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the-hopeless-haze · 2 years

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He’ll reject my actions, but He will know my heart (Justified Sin Chapter 11)

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Warnings: talks of domestic violence, talks of the lost baby, talks of Dave's murder... suicidal ideation, slut-shaming, and derogatory names (not from Bruce obviously; he's my sweet babygirl and would never speak like that... but from a special surprise guest). also idk I love this chapter so much. love to go off about Catholicism like a nerd okay

Taglist: @pop-rocks-and-skittles @yesshewrites1 @deadflowerd @burninggracesandbridges @reggxe-a @ventila98 @grayce427 @leastlikelytoachieve @that-girl-named-alex @yuki235171 @cluelessnitwhit @thebruemanbatwayne @y-napotat @acatwriteshere

Do not be like Cain, who belonged to the evil one and murdered his brother. And why did he murder him? Because his own actions were evil and his brother’s were righteous.

Sure. But what if it was the opposite? Would Abel have been justified in killing Cain? Cain was evil and needed to be cast out by a righteous man to do God’s work for him. God left the building. It’s just a free-for-all, free will, free lives, no consequences. A cesspool. Gotham. Hit your wife. Kill the mayor. Nothing happens unless a vigilante takes you out.

Who’d be coming for Bruce’s neck in retaliation?

Corrupt. Opaque. Concealed. Never thought he was like one of those men, skeletons in his closet and his real face hidden behind a mask. Becoming what he hates in the name of being what the city “needs”.

He used to fool himself, that he was truly Vengeance and Bruce didn’t exist. But he does. Vengeance killed Dave but Bruce had the personal motivations to drive him to do so. He is both people and they are the same and he only wears the mask to rid himself of his wealth and his identity for the night. To be hidden. To be reckless, ruthless, and restless in his pursuits without people knowing who to tie them to.

It’s not about being a good person. Maybe it never was. It’s about being something bigger than himself, making Gotham habitable. Reducing fear in children’s eyes, children like him. Reducing harm. Not obliterating it. But a reduction.

If he had to harm others to do so… what was he really doing?

It’s not often Bruce seeks solace in the walls and painted glass windows of a church. It’s not ever, actually; the only times he can remember coming here is when his father was alive. Growing up briefly in a dual-religion household led to confusion only exacerbated by their premature deaths. Would a gracious, benevolent God let them be ripped from him, with no consequences for the murderers?

Alfred never saw it his place to educate Bruce on religious matters, so he grew up for better or for worse without much of an influence, though he did spend quite a bit of time in his father’s old study. Bibles were highlighted and annotated, and different theories that were postulated by Thomas. Bruce read through them in an attempt to understand the man he barely knew, but none of it made sense in the end, given what happened to him. What did he do that he deserved to meet that end? He married a Jewish woman. Perhaps he hoarded wealth to a selfish extent. But to die like that?

God had left Gotham. And Bruce feels like a shitty replacement. Just a man. Not a hero. Just a boy who had to sing this song of death and misery and revenge.

Bruce knew even less about his mother’s religion; she adapted more to Catholicism than Thomas was willing to concede to Judaism, although he vaguely remembers a menorah lit their last holiday season all alive. Her, though, she’d done even less to deserve it. Always giving, always kind, always in pain. Life was agony and never healing from trauma and mental illness and then it was over. Her identity was erased in death and one with the man she was married to.

Did it have to be that way? Why reduce a life to its negatives? Every news anchor seems to lament the deaths of the innocent and never focuses on the lives they had before it was taken.

They would do the same to Dave, not knowing that maybe, just maybe, he deserved the end he got. A sadistic motherfucker killed instead of enacting the killing. Turn it all on its head. Make a righteous man evil to make sure this evil man ceased breathing.

The church is quiet and reeks of incense, the woody smell piercing his nostrils as he walks in.

He half-expects the cross to fall off the wall at his presence.

Hail Mary. Full of Grace. Ave Maria. Everyone’s a sinner. Begging for forgiveness at the altar. Symbols for symbols for symbols to the point it doesn’t seem to stand for anything anymore.

Pray for us now. Pray for us at the hour of our death.

A-fucking-men.

He blesses himself with the holy water. The liquid doesn’t burn his flesh, it runneth over, off his skin. He still remembers how to do this, how he did it at his parents’ funeral. Right hand to god to the forehead. Bless the mind. In Nomine Patris. To the chest. Cleanse the heart. Et Filii. Left shoulder, the devil’s shoulder, brush him off but his influence still lingers. Et Spiritus. Right shoulder. One with God and Jesus now, but it doesn’t feel like it. Sancti. Nothing felt sanctified or holy when he did this decades ago. There’s no sanctity here now, either.

Nothing changes. Everything stays the same.

Hands come together now in prayer. A-fucking-men.

Pray for what? No one was listening.

But he came here to be heard.

He walks through the church, velvet carpeting beneath his feet, so much splendor and wealth here, but God said “make no idols of me” and yet statues and figurines of Jesus in his most vulnerable moments, nailed to the cross, are fixed to the walls.

He would be Risen again soon, in a month or so. Or at least symbolically. They’d have the kids making First Communion enact the Stations of the Cross, they’d sugarcoat it all and make it less violent than the story actually was.

Bruce would feel nothing like he always did and struggle to understand why.

Jesus wasn’t solving any problems. The weight of this city is on Bruce’s shoulders instead. Died for your sins and left the earth for good, checked out.

If Bruce was Jesus, he wouldn’t let himself die. He would stay.

You accused him of having a complex multiple times, especially in the suit, before you knew his identity. You always knew his delusions, though, regardless. Perhaps Jesus wouldn’t debase himself like Bruce did, give into the sins of the flesh, kill for love. But at least Bruce was staying and pushing himself and fighting the battles with the people he pledged to save.

Sacrilegious. Better than Jesus. Certainly not. That narcissism alone would earn him a spot right at Satan’s feet.

But maybe it wasn’t narcissism. It was a duty. A calling. To be better than Jesus? To do good even at the expense of doing evil to get there. Damning his own soul to save the pure.

The incense alone was going to give him a headache, never mind the thoughts racing through his mind.

Taking a deep breath, he walks behind the curtain.

“Vengeance. What do you have to say about it?” Bruce asks, sitting down in the confessional booth.

“‘Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,' says the Lord,” the priest quotes.

“Sure,” Bruce responds. “Sure. But he’s not avenging Gotham. Where’s his wrath when he we need it?”

Unless he is an agent for God and free will is an illusion and to rid the earth of Dave’s influence, to make a good man kill in his will, he had to learn to love first. Bruce. Batman. Vengeance. Acting out His wrath, doling it out so He doesn’t have to.

“Mm. Maybe it doesn’t appear to be as if he’s doing anything to you. But God works in mysterious ways. What have you done, child, that you believe requires forgiveness?”

“I hurt somebody because they hurt somebody I love,” he says simply, his sweaty hand burning a hole on his knee. He talks like he was explaining his actions to a child, mind-numbingly plain and vague.

“So you enacted revenge.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do, exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “I hurt them.”

“Hm. I can’t quite absolve of your sins if I don’t know what they are.”

“That’s what you do? Absolve me?”

“Are you sorry for the sins you’ve committed against another?”

Bruce hesitates for a moment, then says, “I wish it hadn’t come to that. But no. It was premeditated. It had to happen.”

"Sorrow is half the battle, my child."

"So I'm damned," Bruce says, letting out a mirthless chuckle.

"Why don't you tell me what you've done? It weighs on you heavily. I can sense it," the priest says.

"It was a crime."

"The state is not higher than God. Whatever you tell me... I cannot repeat to the authorities. It stays between you, myself, and God."

"Oh, well, that's bullshit," he mutters, leaning back against the wall. "Someone comes in here and tells you they hit their wife. What are you going to do? Send them on their way? Not tell the police? Anybody?"

"I pray."

"Lot of good that does."

"You have a lot of anger in your heart-"

"What you're telling me is bullshit."

"Did you hit your wife?"

"No," Bruce growls, ice running through his veins. "No. I would never fucking do that. I killed a man who did."

Again. No crosses fall from the walls. God was inactive and so were his perpetrators.

"Mm... my child. Vengeance has no place in our hearts," the priest says. "And you're not sorry for this?"

"No. But you can't fucking tell anybody, right?"

"No. I can't. I am bound by my sacraments. God already knows and he is the highest authority."

"God watched that man hit his wife day in and day out. Watched him push her, break her wrists, and give her black eyes. Watched him yell at her, scream at her. Watched him hold money over her head so she couldn't leave. Watched him take the baby out of her womb with a fucking coat hanger," he seethes, heart pounding. "He did nothing. No divine intervention."

"God granted us free will. He will atone for his sins in his death, as will you, unless you atone for them now."

"I'll never be sorry," Bruce snarls. "It wasn't something I wanted to do. It was something I needed to do. I took no joy in it. But it was necessary to buy her freedom."

"Do you think you can find it in yourself to want to do better?"

"Of course. I want to do better. I never... I never want that feeling again. That's why I'm here."

"Maybe in time, you will come to see the errors of your ways."

"I killed a bad man."

"You killed a man," the priest corrects.

"I think I'm... I think I'm done here," Bruce says, shaking his head. "I... I don't think I'm going to get anything out of this."

"Go to the altar. Pray the rosary at least one time. And please return when you are ready to feel sorrow."

Wordlessly, Bruce exits the booth, taking a rosary at the exit. Unsure why he does it, he steps up to the altar, the garish lights shining down nearly blinding him. He takes the rosary, blesses himself again. The sign of the cross. He needs the prayer book to remember them, I believe in God, the Father almighty ... lies. Bruce doesn't believe in anything but himself. And you.

Our Father. forgive the one who trespasses against you, for he is the one who’d risk eternal damnation for you, with you, even without you. Bruce's own words, twisting the sanctity of the prayer, making it fit his own crimes. Hail Mary, full of grace. Ave Maria. He feels nothing. Ave Maria. He feels nothing. Ave Maria.

