored. “She only… woos the ones who are willing.”

Ambrose snorted, “woos, yeah that’s what she does. That’s what her nightgown, makeup and bite mark scream… wooing.” He wiggled his eyebrows and Zelda swatted at him good-naturedly.

Of course, Sabrina couldn’t see the innocence and fun in their actions that afternoon. “It’s really not nice to mess with them. They’re just—” She began, shaking her head and tone disapproving.

Groaning loudly, Ambrose went limp in his seat, practically sliding out of it in his dramatics. “Get off your high horse, coz.” Zelda snickered and the corner of her mouth curled up into a smile at her nephew’s antics. Sabrina was less than amused.

Smiling gently, Hilda handed their niece some tea. “It’s all in good fun, darling. No one gets hurt and we keep our reputation in town.”

Suspiciously taking the cup, Sabrina eyed them. “What reputation?”

Chuckling, Zelda leaned back in her seat and clasped her hands in front of her. “That Spellmans aren’t to be trifled with, of course.” She quirked a brow as Hilda and Ambrose hummed their agreement before going back to recounting their afternoon.

#I loved the idea of the Spellmans messing with would-be converters for sport.#P.S. I just googled to find a branch of Christianity #I know very little about religion so I meant no harm or offense by naming the one I did.#I just wanted to make sure it was Christianity because that opposes the Spellman's belief and worship of the Dark Lord.#Sorry just a quick disclaimer just in case. Hope you enjoyed!#caos #Zelda Spellman #hilda spellman #ambrose spellman #sabrina spellman #Chilling Adventures of Sabrina #writing prompt #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #ao3fic #netflix

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tlbodine · 5 years

Text

Hair

I’ve always had...baggage...about my hair.

I was born bald as a cue-ball, a situation that took nearly a year to remedy before a fuzz of baby-fine curls installed themselves. There’s a curl from my first haircut in my baby book, and it’s the color of butter and finer than a spider web.

By the time I was three, my hair was past my shoulders and coiled, bouncy gold ringlets that put Shirley Temple to shame. Strangers wanted to touch it, and often did, approaching me on the street and cooing in delight about what a pretty little girl I was and what wonderful hair I had. They called me Goldilocks and Rapunzel and sighed wistfully that they wished they could have hair like this. Sometimes they would run their fingers through it and say just how much they’d love to play with it; they’d say I was just like a real life Barbie doll, and how much fun must it be.

By the time I was six, my hair was butt-length and still baby-fine. It was the color of fine gold chain and just as prone to tangling. Five minutes in the wind and it would be an unbearable snarl that would take hours to uncomb.

We kept it braided most of the time, because there was no other way to tame it. Every morning my mother would unbraid my hair, and brush it, and it would be free for just a few minutes before going back into a braid. Curls always worked their way free of the braid, leaving a halo of frizz.

On fancy occasions, we would braid it into a dozen cornrows that fell to the middle of my back and swung like a cat-o-nine-tails. I felt like Medusa, imagining the coils of snakes, and felt empowered and curiously afraid of myself.

~*~

"I hope you’re not tender-headed,” they would say, and I would grimace and brace myself because it would not matter if I was.

My mother would take me to salons sometimes. More strangers touching my hair, fussing over me, wielding combs and sprays and blow-dryers. All of them wanted to play with my hair. None of them knew quite how to handle it. Little blonde girls with curly hair to their knees, fine but dense, so thick that things could be taken up into it and consumed -- they thought they were prepared, but they never were.

I never got a haircut. It would have been such a shame to cut such beautiful long hair. But a few times a year, we would book me for a shampoo and style, and they would detangle my hair. It would take three stylists. It would take three hours.

By the end, it felt as though my scalp were bleeding. But I dared not say anything, because I understood that being tender-headed was a character flaw that i could not afford with the type of hair I had.

~*~

My hair did not belong to me.

It belonged to the stylists, who would loom close in my personal space and come up with ideas and suggestions. No one asked what I wanted, and I would not have known what to tell them even if they had because I had never had the opportunity to form those opinions.

“It’s so long and curly and blonde!” Was the delighted, surprised refrain. “Let’s straighten it, and cut it, and what if we dyed it?”

My hair belonged, too, to my mother, who spent so many hours with it, and grew so impatient with me when it would not behave. A day or two of neglect would lead to the creation of terrible, golf-ball-sized mats and snarls of hair. It would take hours to work through them.

It got tangled from a swimming pool once, leading to hours of painful pulling and tugging and frustration. We were staying in a motel in another city where my father was traveling for work. There was a Toys R Us, and they’d promised I could go and pick something out for myself after we were finished making me look presentable.

I snuck away to the bathroom and found scissors and cut away at a little bit of the impenetrable snarl of hair. I thought maybe if I just cut a little bit of it, the rest would come loose and the tangle would fall out and we could finally be done with it and I could get the toy I wanted.

“You cut your hair!” My mother sounded horrified and accusatory. I had betrayed her deeply, done a thing that was unforgivable. We did not go to Toys R Us. I was grounded. I never cut my hair again.

I was eight years old.

~*~

I did cut my hair once before that. My mother always cut her bangs straight across her forehead, a classic look for the sort of long, gently wavy dark hair she wore.

At three years old, I tried to do the same. I grabbed a fistful of hair and chopped. My hair curled and coiled like the top-knot of a poodle dog.

My childhood photos are all of a chubby blonde wild child, hair in a messy unkempt braid, a mess of frizz sticking straight up at the top.

My mother kept cutting my bangs that way for the next eight years as an implicit punishment for my transgression. Even now she tells me: “You did it to yourself.”

~*~

“If you ever cut your hair,” my mother told me once, when I was in college, “I’d want you to have it braided and cut off the whole braid and give it to me to keep. Then you could style the rest however you thought you wanted.”