A-fucking-men.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

“My husband, Dave Matteson, has been missing for over a month.”

Now, Bruce is sitting at the press conference, as far in the back as he could get. Stark contrast to the church he was in days earlier. It’s a sign of solidarity to you, and maybe he’s paying his respects to the dead here, too. It’s only fair, since he’s the reason you’re here at all, giving a eulogy to a man who beat the shit out of you for years. Being exorbitantly wealthy and well-known got him access to everything without any real questions, and sitting in this seat amongst journalists and politicians alike makes him feel beyond cheap.

You’re solemn and respectful, playing this role well like you played all of your roles for this man prior. Black knee-length dress, minimal makeup, gloved hands, you seem to be going for a Jackie O vibe. Fitting you should channel her now.

“I was in the hospital when I received the news he was missing after a brief illness. I wish I knew what had happened to him within those hours, but I was very ill. I just wish… I wish he reached out to me. It’s been weeks and I haven’t heard a word. I… I… this isn’t like him. I feel as though we should fear the worst. If he was out there, breathing, I feel as though I would feel him… and I… I don’t feel anything, anymore,” you say, wiping tears with your tissue. Your father is behind you, and he squeezes your shoulder comfortingly. It’s the first time Bruce has seen him, and he looks as harrowed and shaken as you do, if not more so. The familial resemblance is clear, here, not just in looks but somewhat in the way you hold yourself as well. He wonders vaguely how much he inherited from Alfred himself, how much isn’t inherited but learned.

“While I still have hope he might return and the case is far from closed,” you continue, swallowing thickly, “I do support the change in the office of mayorship to Don Mitchell Jr. While my husband’s shoes are not easy to fill, I feel as though Mr. Mitchell will do his utmost in the interim. Gotham is in good hands. Thank you.”

You step away from the podium and hug your father, tears streaming down your face as the cameras flash away. The paparazzi were definitely getting their money’s worth for the show you were putting on today.

Not that it was a show, entirely. You are grieving. Just not for the reasons they thought.

The “interim” mayor you introduced gets up to the podium next and speaks, but Bruce tunes him out. Just another run-of-the-mill, corrupt candidate. One out of a million.

Instead, he watches you.

You still didn’t look quite like yourself, but then again, maybe he never knew you, never knew who you were when you weren’t in constant fight or flight mode. He wonders if you told your father everything, or what you decided to tell him instead of the truth. He wonders if your father knows about your entanglement with himself.

The conference ends, and Bruce knows he shouldn’t linger and that you don’t want him here, but he can’t help but stay. For the refreshments, he rationalizes to himself, but there wasn’t alcohol here in the middle of the day and he knows he’s only staying to watch. Steady on the outskirts of your life.

So, he gets a cup of water and stands next to the wall, becoming one with it, ignoring questions and comments and keeping a stoic expression whenever the cameras flashed in his face. The paparazzi gave him a hard time getting in here. Maybe it’d be best to leave last.

You’re a couple feet away, now, separated from your father, receiving condolences from others with teary eyes. But then… Carmine Falcone comes up next to you and Bruce is on high alert. Ever since this man showed up bloody on his father’s doorstep, he didn’t like him. From what little he knew, he had ties to your husband as well. Whatever he had to say couldn’t be pleasant.

Crossing the room in a few strides, he steps closer to the two of you, hoping not to be seen by either of you. You notice him immediately, eyes widening at first and then setting into a glare. Falcone has his back turned to him, and you don’t say anything to alert him of his presence, so he stays close.

“Nice show you’re putting on, girl,” Falcone says. “Hm? Who taught you how to act so well?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, setting your shoulders back.

“Oh, but I think you do. No point acting with me, sweetheart. Where is he, really? In the floorboards?”

“I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Falcone,” you respond, trying to keep your voice level. “Please allow me to grieve in peace.”

“Grieve? I don’t believe he’s been pronounced dead. You seem to have given up all hope he’ll return though, eh? What did you do to him?”

“I was in the hospital when he went missing,” you mutter, looking down at your heels.

“You know how easy it is to get medical records forged, sweetheart? I could get them like that,” he says, snapping his fingers in front of your eyes, causing you to flinch. Bruce lunges forward but you recover quickly and set your eyes on him again, a piercing gaze that says “let me handle this” without the words. Fair enough. Although he fights against every cell on his body to do so, he grants you this. For now.

“Please. Let me be,” you say, meeting Falcone’s eyes again. “This is hard enough on me as it is.”

“Yeah. The guilt must eat at you, sweetheart. Since you don’t have access to his money yet, I might have a job for you. Pimps are hiring big for pretty whores like you—“

That’s enough. That's e-fucking-nough, Bruce decides. He knows you’ll hate him for it, hate him for causing a scene but he can’t in good faith listen to this man berate you for things he didn’t know fuck all about.

“Is there a problem here?” Bruce interjects, placing a not-so-friendly hand on Falcone’s shoulder.

“Well, look who’s coming to your defense, the prince of Gotham himself, eh?“

“I don’t need the help,” you say, pridefully.

“I don’t know. Big city for a little girl like you. Might need another rich man to pay your way for you or you really will end up a street girl,” Falcone snickers. “We know your father can’t afford your lifestyle, and that little diner won’t cut it.”

“I suggest you go somewhere else,” Bruce says through gritted teeth.

“Really, Bruce, I can handle myself,” you hiss.

“Oh, you two are on first name basis? Maybe Dave was right to be suspicious of you two. I always said, you know, no way poor little recluse Bruce could score you, but maybe you are just a slut for the money, hm?” Falcone sneers.

What Bruce does next he isn’t entirely sure if he’s proud of, but his fingers are tightening around the older man’s shoulder before he can stop himself, and he’s forcing him to walk backwards until his back is against the wall. The crowd dispersed to let them through, but they were quick to follow and hear what was said, tittering and gossiping - “I wonder if he’ll hit him” and “oh, am I glad I showed up today”.

“Hey, hey, easy, boy,” Falcone chuckles. “Remember. Your father wanted me to live.”

“Leave her alone,” he says softly but sternly, staring him down.

Falcone leans against him, his breath reeking of smoke and burnt coffee, and he whispers in his ear, “Yeah? Was her pussy worth it?”

Bruce can’t feel his fingers anymore with the strength at which he’s digging them into Falcone’s suit-clad shoulder. It’s worth it, though, worth putting the fear of god into these assholes. “I’m going to say it one more time. Leave. Her. Alone.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I hear you. I’ll make sure you’re not around the next time,” he laughs.

Letting go, he makes sure to shove him back against the wall a little more forcefully than necessary, and then he pushes past the reporters, the cameras, looking for you, but you were gone, you were nowhere within his line of vision.

Your father comes over to him, putting an arm around his shoulder and walking him over to a corner. “Some scene you caused,” he says after shoving a paparazzi away that followed the two of them.

“Yeah,” Bruce mutters. “I couldn’t listen to the vile shit coming out of his mouth. Just… just tell her I’m sorry. Okay? Can you do that? I’ll see myself out now. Don’t worry.”

“She went out around the back if you want to catch her.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “She wants to talk to me?”

“Well, no,” he answers, smiling wryly. “But I think you should try. I… I want to say. Thank you. Thank you for loving my daughter through… all of that. I had no idea things were that bad. I… I loved Dave and it breaks my heart to think my daughter thought I loved him more than her. To think… to think she wouldn’t come to me? All this time… I…”

“She told you?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?” Bruce asks, anxiety running through his veins.

“She didn’t tell me what happened to him, but from the scene you just pulled, I think I can put it together,” he whispers. “Good for you. I would’ve done the same thing if I’d known.”

“I’m going… I’m going to go talk to her now,” Bruce says awkwardly, feeling sick and needing the fresh air regardless. He didn’t know what felt worse, the people justifying it to him or the fact that you still didn’t forgive him for it. So many people complicit in this crime, or in favor of it and yet the person he did it for… left him. And he knows why. He knows. You need the time alone and he should grant it to you and going to talk to you right now is on the list of stupid shit he’s done, for sure, but he does need to apologize at the very least.

Once he’s sure he’s slithered along the wall enough that he’s lost the cameras, he heads out of the building, the frigid February air cooling his skin down some. Walking along the perimeter of the building, he sees you, pacing in your heels, headphones blasting music so loud he could hear it when he got close enough to you.

“Hey,” he says gently, reaching out for your shoulder, a soft, feather light touch. Proof that he is, in fact, capable of restraint.

You startle, and turn to face him, shutting your music off and furrowing your brow at him. “I cannot fucking believe you. You just had to make a scene, didn’t you? Jesus Christ,” you snap. “We aren’t together, Bruce. We aren’t fucking together. And even if we were you can’t… you can’t fucking do that. You can’t. You can’t kill every single person who wrongs me, Bruce. I can’t fucking live like that.”

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t going to kill him, Christ. He shouldn’t be talking to you like that. He wasn’t going to leave you alone—“

“I know him, Bruce, fuck off. I’ve dealt with him the entire fucking time I was married to Dave and let me tell you, he’s the least of everyone’s problems. He’s just a fucking asshole. That’s it. He’s all talk but he’s harmless.”

“I don’t know if I can agree with that.”

“No, right, because every man who talks to me now, this is the shit you’re going to pull? I can’t… how fucking dumb are you? You killed him. You. And you’re making a scene at this fucking thing?”

“Shh.”

“What? You worried fucking Falcone will hear you through the walls? Jesus Christ, Bruce. Fuck off. Seriously. I cannot believe you made a fucking scene like that. Now Falcone’s going to go and tell fucking everybody who will listen that I’m fucking Bruce Wayne and—“

“You were. It’s not like he’s fucking lying.”

“Right. Well, maybe I didn’t want everybody to know. Jesus.”

“Why? Are you embarrassed of me? Huh?”