~*~

I grew up with a certain paranoia about something happening to my hair. I was admonished never to fall asleep while chewing gum or candy, lest it fall and tangle my hair (never mind the choking risk, that was not important). I was made paranoid about the prospect of boys behind me putting things in my hair or cutting it with scissors if I sat at a desk. This never happened, but I was warned against it many times.

When I went to sleep-overs, my parents advised me to sleep with my braid pulled around to the side, to hold it like a teddy bear, so that no one would cut it in my sleep like in the Bible story about Samson and his beautiful long hair.

~*~

By the end of high school, I had disengaged from my hair.

It was no longer a part of me, or a thing that belonged to me. I shared a body with it, but I knew better than to touch it. There were rules in my house regarding my appearance and what I was and was not allowed to do with my body. I could not cut or dye my hair. I could not wear makeup. I could not paint my nails. I could not wear revealing clothing. I could not read Seventeen magazine. I could not perform femininity.

I did not bother with trying to rebel against these limitations. I surrendered to them whole-heartedly. I wore jeans and shapeless t-shirts and tied my hair back in a ponytail and pretended it was not there until it grew so matted that I had to spend a day detangling it, and then the cycle would resume.

Strangers stopped commenting on it. People stopped asking to touch it.

~*~

In every photograph from my twenties, you cannot see my hair.

A terrible irony: All your life, your most iconic asset becomes the one thing that no one ever sees. My hair itself had become like Rapunzel, locked away, too powerful to set loose.

Every so often, I would let it down. Hours of preparation would go into it. It would look nice in photographs for an evening, and then it would return to its captivity. My hair was a wild animal that could not be trusted to run loose.

~*~

In the shower, my hair becomes like razor wire, hard and sharp. I have scars on my fingers where the strands dig in, slicing down into the meat as I try to work out the knots and tangles.

~*~

There is a difference between knowing what to do, and being able to do it.

People will try to give you help, as if advice were the thing you were missing -- as if it were knowledge, and not ability, holding you back. It’s always well-meaning. It’s rarely helpful.

Stop using shampoo. Stop using a brush. Use a comb. Blow it straight. Use a flattening iron. Detangle it wet. Only comb it when it’s dry. Use mousse. Use vinegar. Use coconut oil. Use this brand of shampoo. Conditioner, conditioner, conditioner.

But you know. That’s the thing that no one ever realizes. Of course you know, because you have lived with this thing for all your life.

The reason for your unhappiness is not, and has never been, because you don’t know what you’re doing.

~*~

“I think I’m going to cut my hair.”

I proposed the thought nervously, anxiously, the way you might confess to a crime that has been weighing heavily on your conscience. I had been up late the night before, imagining what it might be like, searching for images on my phone under the blankets in the 2-am darkness.

“How short?” My husband asked, with signs of trepidation.

I started to cry. And then I started to yell. I half-screamed, half-sobbed at him about hairdressers and a lifetime of baggage and fear and shame and bodily autonomy.

And he held me and petted me and said, “Don’t worry about this. I’ll make the appointment. You can do whatever you want with it. I support you.”

I apologized for crying and he held me tighter and gently scoffed, almost incredulous.

“Baby. You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to feel things.”

~*~

We went to Supercuts.

It’s not a fancy salon, but I didn’t want a fancy salon. I did not want to be fussed over. That kind of pampering, invasive attention would send me running.

I waited for my walk-in. I did not throw up. My stomach rolled around in my gut and I thought I might start crying again, but I didn’t. I read a Joe Hill novel in the waiting room, and again under the dryer while a heat treatment worked whatever detangling black magic it was supposed to do.

My husband (ever the gossip) prepped his hairdresser for me. He warned her that I had a lot of baggage about getting my hair done. She didn’t understand, not really, but I don’t think maybe anyone could. But she got the gist of it. She knew well enough to leave me mostly alone.

I showed her pictures of what I wanted. She did it, with minimal fuss, and minimal commentary, and at the end I saw myself in the mirror and all she said was, “That looks beautiful! Do you feel better now?”

I did. And I do.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

#true story #personal #selfie #my hair #changes #my writing #long post

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paininmyassachusetts · 6 years

Text

Send me some numbers!

Do you go on public transport often?

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Thoughts on roundabouts?

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Do you enjoy stormy weather?

#updated version of the mash up of all my ask prompts #ask prompt

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dfroza · 3 years

Text

Love is always True and it doesn’t change.

but it can change us, when we are humble enough to allow it.

and in this world we are meant to guard the heart and Love’s sacred truth. we need to guard a seed of rebirth by never turning away from grace. and we need to help provide for this, to illuminate it.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 8th chapter of the Letter of 2nd Corinthians that looks at giving and receiving:

Now, brothers and sisters, let me tell you about the amazing gift of God’s grace that’s happening throughout the churches in Macedonia. Even in the face of severe anguish and hard times, their elation and poverty have overflowed into a wealth of generosity. I watched as they willingly gave what they could afford and then went beyond to give even more. They came to us on their own, begging to take part in this work of grace to support the poor saints in Judea. We were so overwhelmed—none of us expected their reaction—that they truly turned their lives over to the Lord and then gave themselves to support us in our work as we answer the call of God. That’s why we asked Titus to finish what he started among you regarding this gracious work of charity. Just as you are rich in everything—in faith and speech, in knowledge and all sincerity, and in the love we have shown among you—now I ask you to invest richly in this gracious work too. I am not going to command you, but I am going to offer you the chance to prove your love genuine in the same way others have done. You know the grace that has come to us through our Lord Jesus the Anointed. He set aside His infinite riches and was born into the lowest circumstance so that you may gain great riches through His humble poverty. Listen, it’s been a year since we called your attention to this opportunity to demonstrate God’s grace, so here’s my advice: pull together your resources and finish what you started.

Remember how excited you were at first; it’s time to complete this task in the same spirit. Now if there is a willingness to help, give within your means. That’s perfectly acceptable. No one expects you to go without or borrow to give. The objective is not to go under so others will have some relief; the objective is to use this opportunity today to supply their needs out of your abundance. One day it may be the other way around, and they will need to supply your needs from what they have. That’s equality. As it is written, “The one who gathered plenty didn’t have more than he needed; the one who gathered little didn’t have less.”

I praise God who lovingly burdened Titus’s heart for you just as He did mine. You see, when we approached him about you, he eagerly stepped up, not only because of our request but because of his own desire to help. We’re also sending with him a brother who is well known among the gatherings of believers because of how well he proclaims the good news. And there’s more you should know: he has been handpicked by the churches to accompany us as we carry on this work of grace. All this is being done for the glory of the Lord and to show our own good will. We’re being careful so that no one can claim that we are mishandling the funds we’ve collected. For we are taking every precaution to remain aboveboard—not only in the Lord’s eyes, but in the eyes of the people too. So we are also sending another brother who’s proven himself time and again. He’s certainly trustworthy and enthusiastic for the gospel; and after hearing about all you are doing, he’s even more excited because he has confidence in you. If anyone asks about Titus, he’s my partner and coworker in this ministry to you. If there’s any question about who the other brothers and sisters are, they are emissaries of the churches, traveling to bring glory to the Anointed One, our Liberating King. So welcome them before the community in love; show the churches they represent that I have not exaggerated your charity and kindness.

The Letter of 2nd Corinthians, Chapter 8 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 59th chapter of the book (scroll) of Isaiah that deals with the nature of lies:

The Eternal One’s reach is not so short that He cannot save you.

His ear is not so deaf that He cannot hear you.

Your persistent wrongdoing has come between you and your God;

since you constantly reject and push God away,

He had to turn aside and ignore your cries.

For your hands are covered with blood;

your fingers are sticky with all manner of crimes;

Your lips drip vicious lies;

your tongue mutters all manner of wickedness.

Everyone misuses the judicial system,

clogging it with twisted accusations and misleading testimony.

With empty charges and baseless lies

they conceive trouble and give birth to injustice.

They concoct and create the most poisonous things;

it’s as if they hatch vipers’ eggs or weave spiders’ webs.

Eat their eggs and die; crush one and a viper is hatched—

yet more poison, hurt, and distrust.

There is nothing of value in their creations—

the webs they weave are not fit to clothe or cover anyone.

The products they make are nothing but trouble;

violence comes naturally to them.

Their feet race to do evil;

they rush to shed innocent blood;

Their thoughts are bent toward injustice;

destruction and trouble line the roads of their lives.

They never travel the path of peace;

no justice is found where they have been.

They set a course down crooked roads;

no one who follows their lead has a chance of knowing peace.

People: That’s why we can’t make things right;

good and true can’t gain any ground on us.

We look earnestly for a bright spot, but there isn’t

even a glimmer of hope; it’s darkness all around.

We are left to stumble along, grabbing at whatever seems solid,

like the blind finding their way down a strange and threatening street.

In broad daylight—when we should have sight—we stumble and fall as in the dark.

We are already like the dead among those brimming with health.

We growl like bears and moan like doves.

We hope that maybe, just maybe, it will all turn out right;

But it doesn’t. We look for liberation, but it’s too far away.

For our wrongdoing runs too deep before You.

Our sins stack up against us—sure evidence of our guilt.

For our offenses are always with us; they are insidious and lasting, as You know.

Our guilt says it all. We know it, too.

We took You for nothing, and did just the opposite of Your commands.

We broke our promises to You, ignored and rejected You.

We hatched up schemes to oppress others and rebel, to twist the truth for our gain

while presenting it as honest-to-God fact.

When justice calls, we turn it away.

Righteousness knows to keep its distance,

For truth stumbles in the public square,

and honesty is not allowed to enter.

There is no truth-telling anymore,

and anyone who tries to do right finds he is the next target.

It’s true. The Eternal One saw it all

and was understandably perturbed at the absence of justice.

God looked long and hard, but there wasn’t a single person

who tried to put a stop to the injustice and lies.

So God took action. His own strong arm reached out and brought salvation.

His own righteousness—good and pure—sustained Him.

But God’s equipment was that of no ordinary warrior:

He strapped on righteousness as His breastplate,

And put on the helmet of salvation.

Wrapped in vengeance for clothing and passion as a cloak, God prepared for war.

Finally, God determined they must get what they’ve earned:

fury to those who oppose Him, vengeance against those who are against Him.

To the ends of the known world, God will go to render justice.

This is how people from east to west will come to respect the name

and honor the glory of the Eternal.

For He will come on like a torrential flood driven by the Eternal’s winds.

Eternal One: The Redeemer will come to make Zion right again,

to rescue those of Jacob’s holy line who turn their backs on wrongdoing.

This is what the Eternal One declares.

Eternal One: This is My covenant promise to them: My Spirit, which rests on and moves in you, and My words, which I have placed within you, will continue to be spoken among you and move you to action. And not only you, but so it will be for your children and their children too. And so on through the generations for all time.