“Shut the fuck up, Bruce, and stop thinking with your dick for two seconds,” you growl, walking closer to him. “Seriously. Fuck you. I was fucking married to the most conservative man in this fucking city and you think it’s a fucking good look for me if the whole fucking city thinks I fucked you while I was married to him, and then he fucking died on top of it? Jesus fucking Christ. Why don’t I just suck you off in public? Right? Give them another show. Yeah?”

“Listen. Your feelings are justified—“

“That’s the other fucking thing, too, I keep going over in my head, right? Are you going to kill every fucking man who beats their wife? Are you? I fucking don’t think so and I… I can’t handle that. I can’t handle being… I can’t handle being loved that much. Fuck. I can’t. It’s… it’s too much,” you say, backing away from him.

“But I do. I do love you that much,” he says quietly, reaching out for your hand. “I’d do it again. I’d die for you—“

“Bruce. Love me less, then. Love me less,” you say, looking up at him pleadingly.

“I can’t,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb over your hand, aching for more contact, aching to reach out and hug you and press you to his chest and breathe in your perfume and kiss you and make you feel good again, press his body into yours, make you remember how you loved him, too.

“I… I can’t. I can’t do this. Fuck. I can’t. I need to… I need to leave Gotham. I thought I could do this, I thought… but I… I… fuck. I can’t do this.”

“You can. And you will. This is your city. His memory shouldn’t drive you out of your home.”

“It’s not him, Bruce, it’s you,” you say, blinking tears out of your eyes. “I told you I needed space and you pull this shit?”

“It’s almost been a month. You haven’t even called me. It’s like you cut me off, like you don’t want anything to do with me,” he says, his voice cracking, breaking like glass shattering on the pavement.

“I told you I needed space, Bruce.”

“Okay,” he says, letting go of your hand, keeping his hand out by his waist. “Okay. I’ll leave.”

Leaving was the last thing he wanted to do. He’s never known what it was like to miss people who are still alive; grieving for the living. It’s a different kind of ache, a gnawing pain every time he reaches for the phone and doesn’t call you, every time he sees articles about you in the newspaper, every time he reminisces about the good times the two of you have had, every time he drives by the diner. Still out there but so unattainable.

“You’re not leaving,” you say, drawing him out of his reverie, and he had stayed, staring at you, at your face in the sun, at the way you changed, at the way you held yourself now, shoulders straight back instead of cowered down.

You aren’t terrified of being alive anymore.

He did the right thing.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I just… I don’t know when I’ll see you again. I’m trying to make this last.”

“Bruce….”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too,” you say, looking up at him, your eyes squinting a little in the sunlight. “I don’t expect you to wait for me to be ready. I don’t.”

“What are you… what are you talking about?”

“I still need more time.”

“Okay. And I said I would be here.”

“I don’t expect you to wait, Bruce.”

“Why? Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because. I’m a mess, Bruce. I… I was inpatient," you say, frazzled. "My therapist committed me. I was… I had a plan. I was going to… never mind. It doesn’t matter what I was going to do. That’s why I didn’t call you. I… I didn’t want you to worry or try to visit me or… whatever. I just got out. Two days ago. And then they dragged me to this shit.”

“I’m glad you got help. But you can always talk to me.”

“But I can’t… I’m still not stable, Bruce.”

“Then… okay. I can wait.”

“But you want a family. You want a wife and kids and I can’t do that. Not now, maybe not ever.”

“I only wanted that with you,” he says gently. “I only wanted that because it was you. I never thought I would get any of these things before I met you.”

“I took them away.”

“You didn’t get rid of the baby. He did.”

“I should have told you. I should have been more careful,” you say, looking down.

Testing out boundaries, he brings his hand to your cheek, brushing hair behind your ear. You raise your head and you don’t push him away, in fact, you lean into his hand. The two of you stay like that for a few moments until Bruce whispers, “You can’t blame yourself for this. Okay? You can’t keep carrying around this guilt. I’m upset just like you are that we didn’t get to know this baby and raise them and love them. But it wasn’t your fault.”

“I knew it wasn’t wasn’t safe. I knew that,” you say, lip trembling. “I knew trying to get out would be hard enough without being pregnant, too.”

“Okay. But you did what you did. It’s over. I forgive you. I was never going to hold it against you,” Bruce tells you.

“Every time I look at you I just… I feel like I killed part of you. What if they looked like you and—“

“Shh. Shh,” he says, cutting you off. Taking his hand from your cheek, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s over. He’s gone.”

“Yeah. But you… to do that, to kill him, to end his life? What goes through your head, Bruce? I just don’t get it.”

“To protect the woman I love and my future family. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s antithetical to whatever I’m trying to do as Batman. It was because I love you.”

“Right,” you say, pulling away from his embrace. You cross your arms over your chest. “Murder out of love, justified, because you love me more than you hate him? I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you happy he’s gone? Aren’t you happy you don’t have to go home and be afraid of what mood he’ll be in? Aren’t you better off?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. But not at this price.”

“You’re not paying anything.”

“I… I corrupted you. I made you like this, like me. You were so… innocent, before. Pure. And I… I fucked you and made a child with you that I got killed and you killed somebody for me. I damned you to hell with me.”

“Well, we better make the most of this, then,” he says, shrugging. “We’ve got a long eternity of hellfire ahead of us.”

You laugh in spite of yourself, always in favor of dark humor. “Right. Live it up before the eons-long barbecue.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Do you believe in any of that anyway?” you ask.

“I don’t know. But I’m not basing my decisions on the place I might go after I die. I’m basing my decisions based on the consequences they’ll have on the people and the city I care about. What I know exists.”

“How logical."

"I went to confessional," he admits. "I felt nothing."

You roll your eyes. "Maybe actual therapy?"

"A therapist could report me to the authorities, though," he points out. "But I see your point."

"You don't have to tell them everything, obviously. But I think you should go."

"Okay. Whatever you want. I just... I just want you back. I'm trying so hard not to be pushy about this because I know what you asked for but I miss you and-"

Your lips are on his and your hand is in his hair and you are so close to him and he forgets everything - the words that were going to come out of his mouth, what he was doing here at this building - all mush. He kisses you back, pulling your body closer to his than you already were, relishing in the feel of your mouth on his again, remembering the first time you kissed when you took him by surprise and how you were doing it again and you'd do it again and again.

God be damned.

"You still love me?" he asks quietly, holding on to your healed wrist after you pull away from his mouth.

"Who said I stopped?" you respond. "But fuck. That's why I said I needed space. I can't be around you."

"We can... we can heal from this together. We don't need to be separated."

"I need to live alone, Bruce. I do. We're not starting this cohabited. My dad is taking me to look at apartments tomorrow."

"Can we still... can we still talk, then? Can I call you?" he asks.

"I'll call you. Okay? Just... I still need time."

"Okay."

"I love you, Bruce," you say, and it's the first time he's heard those words in over a month, enough to bring the prickles of tears to his eyes. "You just have to let me do this."

"I killed to let you do this. I'm okay," he says. "I love you, too."

Love does no harm to a neighbor. Therefore love is the fulfillment of the law.

#the batman 2022 #batman x reader #bruce wayne x reader #the batman #batman x you #bruce wayne x you #batman #bruce wayne #bruce wayne/reader #batman/reader #battinson x you #battinson x reader #Battinson

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dfroza · 3 months

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A foundation of building the Church Body

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 16th chapter of the book of Matthew:

They came to Him together, a band of Pharisees and a band of Sadducees, trying to trick and trap Him.

They asked Him for a sign from heaven.

Jesus: At evening time, you read the sky as a sign—you say, “The weather will be fine because the sky is shading red,” and in the morning, you read the sky as a sign, saying, “The red, stormy sky tells me that today we will have storms.” So you are skilled at interpreting the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times? Only a cheating and evil generation such as this would beg for a miraculous sign from heaven. The only sign you will get will be the sign of Jonah.

And then Jesus left them and went away.

When next the disciples crossed the Sea of Galilee, they forgot to bring any bread with them.

Jesus: Be careful; avoid the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees.

The disciples were not quite sure what Jesus meant, so they discussed His warning among themselves.

Disciples: He must mean not to buy any bread from a baker who associates with the Pharisees or Sadducees. He must have given us this warning because we showed up here without any bread.

Jesus knew what the disciples were saying among themselves, and He took them to task.

Jesus: You men of little faith, do you really think that I care which baker you patronize? After spending so much time with Me, do you still not understand what I mean? So you showed up without bread; why talk about it? Don’t you remember that we fed 5,000 men with five rounds of flatbread? Don’t you remember that we fed 4,000 men with seven rounds of bread? Don’t you remember what excess, what abundance there was—how many broken pieces and crusts you collected after everyone had eaten and was sated? So when I speak about leaven, I am not talking about what we will eat for dinner. I say again, avoid the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees.

And then the disciples understood: Jesus was not talking about the bread you eat, but about the food that feeds your soul. He was speaking in metaphor; He was warning them against imbibing the teachings of the Pharisees and Sadducees.

Jesus then went to Caesarea Philippi.

Jesus (to His disciples): Who do people say the Son of Man is?

Disciples: Some say John the Baptist. And some say Elijah. And some say Jeremiah or one of the other prophets.

Jesus: And you? Who do you say that I am?

Peter: You are the Anointed One. You are the Son of the living God.

Jesus: Simon, son of Jonah, your knowledge is a mark of blessing. For you didn’t learn this truth from your friends or from teachers or from sages you’ve met on the way. You learned it from My Father in heaven. This is why I have called you Peter (rock): for on this rock I will build My church. The church will reign triumphant even at the gates of hell. Peter, I give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven. Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.

And Jesus ordered His disciples to keep these teachings secret.

Jesus: You must tell no one that I am the Anointed.

Then Jesus began to tell the disciples about what would happen to Him. He said He would have to go to Jerusalem. There the elders, chief priests, and scribes would meet Him; He would suffer at their hands; and He would be killed. But three days later, He would be raised to new life.

As Jesus spoke of the things to come, Peter took Him aside. Sad and confused, and maybe a little bit prideful, Peter chastised Jesus.

Peter: No, Lord! Never! These things that You are saying—they will never happen to You!

Jesus (turning to Peter): Get away from Me, Satan!

You are a stumbling block before Me! You are not thinking about God’s story; you are thinking about some distorted story of fallen, broken people. (to His disciples) If you want to follow Me, you must deny yourself the things you think you want. You must pick up your cross and follow Me. The person who wants to save his life must lose it, and she who loses her life for Me will find it. Look, does it make sense to truly become successful, but then to hand over your very soul? What is your soul really worth? The Son of Man will come in His Father’s glory, with His heavenly messengers, and then He will reward each person for what has been done. I tell you this: some of you standing here, you will see the Son of Man come into His kingdom before you taste death.

The Book of Matthew, Chapter 16 (The Voice)

A set of notes from The Voice translation:

Now at this time in Judea, the Jews, the children of Israel, are a diverse bunch. One group of Jews, which Jesus has already encountered, is called the Pharisees. Another group of Jews is called the Sadducees. The two groups do not agree about how to read Scripture, they do not see eye-to-eye, and they do not get along. They rarely partner with each other, but here they are partnering—because they are so perplexed, befuddled, and panicked about this Jesus.

•

With Peter’s confession that Jesus is the Anointed One, the foundation of the church is laid. In the days ahead, the church will storm the gates of hell and nothing will be able to stop it. No darkness, no doubt, no deception—not even death will be able to stand against it.

Today’s paired reading from the First Testament is the 1st and only chapter of the book of Obadiah:

This is the vision that came to Obadiah:

Listen carefully to what the Eternal Lord says about the nation of Edom.

Learn from their fate.

We have been put on notice through the Eternal’s representative

who was sent to everyone among the nations saying,

“Get up. Get ready to charge against Edom in battle.”

Eternal One (to Edom): See how insignificant I will make you compared to other nations;

you will be completely despised by the rest of the world.

Your deep pride has blinded you to the truth,

tucked securely in the clefts of the rocks, safely out of reach.

You say to yourself,

“Whose attack can reach up here and bring me down to the ground?”

Even if you fly high as the eagle, believing yourselves strong and free,

and put your nest among the stars,

I will have no trouble bringing you down.

This is declared by the Eternal One.

Consider how thoroughly you will be wiped out.

If thieves come to steal from you

And robbers arrive under cover of night,

won’t they take only what they want?

If the grape harvesters arrive,

doesn’t their hasty picking usually leave some fruit in the field for the poor?

But Esau, your nation will be ransacked;

there will be nothing left.

Every last treasure you had carefully hidden will be taken.

Your supposed allies—every last one—will turn against you;

they will run you out of your own town.

And those who promised you peace

will lie to your face and conquer you.

Even those who shared your bread will ambush you.

You won’t understand what is happening until it is too late.

Eternal One: When this day comes,

won’t I destroy the wisest citizens of Edom,

Make all insight vanish from Mount Esau,

and leave all helpless?

As for your warriors, great Edomite city of Teman,

they will be routed, shattered.

Their slaughtered bodies will cut off everyone’s path to Mount Esau

because of your violent history against your brother Jacob.

Shame will envelop you,

and your nation will be destroyed forever.

You just stood there, doing nothing,

while strangers ransacked their city,

While invaders rushed through the gates and divided up Jerusalem for themselves.

You might as well have been one of them.

You should never have gloated over your brother’s tragedy that day

or been secretly happy about all their misfortune.

You should never have celebrated the people of Judah’s decimation.

You should never have acted so arrogantly

on the day they suffered so much.

You should never have walked through the city gates of My people

on the day of this disaster.

You should never have gloated at their difficulties

on the day of this disaster.

You should never have taken advantage of them and their wealth

on the day of this disaster.

You should never have lain in wait along the crossroads

to cut off those trying to escape;

You should never have handed over the handful of survivors to Babylonian captivity

on the day of their great distress.

The day of the Eternal’s judgment for all the nations is near.

Whatever evil you have done will be done to you;

Your deeds will come crashing back on your head.

Eternal One: Just as you drank to the defeat of My people on My holy mountain,

now you and all the nations around you will always drink excessively.

They will be forced to drink and guzzle a mouthful of suffering,

and it will be as if they never existed.

But on Mount Zion will be a place of safety.

Some will escape to that holy hill,

And the people of Jacob will conquer and possess

those who conquered and dispossessed them.

The people of Jacob will become a fire

and the family of Joseph a flame.

They will ignite and consume the people of Esau as they execute divine punishment

until only dry stubble remains.

No one from the people of Esau will survive the conflagration.

So declares the Eternal One.

Eternal One: The people from the southern desert will take over Mount Esau,

and those from the foothills will flood into the Philistines’ coastal plain.

They will possess the fertile lands of Ephraim and Samaria,

and Benjamin’s people will inhabit Gilead.

The army of exiled sons and daughters of Israel will stream back home

and live along the coast and possess the Canaanites as far as Zarephath.

And the exiles of Jerusalem who live in Sepharad

will settle down in the cities and villages of the South.

These deliverers will go up to Mount Zion, My holy hill,

and justly rule Mount Esau from there.

And the kingdom they establish will belong to the Eternal One alone.

The Book of Obadiah, Chapter 1 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice translation:

Imagine the scene: The Edomites have come with other nations to rob and betray Israel; it looks as though God has allowed Israel’s cousins, the descendants of Isaac through Esau, to steal from His temple and holy city. The Israelites are convinced they have kept Abraham’s covenant with God while the Edomites have forsaken the Lord and His people Israel. Their prayer is for God to provide refuge for those who seek and trust in Him, and to judge their enemies.

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for monday, january 22 of 2024 with a paired chapter from each Testament (the First & the New) of the Bible along with Today��s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about the miraculous deliverance of Israel from Egypt and Pharaoh’s army of horses and chariot drivers:

Last week’s Torah portion (i.e., parashat Bo) described how the Israelites were finally released from Egypt after God delivered the final plague during the time of Passover. In this week’s portion (parashat Beshalach: Exod. 13:17-17:16), the Israelites begin their journey home, after 430 years of troubled exile. Instead of leading them along a direct route to the Promised Land, however, God directed them south, toward the desert, where the Glory of God appeared as a Pillar of Cloud by day and as a Pillar of Fire by night to lead them on their way. When Pharaoh heard that the Israelites were at the border of the desert, however, he perversely decided to pursue them and bring them back to Egypt. God then redirected the Israelites to camp near the edge of the Sea of Reeds, where the Egyptian army finally caught up with them. Dramatically, the Israelites were caught between the sea on one side, and Pharaoh’s formidable army on the other!

The terrified people then began to blame Moses for their predicament. Moses reassured them of God’s final deliverance and raised his staff to miraculously divide the waters of the sea. All that night the Shekhinah Glory enshrouded the Egyptian army but gave light to Israel as the people crossed through the sea on dry ground. Just before dawn, the dark pillar of cloud that veiled the Egyptian army lifted, and the soldiers immediately rushed after the Israelites into the pathway of the sea. God then told Moses to lift his staff again so that the waters would overwhelm the Egyptians with their chariots and horsemen. By the time dawn arrived, the Israelites saw the dead bodies of Pharaoh’s army lining the seashore.

Moses and Miriam then led the people of Israel in a spontaneous hymn of thanks and praise to God for their complete deliverance from Pharaoh, which is often called the “Song of the Sea” (i.e., shirah hayam). The song begins, "The Lord is my strength and song, and he is become my salvation" / עָזִּי וְזִמְרָת יָהּ וַיְהִי־לִי לִישׁוּעָה (Exod. 15:2, cp. Isa. 12:2). For Orthodox Jews, singing Shirat Hayam every day is thought to fulfill the biblical commandment to "remember the day of your departure from the land of Egypt as long as you live" (Deut. 16:3). Note that Shirat Hayam is also sung on the 7th day of Passover, as a memorial of the deliverance by God through the waters of the Sea of Reeds.

The great message of our deliverance resounds throughout Jewish history, and indeed it is regarded as a theme of the faithful love of LORD for His people: "Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid; for Yah the LORD is my strength and my song, and He has become my salvation" (Isa. 12:2).

After their great jubilation, the narrative resumes as God led the people away from the sea, into the desert of Sin (מִדְבַּר־סִין), a desolate region about midway to Mount Sinai. After traveling three days without finding any water, however, the people complained and God provided them with fresh water at Marah. Awhile later, the matzah (unleavened bread) the people had brought with them ran out and God tested their obedience by giving them “bread from heaven” (i.e., manna). The portion ends with the Amalekites’ surprise attack of Israel at Rephidim, near Mount Sinai, and the selection of Joshua as the leader of the army of Israel.

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

========

Isaiah 12:2 reading:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/isa12-2-jjp.mp3

Hebrew chant:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/isa12-2-song.mp3

Hebrew page:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/isa12-2-lesson.pdf

Beshalah H4C Torah Summary:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Scripture/Parashah/Summaries/Beshalach/beshalach.html

Beshalach audio podcast:

https://hebrew4christians.com/training/beshalach-audio-podcast/

1.21.24 • Facebook

from yesterday’s email by Israel365:

Love Him with what is very you

Each of us has unique personality traits. We have abilities that stand out above all others in our natural talent set. In other words, every human being has some emotion, trait, or talent in which they can be described as “very.” Whatever aspect of who I am that most describes me or exemplifies who I am could be described as my “very.”

This verse is telling us that our love of God must be expressed with our “very.” Some people are very intelligent. Others are very giving. One person may be very good at organizing people. Another may be very good at standing up against a hostile crowd. Each of us must find his or her “very” and devote it to God. That is the meaning of this cryptic phrase. Love the Lord with all your me’od.

Ask yourself, “which trait, strength, or interest is the most me?” What is my “very?” God gave us our strengths and character traits. He gave us our very. We truly give of ourselves when we devote that part of ourselves back to Him.

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

January 22, 2024

Many False Prophets

“Beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God: because many false prophets are gone out into the world.” (1 John 4:1)

There is an unusual emphasis in the New Testament on false prophets. The Greek word pseudoprophetes appears 11 times and has no corresponding word in the Old Testament.