The Book (Scroll) of Isaiah, Chapter 59 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for friday, August 6 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons that reflects upon the pure significance of grace:

If you ever feel frustrated because of recurring personal struggles and failures, do not add to your troubles by despising yourself, but instead allow your character defects to lead you to humility and surrender before God. Bear in mind that you are unable to please God apart from his intervention and help (John 6:63), so avoid self-reproach, since teshuvah ("repentance") is not about learning to deal with your pains, after all, but trusting the Lord to do the miracle of healing within you. You "have been crucified with the Messiah" (Gal. 2:20) - the verb used in this phrase is a "perfect passive" form (i.e., συνεσταύρωμα), meaning that it indicates completed action done on your behalf. Your job is not to devise your own sanctification but to receive the blessing by faith, trusting in God's righteousness given on your behalf. The focus is not on you, and when you get out of the way and surrender, the grace and love of God will do the impossible within you (Matt. 19:26). In a way, teshuvah is a form of death, that is, identifying with the judgment of Messiah given on your behalf, just as teshuvah is life as you take hold of your new identity in him. Practically speaking you turn away (i.e., "die to") your anger, disappointments, bitterness, and sorrows by turning to the Lord for his acceptance and grace. God will bring freedom and newness of life from what binds your heart. As C.S. Lewis once advised: "Remember that He is the artist and you are only the picture. You can't see it. So quietly submit to being painted, that is, keep fulfilling all the obvious duties of your station... asking forgiveness for each failure and then leaving it alone. You are in the right way. Walk --- don't keep on looking at it" (Collected Letters). How you do teshuvah depends a great deal on where you are standing: if you are before the cross of Messiah, then you stand on the side of divine grace; otherwise you will remain in a place of exile, questioning God’s love for you.

The message of the gospel (i.e., הבשורה, from the word basar) requires that you regard yourself as worth dying for, that you are God’s friend... “There is no greater love than this: that someone lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). God quite literally demands that you regard yourself as benefited by the sacrifice of his beloved son Yeshua in your place; he demands that you understand how dear you are to his heart. God sees something of such great value in you that he was willing to suffer and die to redeem it from loss... Just as the kingdom of God is a “pearl of great price,” so you are a pearl of great price to God. What grieves and angers God is the refusal to believe that you are someone of infinite importance to him... Only God can rightfully make such a demand because He knows that loving other things more than Him leads to "disordered love," darkness, and eventual madness. We were made for God's love, but substituting finite things for this infinite need will never suffice to bring lasting healing to our souls...

Those who are “in the flesh” cannot please God (Rom. 8:8). We must turn away from regarding ourselves as mere “flesh” and understand that we are essentially spiritual beings created and redeemed by God (2 Cor. 5:16). We must give up the distinctions in the “world of basar” - the carnal world that is known through sensuous apprehension - and accept ourselves as “new creations” in the Messiah. It is “not the children of the flesh who are the children of God, but the children of the promise are counted as offspring” (Rom. 9:6-8).

The mere conviction of sin is not the same thing as repentance. We have to step beyond a troubled conscience and have our sin crucified by God’s love and grace. Grace is therefore essential to genuine repentance, since moral reformation is never enough. “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” We must be humbled so that we can receive. God gives us bitter experience of our inadequacy to call us to return to him. Only God can kill the power of sin within our hearts. Conviction of sin is not the end, but rather newness of life...

There is a place for godly sorrow, of course, and for genuine regret over our sins. As we understand God’s desire and love for us, we begin to realize that the essence of sin is the refusal of God’s heart for us. The underlying issue with sin concerns the question of God’s love. Simply abstaining from certain actions does not address the deepest need of the heart. It is not turning away from sin that matters as much as turning toward God. The death of sin is meant to lead us to the life of love... [Hebrew for Christians]

and another:

God is both infinitely loving and infinitely just, and both of these “attributes” are inseparably a part of who he is. God is One. Nonetheless, the cross of Yeshua proves that “love is stronger than death, passion fiercer than the grave; its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame, the very flame of the Lord” (Song. 8:6). It is at the cross that “love and truth have met, righteousness and peace have kissed” (Psalm 85:10). This means we must drop our defenses – even those supposed objections and pretenses voiced by our shame – and “accept that we are accepted.” It is God’s great love for you that leads you to repent and to turn to him. Allow yourself to be embraced by his “everlasting arms.”

Genuine repentance will entirely change you. It is an act of profound respect over what God has done on your behalf. You say, but I am a miserable wretch! Indeed that is so, but the consciousness of your wretched state is the heart’s cry for love... God goes “outside the camp” to meet with you. He enters the leper colony to join you there, in your wretchedness, and even takes upon your fatal disease. He sees you in your desperate estate and joins you there. God enters into the dust of your death and says, “Live!”

Repentance means changing your thinking, turning around to face the truth, and returning to embrace God’s love. It does not identify the whole person with sin, but rather regards all people as redeemable, worthy, and valuable to God. Conviction of sin is not the end, but rather the means to newness of life. God saved us so that we could be in a love relationship with Him. We must “choose life,” and that means choosing to welcome God’s love into your heart. The only sin that can keep you from God’s everlasting love is the denial that his love is personally for you. You must forsake seeing yourself “in the flesh” and take hold of God’s spirit, his passion, and his grace for your soul. You are worthy to be loved because God is worthy to make you so.

Repent and believe the good news. God is love, and that love is *for you*... [Hebrew for Christians]

8.5.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

August 6, 2021

Treasures of the Snow

“Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow? or hast thou seen the treasures of the hail?” (Job 38:22)

It is interesting that this book, the oldest in the Bible, contains more references to snow, ice, and frost than any other book of the Bible. This is despite the fact that Job’s homeland was in what is now essentially a desert region. Possibly the effects of the post-Flood Ice Age were still strong in Job’s day.

In any case, the beautiful phrase “treasures of the snow” is both appropriate and prophetic. Its crystal structure, though mostly in the form of delicate six-pointed “stars,” is endlessly varied and always intricately symmetrical and incredibly beautiful.

The snow is a treasure in other ways as well. The winter’s snowpack in the mountains is often called “white gold” because of its indispensable water storage capacity, released in the melting season each spring to provide life to teeming cities and irrigation in the desert for needed food supplies. The snow also aids in maintaining the planet’s chemical cycles by returning various elements in the nuclei of its flakes back from the ocean to the lands from which they were leached and transported by rivers to the oceans. When the snowpack becomes a glacier, it can greatly assist in the breakup of rocks to form fertile soils.