Of the 298 usages of “prophet” in the Hebrew Scriptures, eight of them are connected to “false” prophets, and only in relation to visions and dreams. In the New Testament, the pseudoprophetes are workers of “miracles” and “signs and wonders.”

John gives the warning to “try the spirits” because many false prophets are now here. Prior to Christ’s coming, the false “dreamer” (Deuteronomy 13:1-5) would readily be exposed when his prophecy did not come about. Such a false prophet was to be executed!

But the prophets of the “last time” (1 John 2:18) will perform great wonders (Matthew 24:24) and can “seduce...even the elect” (Mark 13:22).

Here’s the problem: They come from among Christians! Peter warns us in 2 Peter 2:1-3 in five ways.

They come from a “Christian” background.

They deny the biblical Lord Jesus in some way.

They will become very popular, especially with emotionally motivated people.

They will degrade doctrines of the Bible.

They will stimulate greed to attract followers.

We are warned to test every one of them, and when they do not abide in the doctrine of Christ, we are to reject their teaching and not have any fellowship with them (2 John 1:9-11). They are dangerous (Matthew 7:15)! HMM III

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bakutogeorgia · 1 year

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Day 5, Telavi, 12th May

I wasn’t going to tell this story as I was annoyed at myself. I think I do a good job of keeping my things together when I travel but things happen and this has ended well. There are reasons this happened but I misplaced my wallet at breakfast yesterday. I only realised just before we were leaving the hotel so to make a long story short we searched the breakfast room an hour after I had first been there, no luck, and then the manager took over and said they had security cameras they could look at. We had to leave so I texted Matthew to cancel my cards. I didn’t hold much confidence of getting my wallet and money back and I still had other money so I would be ok. This morning our guide came to breakfast to say he had been contacted at 11.30 last night with a photo of the wallet, cards and money all spread out. It was unbelievable. I would love to know where the hotel found it as I’m sure I had misplaced it in the breakfast room. They are going to forward it all to me at another hotel, in Georgia. Our guide had told us right at the beginning of our trip how people don’t take other people’s property in Azerbaijan. A bit like in South Korea. He mentioned how in Italy you wouldn’t even put your phone on the table in front of you for fear someone would snatch it up. It certainly made my day.

This is the old doorway to the Silk Road caravanserai. It is now a hotel but once had many small rooms surrounding a courtyard where Silk Road traders slept. The camels could come in through these doors and be tethered in the courtyard.

The camels were in the middle. It was a safe stop for the traders.

Passage from the front door to the courtyard.

in the old city a wall surrounded the royal palace, gardens and church.

This is the summer palace of the royal family built in 1762. It is a World Heritage building.It was absolutely beautiful inside with all the walls and ceilings painted with scenes and flowers. They had rugs in each room with the same pattern as was painted on the roof.

Close up of the details on the outside of the palace.

On either side of the garden were two 700 year old plane trees. You see these garden fences made of wood all along the way. We are up in mountains so it’s much cooler.

A church inside the walls.

This is a pretty typical street scene. There are always groups of men around and lots of these little Lada cars from Russia. Even though there are women in this photo you don’t see that many in comparison to men. We asked our guide about this and his answer was basically why would you want the women with you and he is only fairly young. He did say it was different in the city. All day today we have been in lovely green areas travelling close to the mountain range.

As you drive anywhere in Azerbaijan you see gas pipelines. None of them are buried and they mostly run about a foot from the ground only going high near a door or gateway. Apparently all homes have a plentiful supply of gas and electricity all over the country no matter what the dwelling.

We crossed lots of stone leaden rivers. River rocks are used extensively for building houses, fences and roads.

Another street scene with more Ladas.

The Azerbaijan border before Georgia. It was quite a process to get through. It was harder to leave then when we arrived.

At the border we had a security check then we had to walk a distance with our bags along this intimidating passage. Very Russian looking. Then a long passport check, then another even longer walk. More checks then finally we were out of Azerbaijan.

Then it was a shorter walk across the river into Georgia which was a much quicker passport and security check. Our new guide and driver were on the other side to pick us up.

We are travelling in a mini bus now. I’m still sitting at the back of the bus but it’s pretty bumpy in the smaller bus.

Sheep everywhere. Georgia are the biggest supplier of lamb in the region.

For lunch we stopped at a vineyard. We ordered then had a tour of the place which was owned by twin brothers. Georgia is a big producer of wine.

They store the wine in bug clay pots which are made in certain areas of the country. When the wine is harvested it is placed in the long wooden troughs and squashed by feet. The juice runs down into the clay pots which are buried in the ground.

There was a museum at the winery that showed each of the wine making process. Here they are burying the pots.

When the pots have to be cleaned which can take a few hours a small person has to climb inside. At this winery the owners teenage son gets the job.

Lunch was good with some wine and then it was onto our hotel. This plane tree is 900 years old and was just near the hotel. It was wet by this time of the day. The hotel was very nice after a long day travelling.

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katoktm6 · 2 years

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June 22 Rain and rest

Side note… if you are really invested in this trip, I went back and edited my day story for yesterday so read that first.

The day began with Elyse catching a taxi to Barcelona and me feeling a combination of sorry for myself, quietness, and trepidation…then I gathered my wits, packed my pack, left a few things behind for less weight and headed off to find the bus station. Easy peasy find. Lady was so helpful and laughing at me as I kept asking , “ are you sure this is a direct bus? Are you sure it is only 33 minutes?” All the routes online said it was a 3 1/2 hour trip with a transfer. I even pulled out my phone and had her look at the map to be sure we were communicating correctly…sure enough, 2 days ago the routes changed for summer and I have a fast and easy trip to La Sur Del Mar…plus it was only 1.6 euros for the ticket!

With an extra two hours I ventured into the city center…cafe con Letce and pouring rain! Has the heatwave ended? I am a bit chilly as I wait for the bus! After coffee, found a great bakery where I chose the egg and cheese sandwich (photos). Walked around town looking at colors and buildings rather than coves and Sea…I don’t understand “seas”. I have read I am on the Ionic sea, the Balearic Sea, the Mediterranean Sea….and more!

Oh, photos above of last nights dinner..Menu del Dia…I chose gazpacho cold soup, bread, , seafood rice stew, and yogurt with honey for dessert. (Not even close to as good as Greece, but good nonetheless). One thing we have discovered and made a habit of is, you can get a glass or leftover carafe wine to go! So each night we started taking wine back to the room to have as we scrolled Instagram and posted our blogs! One of the better ways to wind down…

I feel more secure now as Elyse taught me how to download and navigate Google maps and not need the internet..and I now have what’s app to use as a phone to call taxi companies.

I love this town..a fishing village of course, the smallest city we have been to and the only city facing the sunset! If I can stay awake long enough to see it. I did my best to do my walking in the shadows in the shade today…give my skin a rest. I wish Elyse made it to this town…lots of little tiny beaches with no one on them, charm, character, and nice people. Plus the room is clean and the balcony faces the ocean across the street!

Truly a fishing village. You can see in all the pictures of all the fishing boats. I don’t know why all the boats have the wooden cross on them. I saw one girl in a bikini leaning against it and making out with her boyfriend but I really think it’s for hanging octopus and squid. Speaking of wooden crosses, tomorrow is the Festival de Saint Joan (John). It is the biggest party of the year in Spain. And there’s a picture above that has about six men dressed in black in it. All of those men are priests who have just gotten off a boat and we’re walking to the church? Or at least to their cars. It celebrates the longest day of the year! The old boat in the white doorway is an old Fishermans hut. They still have them in town. But we have seen these up and down the coast. Actually Salvador Dali bought a bunch of these in a cove where we were yesterday and turned them into a mega mansion for all of his famous friends

Walking back to beach today to sit on a big rock in the shade and read, this school was out painting a mural on the wall…so cute…everyone so excited…you can see the drew their picture first then painted it on the wall..then over out of the way were the crew of boys…someday to join the Gizzy Gang, who were messing around and doing bad boy things ..other mural definitely not the work of the Gizzy gang..

Elyse, I finally found a Mary in a cave! And a fountain! Look at the artwork beside it! This fountain was depicted in ancient drawings! So cool…of course I filled by camelback there…and finally, practicing selfies today!

It’s expensive here. See the menu Del Dia. What did I choose? Anyway when I did the Camino five years ago or so, Our menu del Dias were 6 to €10. And this does not even include wine!

Saw some cats today, but still good dogs reign…everywhere

Tomorrow coastal walk with my pack…I am almost to France!

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onecanonlife · 3 years

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Tommy and Wilbur fell apart a long time ago, and there was never any time to mourn the pieces of what they were.

But here's the most important thing: Tommy doesn't give up on the people he cares about.

(Or: on grieving, graves, a past that refuses to let go, and learning to look forward at long last.)

(word count: 5,619)

--------------------

“You know,” Tommy says, “I never really got to—to mourn you. Not properly, anyway.”

He’s not sure what response he’s expecting from Wilbur. He’s not sure why he’s saying anything at all. He’s not sure why he’s here.

That last one is a lie. He scuffs the ground with his shoe, and then pretends that he didn’t.

“I wasn’t expecting you to mourn me,” Wilbur says, in that stupid, even, condescending tone of his, the one that he uses whenever he thinks Tommy has said something incredibly obvious, when he’s got an idea in his head of how things are and what people mean, regardless of the way it all actually is. “In fact, I rather thought you wouldn’t. Shouldn’t, even.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He has no patience left. No patience left for the look in Wilbur’s eyes, no patience left for the way he focuses straight ahead, barely sparing him a glance, no patience left for the way he speaks, measured and calculating, every word he says carefully weighed against the end result, curated for intent and impact. No patience, and he had precious little to begin with. “I’m not even—this isn’t about you.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. It makes him look like a prick. “Oh?” he says.