In the Scriptures, its pure white color is often used to symbolize the cleansing of a sinful heart that trusts the Lord. “Wash me,” said David, “and I shall be whiter than snow” (Psalm 51:7). “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow,” the Lord promises those who come to Him for salvation (Isaiah 1:18).

As the snow comes down from heaven, so comes the Word of God to ask the soul as in today’s text: “Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow?” (Job 38:22). HMM

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 1 year

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Bildad the Shuhite replies...

1 Then Bildad the Shuhite answered:

2 “How long will you say these things, and the words of your mouth be a great wind? 3 Does God pervert justice? Or does the Almighty pervert the right? 4 If your children have sinned against him, he has delivered them into the power of their transgression. 5 If you will seek God and make supplication to the Almighty, 6 if you are pure and upright, surely then he will rouse himself for you and reward you with a rightful habitation. 7 And though your beginning was small, your latter days will be very great.

8 “For inquire, I pray you, of bygone ages, and consider what the fathers have found; 9 for we are but of yesterday, and know nothing, for our days on earth are a shadow. 10 Will they not teach you, and tell you, and utter words out of their understanding?

11 “Can papyrus grow where there is no marsh? Can reeds flourish where there is no water? 12 While yet in flower and not cut down, they wither before any other plant. 13 Such are the paths of all who forget God; the hope of the godless man shall perish. 14 His confidence breaks in sunder, and his trust is a spider’s web. 15 He leans against his house, but it does not stand; he lays hold of it, but it does not endure. 16 He thrives before the sun, and his shoots spread over his garden. 17 His roots twine about the stoneheap; he lives among the rocks. 18 If he is destroyed from his place, then it will deny him, saying, ‘I have never seen you.’ 19 Behold, this is the joy of his way; and out of the earth others will spring.

20 “Behold, God will not reject a blameless man, nor take the hand of evildoers. 21 He will yet fill your mouth with laughter, and your lips with shouting. 22 Those who hate you will be clothed with shame, and the tent of the wicked will be no more.” — Job 8 | Revised Standard Version (RSV) Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright © 1946, 1952, and 1971 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. All rights reserved. Cross References: Genesis 18:25; Genesis 41:2; Deuteronomy 4:32; 2 Chronicles 10;6; Job 1:5; Job 2:11; Job 4:21; Job 5:17; Job 5:24; Job 6:26; Job 7:8; Job 11:20; Job 20:5; Job 42:12; Psalm 37:35; Psalm 126:2; Proverbs 11:7; Proverbs 14:11; Romans 3:5

#Job #Bildad the Shuhite #reply #Job 8 #Book of Job #Old Testament #RSV #Revised Standard Version of the Bible #National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America

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madewithonerib · 4 years

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Separation from God

Isaiah 59:1-21 | Separation from God Surely the arm of the LORD is not too short to save, nor His ear too dull to hear. But your iniquities have built barriers between you & your God, & your sins have hidden His face from you, so that He will not hear.

For your hands are stained with blood, & your fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies, & your tongue mutters injustice.

No one calls for justice; no one pleads your case honestly.

They rely on empty pleas;

they tell lies; they conceive mischief & give birth to iniquity.

They hatch the eggs of vipers & weave a spider’s web.

Whoever eats their eggs will die; crack one open, & a viper is hatched.

Their cobwebs cannot be made into clothing, & they cannot cover themselves with their works.

Their deeds are sinful deeds, & acts of violence are in their hands.

Their feet run to evil; they are swift to shed innocent blood.

Their thoughts are sinful thoughts; ruin & destruction lie in their wake.

The way of peace they have not known, & there is no justice in their tracks.

They have turned them into crooked paths; no one who treads on them will know peace.

Therefore justice is far from us, & righteousness does not reach us.

We hope for light, but there is darkness; for brightness, but we walk in gloom. Like the blind, we feel our way along the wall, groping like those without eyes.

We stumble at midday as in the twilight; among the vigorous we are like the dead.

We all growl like bears & moan like doves.

We hope for justice, but find none; for salvation, but it is far from us.

For our transgressions are multiplied before You, & our sins testify against us.

Our transgressions are indeed with us, & we know our iniquities: rebelling & denying the LORD, turning away from our God, speaking oppression & revolt, conceiving & uttering lies from the heart.

So justice is turned away, & righteousness stands at a distance. For truth has stumbled in the public square, & honesty cannot enter.

Truth is missing, & whoever turns from evil makes yourself prey.

The LORD looked & was displeased that there was no justice. He saw that there was no one—He was amazed that there was no one—to intercede; so His own arm brought salvation, & His own righteousness sustained Him. _____________________________________________________

Charles Ellicott Commentary (1819 –1905) | Isaiah 59:1-21

[1] Behold, the Lord’s hand..—The declaration is an implied answer to the complaint, like that of Isaiah 58:3, that the glorious promises had not as yet been fulfilled.

The murmurera are told that the hindrance is on their side.

murmurera: third-person singular future of murmurer

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Joseph Benson Commentary (1749 –1821) | Isaiah 59:1-2

Behold, the Lord’s hand is not shortened — He is not grown weaker than in former times, but is as omnipotent as ever He was; neither His ear heavy — Or dull of hearing: He is not like your idol gods, that have hands & cannot help, & ears & cannot hear.

But your iniquities have separated — Have been as a thick wall, between you & your God — And have set Him at a distance from you, Proverbs 15:29.

Proverbs 15:29 | The LORD is far from the wicked, but He hears the prayer of the righteous.

“The reason of the continuance of your calamities is not any want either of power in God to deliver you, or of goodness to hear your prayers: but your own iniquities make Him a stranger to you, interrupt the correspondence that used to be between God & His people, & stop the course of His blessings.” — Lowth. _____________________________________________________

Matthew Henry Commentary (1662 -1714) | Isaiah 59:1-8

If our prayers are not answered, & the salvation we wait for is not working for us, it is not because God is weary of hearing prayer, but because we are weary of praying.

See here sin in true colours, exceedingly sinful; & see sin in its consequences, exceedingly hurtful, separating us from God — not only from all good, but to all evil.

>> Yet many feed, to their own destruction, on infidel & wicked systems.

Nor can their skill or craft, in devising schemes, as the spider weaves its web, deliver or save them.

No schemes of self-wrought salvation shall avail those who despise the Redeemer's robe of righteousness.

Every man who is destitute of the Spirit of Christ, runs swiftly to evil of some sort; but those regardless of Divine truth & justice, are strangers to peace.

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Albert Barnes Commentary (1798-1870) | Isaiah 59:1

Behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened - On the meaning of this phrase, see the notes at Isaiah 50:2.

Isaiah 50:2 | Why was no one there when I arrived? Why did no one answer when I called? Is My hand too short to redeem you? Or do I lack the strength to deliver you? Behold, My rebuke dries up the sea; I turn the rivers into a desert; the fish rot for lack of water & they die of thirst.

Neither His ear heavy, that it cannot hear - On the meaning of this phrase, see the notes at Isaiah 6:10.

Isaiah 6:10 | Make the hearts of this people calloused; deafen their ears & close their eyes. Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts, & turn & be healed.”

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Jamieson-Fausset-Brown Bible Commentary (1871) | Isaiah 59:1-21 The People's Sin the Cause of Judgments: They at Last Own It Themselves: the Redeemer's Future Interposition in Their Extremity.

The reason why Jehovah does not deliver His people, notwithstanding their religious services [Isa 58:3];

Isa 59:1-8, is not want of power on His part, but because of their sins;

Isa 59:9-15, contain their confession;

Isa 59:16-21, the consequent promise of the Messiah.

Isaiah 58:3 | “Why have we fasted, & You have not seen? Why have we humbled ourselves, & You have not noticed?” “Behold, on the day of your fast, you do as you please, & you oppress all your workers.

1. hand … shortened—[See Isaiah 50:2].

Sin separates between God & us, Isaiah 59:1-2.

Murder, theft, falsehood, injustice, cruelty, Isaiah 59:3-8.

Calamity for sin, Isaiah 59:9-15.

Salvation only of God, Isaiah 59:16-19.

The covenant of the Redeemer, Isaiah 59:20-21.

The Lord’s hand is not shortened; He is not grown weaker than in former times, as omnipotent as ever He was: hand is symbol for strength, thus it is applied to God in His bringing Israel out of Egypt, Psalm 136:12.

Psalm 136:12 | with a mighty hand & an outstretched arm. His loving devotion endures forever.

Neither His ear heavy; or thick of hearing; He is not like your idol gods, that have hands, & cannot help, & ears, & cannot hear.

This phrase is appropriated to the double cavil [petty/unnecessary objections], or quarrel, that the Jews might have with God; as

Surely if God were not heavy or hard of hearing, He could not but hear those strong cries that we put up in the days of our fast; or,

If He did hear, certainly He could not help us; & thus it may have respect to the beginning of the 58th chapter.

Or the words may be by way of confirmation & establishment, to let them know that if they sought Him as they ought, & was before prescribed, He was not inexorable, but willing to hear, & able to make good all promises that He had made from verse 8 to the end.

The sum is, to show that the fault was not in God,

their fasts & cries were not regarded, for His ear was quick to hear;

nor their services rewarded, for His hand was as able to help as ever;

but the obstruction lay in their sins, which is positively asserted, Isaiah 59:2, & a more particular account given of them in the sequel. _____________________________________________________

John Gill's Exposition of the Entire Bible (1746-1763) | Isaiah 59:1 Behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save,....

It is not for want of power in the Lord, that He has not as yet destroyed the enemies of His people, antichrist, & the antichristian states, & saved them out of their hands, & made them to triumph over them; or brought on the glorious state of the church, & fulfilled the promises of good things, suggested in the latter part of the preceding chapter.

His hand is as long as ever, & as able to reach His & their enemies in the greatest height of power, or at the greatest distance, & to do every good thing for them; His power is as great as ever, & not in the least abridged or curtailed.

Neither His ear heavy, that it cannot hear: the prayers of His people, their cries unto Him on their fast days, of which He seemed to take no notice, complained of Isaiah 58:3, this is not owing to any want of attention in Him, or of readiness to hear prayer made unto Him; for He is a God hearing & answering prayer, & is ready to help His people in every time of need, who apply to Him in a proper & suitable manner; His eyes are upon them, & His ears are open to their cries.

And this is introduced with a "behold", as requiring attention, & deserving notice & consideration of His ppl.

Targum: "behold, not through defect of hand [or power] from the Lord you are not saved; nor because it is heavy to Him to hear, that your prayer is not received.'' _____________________________________________________

Donald Spence Jones, Pulpit Commentary (1881) | Isaiah 59:1-8 A GENERAL REBUKE OF ISRAEL FOR ITS MANIFOLD SINS

The command given to the prophet in Isaiah 58:1 to "show God's people their transgression, & the house of Jacob their sins "

- partly executed in Isaiah 58:4-7 & 13 - is now further carried out by a scathing denunciation of various forms of wickedness, more or less prevalent in Israel, the effect of which has been to separate between Israel & God, to "shorten God's hand" & "make His ears heavy."

The passage has many analogies with Isaiah 1:2-23.

Isaiah 1:2-23 | Listen, O heavens, & give ear, O earth, for the LORD has spoken: “I have raised children & brought them up, but they have rebelled against Me. The ox knows its owner, & the donkey its master’s manger, but Israel does not know; My people do not understand.”

Alas, O sinful nation, a people laden with iniquity, a brood of evildoers, children of depravity! They have forsaken the LORD; they have despised the Holy One of Israel & turned their backs on Him.