“Because I would’ve,” he continues, doggedly. Now that he’s started saying it, he’s damn fucking well going to finish it. “But, y’know, you blew it all up, so we had to rebuild, and then I got exiled” —His voice doesn’t waver at all— “and then shit just kept on happening, so I never got to decide. How I felt. I never got to think about it.”

Wilbur laughs, then, and it’s the laugh that he hates, because it’s the laugh that’s not genuine. He knows what Wilbur sounds like when he’s happy, and this isn’t it. Hasn’t been it for a long time.

“Not sure there’s much to think about, there,” Wilbur says, and he scowls.

“Shut up, you prick,” he says. “And yes there was. That’s not something you get to choose. What I feel.”

“I’m not trying to—” Wilbur starts, but he shakes his head, going back to talk over him, because no, he’s not doing this. Not today, and not here.

“You are though, aren’t you?” he says. “You always do this. You go, you go mimimimi, I’m Wilbur, and I understand everything about how people think and I’m always right and you are all wrong, and you, I dunno, man. You just. You just don’t. You don’t know. You think you know things, but you don’t. You’re not always right. And I’m—I don’t fucking know why I’m bothering with this right now, but it’s not so you can tell me that I shouldn’t be. Because that’s not something that’s up to you.”

“Then why are you bothering with this?” Wilbur says, and his voice isn’t unkind, but it’s not kind, either.

“I just said I didn’t know—”

“Because if you’re asking me if you should mourn me, you already know what I’m going to say to that,” Wilbur says. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he says, and tacks on a quick, “Not like that,” but Wilbur’s face has already hardened, and yeah, there’s a million better ways he could have put that, but that’s the thing about talking to Wilbur. His brain is never firing on all cylinders, as it were, because it’s too busy trying to figure out if he should associate him with warm summer days and the haze of potions and a strummed guitar or explosions and drifting smoke and blank eyes and the awful realization that what he thought would make everything right didn’t do anything at all, and that nothing would ever be right again.

And before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater stretches out, vines trawling over the edge, leaves sprouting from between the rocks, sunlight catching on the pool at the bottom, the flag fluttering lightly in the wind. Before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater has grown over, time pressing itself into the cracks. Before the both of them, L’Manberg is a crater. It wasn’t always.

“You make everything so fucking difficult,” he says.

“It’s what I live for,” Wilbur says.

“It’s what you died for, too,” he says.

Wilbur pauses.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.” But for once, he doesn’t elaborate, and Tommy glares at him. Only for a moment, because there’s no point in glaring when someone won’t see. Won’t look. Wilbur has his eyes turned to the crater, and Tommy has his eyes turned to Wilbur, and something about that is how it’s always been. The vines have grown over the earth’s old wounds, but Tommy can’t help but feel like they’ve curled around his ankles, holding him to the spot, the moment, and every moment that came before.

I never got to mourn you, he doesn’t say again. I never got to mourn you, and I feel like I should. But you’re here, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Wilbur won’t hear him. And if he does, he won’t understand.

-----

He collects bits of the past like buttons, or stamps, or memories.

He has his discs. He’s hesitant to play them, even now. Hesitant to take them out of his enderchest. He has his home, still in the same spot, all this time later. His hill, his hole, his garden, their bench. He sat on that bench and heard Wilbur, once, reaching out from beyond the grave, and Wilbur told him he was proud, and something in him ached in the same way that his scars now do when it rains.

He has some of Friend’s wool. Just that, just wool, because he doesn’t know how to knit, and he doesn’t know who would teach him. He can sew a little, but it was something born of necessity, of the need to patch up uniforms and close the tears over freshly dealt wounds, and he can still feel the needle pricking into his fingers, again and again and again. He never could figure out how to hold it so that it wouldn’t. He bled for L’Manberg in more ways than one.

Deep inside a chest, he has two uniforms. Blue and red and white. One is a size too small. The other is several sizes too large, and always will be.

He still goes to pray, sometimes, though not as often as he did. He got the chance to meet god and found no one there, so it’s a little tricky, these days, being faithful. But he’ll go to Church Prime, because no one else really does, so he’ll have the whole building for himself as he strides up to ring the bell, to ask for guidance and favors, to pay his homage at the feet of a higher power that he cannot believe cares. On the best days, he’s tempted to try to conduct a service. But there’s no point when there’s no one to hear it but himself. Even he can’t bring himself to put on a show for empty pews.

He prays, and nobody answers, and sometimes he can’t help but remember the void, the tearing, ripping nothingness, raking him to shreds again and again, where he was not alone and yet nobody came.

He considers visiting Tubbo. But Tubbo has his own life, and a mansion he hasn’t moved into, and a town that Tommy does not belong to, and an allegiance that Tommy does not share. He considers visiting Ranboo, but that’s either the same as visiting Tubbo, or it’s the same as visiting Techno and Phil, or it’s the same as visiting Wilbur.

So he looks at his discs and doesn’t play them, bunches his hands in wool that he has no use for, and calls out to a god he can only now offer false homage. He holds to the past, and wishes he could believe he has a future. Wishes that he didn’t see obsidian and curtaining lava whenever he closes his eyes.

-----

The first time he hears Wilbur play again, he hides in the forest like a fucking coward.

The guitar is strummed hesitantly, haltingly, interspersed with silence every few seconds, as if Wilbur is struggling to find the old positions, struggling to move his fingers just right. He wonders, then, if limbo took away his calluses. He didn’t think to look. Thirteen odd years without playing a guitar is bound to make anyone rusty. Tommy wonders if Wilbur’s fingers will bleed if he presses down on the strings hard enough, and then he banishes the thought from his mind, because something in him revolts at the idea of Wilbur bleeding. Of Wilbur trying and trying to play until he—

There is something to be said, here, about using yourself up in the pursuit of something greater. There is something to be said, here, about holding matches ‘til they burn down to the skin, about stairs without handrails, about things that are never meant to be and yet claw their way into existence anyhow. There is something to be said about pushing too far, too quick, and flying too high.

Wilbur’s not singing. Is just going from chord to chord. And Tommy hides behind a tree, pressing his back against the bark, because it has been so very long. Wilbur didn’t play in Pogtopia. Wilbur barely played in L’Manberg. The last time he heard the twang of this instrument was sitting by a campfire, plans for a van in the works, the night sky starry and welcoming above them, his chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the flames. And Wilbur smiled at them, smiled at all of them, and his voice was light and sure, his notes soaring.

Wilbur’s not singing. After a moment, he starts humming, softly and meandering, and each turn in the melody hits like a wrench, like he’s dragging the notes out behind them, yanking at the tune whenever it goes somewhere he doesn’t like. It’s a lot of leaps and skips and jumps, a lot of highs to lows and then highs again, and something about it sounds like wailing. There are no words, and there is no happiness.

But he’s playing. He’s playing, and does that count for something? There was no music for such a long time, no music in the darkness and no music even in the light, and now there is music in the grey twilight, and it is not happy music but it is music. Wilbur is playing again, and Tommy’s not going to cry, because what kind of pussy cries about hearing a guitar? So he doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t venture out from this spot, either. He stays there, and listens as Wilbur sends his voice shooting up into falsetto and then back down again.

It’s good that there are no words, maybe. They’d be sad. He can tell.

“That sounds nice,” Ranboo says, all of a sudden, and Tommy jolts at the same time that Wilbur’s hand must jerk, a discordant clash of notes, something that can’t even be called a chord. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“You didn’t,” Wilbur says, after a pause. Tommy almost creeps out to see his expression, because he can’t picture it. Can’t tell from his voice what his face is doing. “I was just about done anyway.” There is another pause, and a rustle of clothing. Standing. The crunching of leaves underfoot. It’s nearly autumn again, and already the leaves are changing, falling.

It would be wrong of him to resent Ranboo. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he likes him. Rather a lot. Hiding it is probably pointless now, though that doesn’t stop him from trying. But Ranboo is occupying the space that should be his, that once was his. There is a van in a forest, and a guitar song winding its way through the branches and the roots, and everything is different and everything is the same, and the new story is written without him in it. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he thinks it is not this. He thinks it is not to be left behind.

And Ranboo does not know Wilbur well enough to hear the lie in his voice.

They go off together through the trees. Tommy stays. Runs his hand across the tree bark, and tries not to put his emotions into words. Better to let them drift along as is. Better not to give them voice, because whispers turn into shouts all too easily, and there is not enough space here for shouting.

-----

There’s a thing about graves. There’s a thing about graves and who gets one, and who doesn’t.

He didn’t think about it at the time, the fact that Schlatt—Schlatt the tyrant, Schlatt the enemy, Schlatt the man who had Tubbo executed—got a funeral, and a tomb, has one even to this day, and Wilbur got rubble and a room sealed off and untouched. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no burial. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no gravestone to deface or to ornament with flowers or to kick or to scream at or to kneel beside and speak to or to cry or to do any or all of those things. He didn’t think about it at the time, because there was rebuilding, and then there was a house on fire, and then he doesn’t like to think about it.

And there was Ghostbur.

Wilbur hates Ghostbur. It makes him angry, the way that Wilbur hates Ghostbur. Ghostbur was good, and Ghostbur was kind, and Ghostbur tried his best, and Ghostbur did not deserve to die in the way that he did, terrified, with no one there by his side, with only shouted numbers to soothe his terror, and Ghostbur does not deserve to be stuck in a train station for all of eternity. So he makes Ghostbur a memorial, because it’s all he can do, and the first time he’s next to it at the same time as Wilbur, he meets his eyes squarely. A challenge. A dare. And Wilbur looks right back at him, and then to the gravestone, and his lips curl into a sneer.

And he says nothing at all.

He says nothing at all for a long time. Until he does, and it’s all made so much worse.

“Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” Wilbur asks, and it’s all very even and nonchalant, so much so that it might have him fooled if he didn’t know better, hadn’t heard time and time again exactly what Wilbur thinks of the ghost he left behind him.

“The fuck kind of question is that?” he demands.

“An honest one,” Wilbur answers.

“Right,” he says. “Because you don’t lie anymore, or whatever the fuck.”