Why do you want more beatings? Why do you keep rebelling? Your head has a massive wound, & your whole heart is afflicted. From the sole of your foot to the top of your head, there is no soundness—only wounds & welts & festering sores not cleansed or bandaged or soothed with oil. Your land is desolate; your cities are burned with fire; foreigners devour your fields before you—a desolation demolished by strangers. And the Daughter of Zion is abandoned like a shelter in a vineyard, like a shack in a cucumber field, like a city besieged.

Unless the LORD of Hosts had left us a few survivors, we would have become like Sodom, we would have resembled Gomorrah. Hear the word of the LORD, you rulers of Sodom; listen to the instruction of our God, you people of Gomorrah!

“What good to Me is your multitude of sacrifices?” says the LORD. “I am full from the burnt offerings of rams & the fat of well-fed cattle;

I take no delight in the blood of bulls & lambs & goats. When you come to appear before Me, who has required this of you—this trampling of My courts?

Bring your worthless offerings no more; your incense is detestable to Me—your New Moons, Sabbaths, & convocations—I cannot endure iniquity in a solemn assembly. I hate your New Moons & your appointed feasts; they have become a burden to Me; I am weary of bearing them.

When you spread out your hands in prayer, I will hide My eyes from you; even though you multiply your prayers, I will not listen.

Your hands are covered with blood. Wash & cleanse yourselves. Remove your evil deeds from My sight.

Stop doing evil! Learn to do right, seek justice, correct the oppressor, defend the fatherless, plead for the widow.”

- God is not less able to help than of old; His "hand" has lost none of its power. - That He does not help is owing to the iniquities of His people, which have separated between Him & them - It is the same fact which has made His ear heavy.

He cannot hear prayers that are not sincere - not from the heart.

#Separation from God #Isaiah 59 #dont forget to pray #Matthew Henry

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bfgoodridge · 5 years

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Climate Change and Spider-Man

Spider-Man is back in the MCU! Yes, Marvel’s web-slinger will continue to be featured in the expansive Disney-owned franchise. He will not be left to suffer the consequences of whatever sort of entertainment Sony believed it could produce on its own. A decent story is now guaranteed. And isn’t that what we all want? A story worth telling. A life worth living.

There was this fear that a fictional character’s storyline would not be allowed to reach its full potential. It is a concern that mirrors the worries of many living in the real world - those who hold the belief that the human race will not be allowed to reach its full potential as a result of climate change. The expectations and hoped for experiences in life have been replaced with the fear of our extinction.

Maybe you heard 16-year-old climate activist Greta Thunberg’s address the U.N.’s Climate Action Summit this week. She was direct. She was passionate. She did not hold back.

“You have stolen my dreams and my childhood with your empty words...We are in the beginning of a mass extinction, and all you can talk about is money and fairy tales of eternal economic growth. How dare you!”

I read Greta’s words and think to myself: what is the Christian response to climate change? No, let’s not debate the evidence for climate change and whether you believe it or not. Let’s consider what God’s people might be called to believe. What type of life would we be called to live in view of such a threat?

Christians believe that God created the world and everything in it. We believe that He looked upon His creation and saw that everything was good (Genesis 1:25). And when God made humans He commanded them to fill the earth (Genesis 1:28). “Be fruitful and multiply,” He said. “Fill the earth and govern it.” God placed us in charge.

The second thing God instructed humans to do was to take care of the earth. The Bible says that He placed the first man in the garden to “tend and watch over it” (Genesis 2:18). And when God saw that it was not good for the man to be alone, He made him the perfect helper. The man and the woman were then partnered together to take care of their home.

Following their sin, the man and the woman were cast out of that which was good and into exile. A life outside of paradise gave birth to fear, poverty, and loss. But when Jesus stepped down onto the earth, He commanded His followers not to worry about everyday life. He says in Matthew 6:30, “And if God cares so wonderfully for wildflowers that are here today and thrown into the fire tomorrow, he will certainly care for you. Why do you have so little faith?”

Jesus said not to worry about whether you have enough to eat or drink. He told us not to worry about whether we would have enough clothes to wear. So do we expect God to only care about our bank account and a roof over our head but not the planet beneath our feet? “Why do you have so little faith?”

Lastly, God promised in Genesis 9:15 to never destroy all life on earth by means of a flood. Now you might say that this verse doesn’t rule out other extreme acts, but remember that God was confirming His covenant with those who had placed their faith in Him. God didn’t wipe out all life on earth. He saved those who not only entered the ark, but those who helped build it. Our future depends not only on the faith we enter into but the life we build.

To be clear, the world is going to end, but then God is going to make it new (Revelation 21:3-5). He will wipe away every tear, and He will put an end to sorrow and death and pain. It is an ending, a story He wants us to be a part of. But to be a part of that storyline, to reach our full potential, comes down to the life we build with or without Him.

In view of whatever problems we may face, God tells us to have faith. Don’t stop living because of fear. Don’t put your social life on hold. Do not be afraid to make a life with someone or to have a family. And do not think that just because God is going to make the earth new that we don’t have to do our part to take care of it. God put us on this planet to make a life out of it. So have faith and make it a story worth telling.

youtube

#God #Jesus #church #Bible #pray #hope #climate change #spiderman #faith

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therealrosebuddies · 7 years

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Walking on the Webs

A sequel series to Tangled up in Webs

Warnings: None, Spoilers (???)

Pairing: Spider-man x female reader, Peter Parker x female reader

Summary: While on a mission for the Avengers, you met Peter Parker. After your misadventures in New York, you both assume you’ll have time to normal teenagers- that is until past villains begin hunting Spider-man- and the Avengers.

(Due to so many people liking my first series, and some asking for more- I decided to continue this story! If you guys want more, just tell me :). Links to Tangled up in Webs below!- except for part one- technical difficulties, sorry.)

Pt 2 : http://mattstarrxfandomimagines.tumblr.com/post/145920979041/tangled-up-in-webs-pt2 Pt 3: http://mattstarrxfandomimagines.tumblr.com/post/146320034226/tangled-up-in-webspt3

Pt 4:http://mattstarrxfandomimagines.tumblr.com/post/146407727786/tangled-up-in-webs-pt4?is_related_post=1

Pt 5: http://mattstarrxfandomimagines.tumblr.com/post/147110402506/tangled-up-in-webs-pt-5

Pt 6: http://mattstarrxfandomimagines.tumblr.com/post/148644531836/tangled-up-in-webs-final

The last time you had been this comfortable- well you aren't exactly sure.

It was morning, soft light streaming through the trees of the wakandan jungle and into the room where you sat. You were tucked deep into a blanket, hands tight around an empty glass of orange juice. Your new kitten was near your side, purring into the comforter. Putting the orange juice on the small coffee table in front of you, you sat back again- leaning against your boyfriend Peter.

Well- you assumed he was your boyfriend.

The both of you hadn’t really talked out the details yet.

He had come to visit you in Wakanda after you had left- rather urgently. If you remembered correctly, you had been stabbed, chased by police and then shipped off under the cover of night. But you had gotten the guy- so you guessed the stitched up wound in your abdomen was worth it. As the both of you sat and watched the TV in peace, your guardians watched the scene of you and Peter on the couch- with varying opinions.

“Man-I know I was totally on board with this at the beginning- but am I the only one who wants to grab Peter’s face and write ‘cooties’ all over his forehead?” Tony asked as he poured himself the last of the orange juice (as you would find out later). Steve looked up, who was pouring over a crossword with Wanda and Bucky.

“What?”

“Oh come on. Doesn’t it feel weird to have these two here and holding hands and stuff? They’re young enough to be our kids.”

“Your kids.” Sam quipped.

“Really?... Come on- I can’t be the only one who want’s to stick a Bible between them and call it quits.” Tony continued prattling on, ignoring Sam.

Natasha, who had been watching the TV while she braided Bucky’s hair, looked up with skepticism written all over her face.

“Of all people, you’re the one bothered by this?” Tony deadpanned and took a swig of his orange juice.

“I kinda agree with him.” Bucky said, wincing when Natasha ‘accidentally’ pulled his hair too tightly.

“Come on Tony. You need to relax. They're just kids.” Clint supplied, stirring his spoon in his empty cereal bowl.

“See- that is my exact point. Kids.” Tony said, gesturing outward with his hands.

You groaned, both eyes so focused on the TV that your vision was starting to blur. Tony had finally makes amends with the team- but he was already annoying you.

“I wonder if they know that we can hear them?” Peter asked, looking at you with a half-smile drooped across his face. You kept glaring at the TV, listening to them prattle on.

“I really don’t think they care. They just want to make sure we never have fun.”

“You're not having fun?” Peter asked, eye brows knitting together in concern.

“No Peter I just-” You made an inhuman noise in the back of your throat as you squinted your eyes. You grabbed the remote to pause your show and then stood up shakily.

“Hey (F/n), no. You need to sit down.” You turned towards the kitchen, glaring at your guardians.

“No. I’m going out to the deck and Peter is coming with me. You are all staying in here.” You snapped, turning on a dime and beginning to hobble towards the door. Peter lept up and followed after you, careful to make sure you didn’t fall over. It had only been a week since you had woken up back in Wakanda, so your wound was nowhere near being healed. But that sure wasn’t keeping you from spending time with Peter.

You couldn’t come to New York with him- not after your secret identity had been exposed by Kraven. And Peter couldn’t stay here- he had a job to protect New York- and his Aunt. You couldn’t forget his Aunt.

You rested your arms on the metal railing of the deck. It outlooked the Wakandan Jungle, green, gray and misty, with streaks of gold light glittering across the foliage and across you face.

Peter stood at the door, looking at you.

Eyes closed, you had your head tilted to the smooth cloudy sky. A small breeze came along and lifted the hair off your shoulders and you sighed, letting your head sag.

“What’s wrong? You been kinda off today.” Peter came and stood by you, left arm touching your right. His skin was warm, harshly contrasting the cold you felt. You opened your eyes and looked at him.

“You’re leaving tonight.”

“(L/n)...”

“I know! We already talked about it.”

“We can video chat. Facetime-”

“Peter I know. I’m just mad that I can’t enjoy this last day without everyone following us around.”

“And the fact that you’ll miss me.” Peter persisted, looking quickly at you and then back out at the jungle.

“And the fact that I’ll miss you.” You repeated, scowl breaking into a soft smile. You both stood in silence for a while, the sun settling and casting a warmth that started to lighten your mood.

You grabbed Peter’s hand, taking advantage of the sudden return of your good feelings.

Peter flushed, looking at you.

“You’re gonna be okay right?”

“Yeah. Just don’t forget about me.”

“(F/n). Don’t worry about it. I promise it’ll be fine.”

He said he would be fine.

If only you knew what would happen next.

****************************************************************

“(F/n). Get in here.” You stopped in the middle of the hall, seeing Steve through the open door on your right. You breathed a sigh of relief, happy to finally find who you were looking for. You had just seen something you really didn’t like- and you needed to show someone.

It had been a month and a half since Tony and Peter had gone back to New York, and you had been restless.

Now you knew why.

“Steve, i’ve been looking for you everywhere, I need to show you something. It’s-”

“(F/n) I’m sure it’s urgent but there something you need to-”

But you weren’t listening anymore.

The screen.

You dropped your phone, arms bending in towards yourself with your fists clenching.

no.

No.

NO.

The picture on the screen was horrifying- it was like someone had stuck a hot rod straight through your chest.

The character in question was torn up, blood all over their clothes. Their nose was bleeding, mingling with the blood trailing s the red lips.

Your throat was closing up, tightening like a large unmovable fist.

It was Peter.

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