“I don’t,” Wilbur agrees, and that is a lie. Tommy would be insulted if he weren’t so tired of it. “Really, I’d like an answer.”

“What does it matter?” he snaps. “He’s not here anymore. He’s not here anymore, and you are. No changing that. I’m fucking stuck with you. You’re like, you’re like a leech, you know that? A leech in my brain.”

Wilbur smiles tightly.

“I’d rather be a leech in your brain than dust in the ground,” he says. “Like he is.”

“Shut up,” he grits out. “Don’t—just don’t fucking talk about him.”

“Alright, then,” Wilbur says. “I won’t. If it upsets you that much.”

And he doesn’t. And the grave stays.

And it is not until later that he thinks about the thing about graves again, about who gets one and who does not. There is no grave with Wilbur’s name on it. There was no soil to lay him to rest, only cold, hard stone, a room undisturbed, a monument to destruction. And had there been time, he would have thought about it more. Would have taken it upon himself, perhaps, because the thing is, in the end, that maybe Wilbur deserved better than to be remembered as the man who destroyed his nation. Deserved better than to be remembered solely by the ravine’s dark corridors and the smoke that clung to him like foreshadowing and the way his eyes looked dead, dead, dead for a long time before Tommy watched Phil plunge the sword into his chest.

Because he was not only that. It hurts to think about, how he was not only that. But sometimes, things that hurt to think about ought to be thought about. Because Wilbur was shattered edges that Tommy knows only now that he could not fix, because Wilbur did not want fixing, but Wilbur was also laughter and a gentle hand on his shoulder and the words “I’m proud of you” that lit him up like sunlight, and he was kind and he was kind of a dick and he was brilliant and Prime, maybe Tommy should have known. Should have known that there was going to be a fall. But he looked up to Wilbur like a child to a shooting star, and it’s a long time before children understand that shooting stars aren’t stars at all, and that the wonder of them comes from self-destruction.

But before Wilbur fell, he shone. A beacon in the dark. Hope, freedom. And before he was those things, too, he was Tommy’s brother. Just that, and nothing more, because more was not needed.

And he received no grave.

It’s a question of time again, and a question of mourning, and a question of how he was ever supposed to grieve when there was no time for it at all, and when a ghost shadowed his every footstep and dripped blue from cold fingers and insisted that nothing was ever wrong. But for the first time, he wonders how Wilbur thinks about it. Graves, and ghosts. And who gets a grave, and who does not.

Who is mourned, and who is not.

Who is given up on, and who is not.

The question echoes once again: “Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” And this time, Tommy hears no taunt in it, no mocking, no cruel joke about the ghost who deserved so much better. Only bitterness, and exhaustion, and resignation. Like Wilbur already knew what answer he would be granted.

That’s a realization of some sort, that Wilbur believes he prefers him dead. It’s a realization of some sort, but he doesn’t know what kind.

There’s ghosts and there’s graves, and there’s the living and there’s the dead, and both are left waiting for relief that never comes. It’s thirteen years in a train station and it’s months without knowing what to think, without having space to breathe, without being able to process that his brother was unwell and then that his brother was gone. It’s too much time and too little, too much distance and too little, and Ghostbur did not deserve what he got, but neither, he thinks, did Wilbur.

That thought feels right. And wrong all at once. Bitter, heart-wrenching. That Wilbur deserved better. They all did, that he knows—but Wilbur did too. And that thought is muddled up in all the rest, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, but it’s there. If there’s anything to be done with it at all.

-----

Here is a fact: he kept Dream alive for Wilbur’s sake.

Here is another fact: he doesn’t know if he regrets it.

Because here is the thing: he remembers that day, remembers the pain and the fear and the devastation, and he remembers the moment it all turned around, cowering behind Sapnap and behind Eret until the time came to step forward, to take the axe in hand and deliver the blow, to deliver himself to safety, finally, finally. And he remembers the words bitten out from Dream’s mouth, panicked, desperate, and he remembers what he said. He will never forget.

And the decision, in that moment, was far easier than it had any right to be.

It became harder, later. Because he made the decision thinking, in large part, of the person that Wilbur used to be. Of a quick, charming tongue and flashes of smiles and music and song and leadership and knowing what to do, always, and Prime above but Tommy missed that person. And so maybe he deluded himself. Maybe he thought, in that dark room, with the portal swirling behind him and the entire server at his back, that he could get that person again. That Wilbur would return, and that it could all go back to the way it used to be. Discs spinning in the sunrise, the server at peace, his brother with him.

But death put those thoughts to rest.

Because death proved to him that Wilbur had only gotten worse. Because in death, Wilbur was happy he was there, did nothing but talk to him and make him play competitive solitaire as he was torn apart atom by atom. Because Wilbur—he became so very certain that Wilbur, if released, would bring nothing but harm to the server again, would tear everything down, because there was something in his voice, in his eyes—

But that was then. And now, Dream still lives in prison, rots but lives, and Wilbur has a burger van in a forest with a friend and spends most of his days lounging about or making eyes at Quackity or talking up a storm but doing jack shit, and Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it, and doesn’t know how to admit that maybe his idea of what Wilbur would be like and what Wilbur would do wasn’t entirely accurate.

And he still doesn’t know if it was worth it. Worth the constant fear, worth knowing that one day, Dream will be out, will come to him, will try to finish what he started. He tried to prevent it and only made it worse, only led Ghostbur to his doom by his innocent, trusting hand, and Dream resurrected—

A monster, he would have said, once. He no longer knows if that is fair.

Because here is another fact, one that he is only now beginning to understand: Wilbur is very, painfully human. He’s always known, and yet he hasn’t, because once, he thought Wilbur hung the stars and the moon and all things bright and glowing and good, and he thought that Wilbur could never be so human as to be fallible, and then it turned out that he was wrong. And it was easy, in the aftermath of that, to figure that Wilbur was perhaps some kind of monster instead, and everyone around him said as much.

But that, he thinks, goes too far in the other direction.

His hopes will never be realized. He will never have the old Wilbur back. He clings to a past that clings to him right back, that has him in a chokehold and will not let go, but Wilbur is something else entirely. The rest of the past does not live and breathe, is contained in his overflowing chests, in uniforms that don’t fit him, in the church’s empty hall. The rest of the past is made of things he can hold, but he has never been able to hold Wilbur. Not then, and not now. And there is no hope of making of them what they once were.

There is no going back.

So was it worth it, then? To keep Dream alive, and to receive this, this man who varies between manic energy and calculated calm, who speaks with a whip in his tone at some times and unbearable softness at others, who proclaims Dream his hero and then claims he would have killed him, if he could, for what he did? Was it worth it, and is it worth it, and how is something like that measured at all?

Wilbur is a tightness in his chest when he speaks and a ghost that won’t leave and a ghost that died and a thousand words like a thousand stinging hornets and no picture that could encompass all of them, all of what they are and were. Wilbur is Wilbur, and Wilbur is not safe, not anymore, and perhaps Wilbur is not even good—but there, that, that is wrong, and he won’t make this mistake twice. Wilbur is good, it’s just that he’s forgotten that, and Tommy is so, so very tired of having to be the one to try and remind him. And Wilbur is empty space and Wilbur is a space too full and overflowing around the fractured edges, and Wilbur is too bright and too loud and too quiet and too little and too much, and even now, even still, Tommy does not know where they stand.

Was it worth it, to have this?

He doesn’t know. But sometimes, he imagines what it would be like if Wilbur were still dead, if Wilbur were never, ever coming back in any shape, in any form, and his throat closes up and his eyes sting, no matter how much he has laid out his hatred for the man, his regret at going into the prison that day. He tries to imagine a world without Wilbur in it, in which he has given up on Wilbur, and even now he doesn’t like it, even though maybe he should, and that is, perhaps, answer enough.

-----

“Why do you keep coming here?” Wilbur asks him.

“I dunno,” he says, instead of a hundred other things. “Why don’t you ever fucking leave?”

Wilbur just looks tired. There are bags under his eyes. Tommy thinks he can guess why; he so rarely slept during their exile, but Tommy is thinking about limbo, and train stations, and how whenever he closes his eyes, part of him is convinced that his heart has stopped beating. He wonders if Wilbur, for all his sunrise-obsession and constant movement and moments of utter wonderment at the world around him and the way he doesn’t move whenever a creeper approaches him, feels the same way.

“There was a reason I asked Ranboo to do this with me instead of you,” Wilbur says, suddenly, apropos of nothing. Tommy feels himself still. “I mean—actually, I asked Phil, and Phil was all, oh, Wil, go and make friends, and I was like fuck you I’m not twelve years old anymore but Ranboo’s pretty great so it worked out. But I—I guess what I’m getting at is that I don’t get it. Why you choose to keep coming ‘round here anyway.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s not to get?”

Wilbur shoots him a look, eyebrows going up and mouth slanting all sympathetic-like.

“Tommy,” he says, slowly, as if talking to the child that Tommy has not been in a long, long time, “I’m not what you want.”

Several answers form in his head, and then dissipate just as quickly before he’s able to reply. “‘S that right?” he says, and something boils within him, hot and snapping and popping.

“I can see it when you look at me, man,” Wilbur says, and he doesn’t even sound upset. “You’re—and I mean, I don’t blame you for it. I was awful to you, Tommy. I don’t deserve anything less than your scorn. But you and everyone else, you’re all waiting for what I’m going to do next. You’re all waiting with bated breath. Scared of the next disaster I’m going to cause. So you don’t—you don’t have to be here, Tommy. Not if you don’t want to be.”

There are so many things he could say. Your disasters always cause the most damage to yourself, is one of them, and then there’s a simple, you think I don’t know that? Because how many times has he told himself that same thing? That he doesn’t need to be here? That it would be better for him if he wasn’t? And some part of him must listen, because he’s not actually here all that much. He has other things to do. A life outside of this, outside of this forest on the edge of a fake desert and a van that makes pretty shitty burgers and one Wilbur Soot, like a portrait from the past and yet nothing like that at all, because portraits are shadows, still images, permanent and unchanging, with mo mutable future, and Wilbur Soot is none of those things.

He has a life. He has Tubbo, still, even if it’s all changed. He has others. He’s not alone.

Wilbur’s right that he doesn’t have to be here.

“Stop fucking doing that,” he says. “Stop trying to make my decisions for me.”

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says. “You always are. It’s my fucking choice whether I want to be here or not. And I’m making that choice. Not you. Me. And sure, maybe one day you’ll manage to get rid of me for good, but you’re gonna have to fucking work at it, and I don’t see you trying.”

“I thought you didn’t want me here, Tommy,” Wilbur returns, and the words seem to fall so effortlessly, like easy acceptance, and why, why is it this of all things that Wilbur seems to take in stride? Why is it this and not a thousand other things? Why is it this and not the fact that despite it all, despite every warning sign and every indication that maybe it might be better for him to give up after all, Tommy is still here?

“I didn’t want you gone, either,” he snaps, and Wilbur falls completely silent. So he continues, because who knows when he’ll have a chance to say this again? That’s the thing about chances; they’re difficult to count, impossible to anticipate, and he bollocksed up the first one he got, to try to break through. “I never wanted you gone in the first place. So maybe I don’t—maybe I don’t fucking know what I want. Because I never got to just live with that. There was never a chance to—there wasn’t even a fucking grave for me to visit. I never got to figure anything out, and now you’re back and nothing’s the fucking same, so maybe I don’t know what I fucking want. Maybe I don’t fucking know if I want you here, but I didn’t want you gone. I didn’t want you to be dead. And then you were. You just were, and I couldn’t—did you expect me to be alright with that?”

It’s a question of mourning, and a question of graves, and a question of chances and who deserves them. And Wilbur just looks confused.

Fuck him.

There’s so much more to say, and he can’t say any of it at all, and the past chokes him like a knot of vines or a clump of flowers in his throat, but he’s still breathing. He’s still breathing, breathes again, whatever, and Wilbur is the same. They’re the same in a lot of ways, maybe. On the other side of the final death, trying to hold onto and release the years gone by all at once. Moving forward, but stuck in quicksand, and they’re never going to get out if they don’t let each other.

“You’re my brother,” he says, and that’s all. As if that explains everything.

And maybe it does.

Wilbur blinks.

“Ah,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Fucking ah.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says.

“You’d better be,” he says.

And impossibly, the vines uncurl, and the flowers come floating up, and when he takes a step forward, it comes easily.

There is a van in this forest, and it is not the same van. Some distance away, there is a crater in the ground, and nature has draped itself over the ruins of the lives they once had, and the flag still flaps at the bottom, and they are never, ever going to be able to rebuild what they lost. The crater will always be a crater, a scar in the earth. Healing, healed, grown over and stitched shut, but still a scar.

And there is a man standing in front of him who is not the same man that he knew. Not the same man that he claimed for his family, and who claimed him in return.

But he is not the same, either. Perhaps nobody and nothing is. The past clings, and he clings tighter, but perhaps he needs to loosen his grip, because despite everything, there is a future out there, somewhere past the next sunrise. They are going to get older. They are going to live. So he has his discs and his uniforms and his wool and his prayer, and he has this, too, because it is his choice. To take a step forward, and wait to be met in the middle. To dare to turn ahead, to believe that there is something awaiting him. The both of them.

And he thinks he might finally be able to let himself grieve. Grieve, and let go. Grieve the dead, and what they had, and what they might have, and grieve for the fact that there was no grieving, no grave.

And then, let himself hope that they will have better after all.

-----

The next time he hears Wilbur play, he steps out from behind the tree.

And maybe the song is a little less sad.

And maybe nothing will ever be the same as it used to be.

And maybe it will be alright.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #crimebois #/rp #dsmp fic #cat writes fic #long post #sometimes you just. you just gotta write some c!crimebois y'know?

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antique-traveler · 2 years

Text

over all these virtues (put on love)

8.8k, T, mattfoggy

Elektra is dead for the second time, hopefully for good. Matt has to decide if he ever loved her, if he ever even loved women at all.

read it on ao3

Josie’s was loud and bright as it always was, buzzing with neon and the classic rock station that only played the same 50 songs over and over again, and Matt Murdock was having his fifth beer with his best friends. Karen was sharing some story from her senior Prom that had Foggy in stitches, but, truth be told, Matt hadn’t really been paying all that much attention.

“What I don’t get is, why bother having Prom at an aquarium in the first place if you’re gonna have to turn the music down? Like, they must’ve known it would bother the fish, right?” Foggy’s new, shorter fringe was falling down into his eyes, brushing against his eyelashes every time he moved, and his face was hot and (presumably) red from all the booze.

Karen leaned back in the booth, gin and tonic in hand, “Don’t even ask me, I spent the entire time petting manta rays in a $200 dress.”

Matt just sat back and listened to the pointless banter, not having realized quite how much he had missed it. Those days spent below the church, long and arduous, had been lonely, though he surely wasn’t about to admit it. He had already had everything taken from him- his legs, his senses, his faith- and he had decided to throw away the only other thing he cared about: his friends. Looking back on those days he mostly just felt stupid; of course faking his death would hurt them, what kind of idiot would think it wouldn’t? Well, apparently a blind idiot who wears a leather devil costume almost every night.

He must’ve been quiet for a moment too long, and he felt Karen and Foggy’s eyes on him. Foggy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the sticky table, “What’cha thinkin’ about, Murdock?”

Matt hummed and took another pull from his beer, “Not a lot. Just… just really happy to be here.” He knew he was being sappy, but at the moment he was far too drunk to give a shit.

Karen leaned across the table to place a hand over Matt’s while Foggy cooed overdramatically, “Aw, Karen, look! He really does care!”

Matt sighed and rolled his eyes, “Shut up, I take it back.”

“We’re happy you’re here too, Matt,” Karen gave his hand a squeeze before pulling back. “It’s been too long since we were all back here.”

“Yeah, God, I had to open a new tab for us. Josie was not happy about that.” Foggy said it like a joke, but Matt heard the twinge of bitterness in his voice. They’d been over this a dozen times already, and Matt knew that Karen and Foggy wouldn’t let him apologize again, but he still felt the guilt twist itself in his gut.

Karen set her glass down on the table and Matt heard her pulse pick up a bit. “Hey, um, I’ve been meaning to ask, what- what happened down there? Below that building? I mean, as long as you’re okay to talk about it.”

Matt heard the earnest curiosity in her voice, as well as the disgusting sympathy that hid behind it. He cleared his throat and sat a little straighter in his seat, “Everyone else- Danny and Luke and Jessica- they needed to get out of there, but we all knew that Elektra wouldn’t let that happen. But I… I knew that I could keep her distracted and let them get out. She and I stayed down there and fought and… and kissed one last time, and then the building came down. I made it and she… didn’t.”

Foggy and Karen were silent, but Matt heard the blood racing around their bodies, smelled the oxytocin in their nervous system as they were washed with sympathy and sadness.

Karen spoke first, quiet and withdrawn as she was when Matt had first met her, “I’m really sorry, Matt. To see her die twice, I can’t even imagine. You… you must have loved her a lot.”

Matt was shocked to hear that from Karen. As far as he knew, the only time she and Elektra had met was when Karen saw her lounging in Matt’s bed. By now he and Karen both knew that their relationship wouldn’t have worked out, but he was astounded to hear that kind of comment from the woman that he had technically cheated on.

Matt furrowed his brow and brought his beer bottle back up to his lips. You must have loved her a lot. It seemed that with each passing day, his relationship with Elektra became more and more hazy. When was it that she stopped being Elektra Natchios and became the Black Sky? Did she ever really change back? Was the woman he kissed underground the same one he kissed in his apartment? Did he love either of them?

Matt gave a terse nod and silently thanked Foggy when he changed the subject to something lighter, some rude street vendor he met or something.

They finished the night more or less as jovially as they had begun it, and each of them went back to their own apartments and their own eventual hangovers. At home, Matt threw his cane somewhere in the vicinity of the couch and went to go take a hot shower. The water bounced off of him in its fortissimo rhythm and Matt let it run into his eyes without care. His Bible still smelled the littlest bit like Elektra from when she had (apparently) touched it, her scent lingering in his bedroom, his kitchen, his fire escape. Every day he stood, surrounded by the only surviving remnants of the woman he almost loved.

‘Almost’ was really the operative word there, he realized. Even as early as her first death (and God, wasn’t that a sentence that left Matt’s head spinning), he knew that his proposal to move to Morocco or Greece with her had been nothing but a pipe dream. She was right; what was Daredevil outside of Hell’s Kitchen? Even beyond that, what was Matt Murdock outside of Hell’s Kitchen? Without this neighborhood, without these people, he knew that Matt Murdock as he knew himself would slowly stop existing. Matt Murdock and Elektra Natchios simply couldn’t exist at the same time; at least, not in each other’s orbit. They each tried too much to change each other. Matt tried to soften Elektra, to show her the value and beauty of a life, all while she tried to sharpen him to a deadly point. Matt was reminded of the old saying: ‘he didn’t love her, he loved the idea of her’. He loved the idea of falling in love with a woman, kissing her lipstick and smelling her perfume around his apartment, but he wasn’t sure if it was something he had really experienced yet, with Elektra or Karen or any of the other women on his long list of conquests.

The water on his shoulders slowly ran cold and Matt realized that he hadn’t even washed himself, just let the water slough off him like rain, a fluoridated baptism in his corner apartment. What the baptism was cleansing him of, he wasn’t sure. What rebirth was he entering into, whose grace was he accepting as he let the cold water run across his skin? He decided he was still too drunk to care, shut the water off, and climbed into his silk sheets with his hair still wet. He didn’t have any dreams.

---

Two days later, Matt Murdock rejoined the land of the living and dragged himself into the office with a hot cup of coffee and minimal facial bruising from the night before. Somehow it hadn’t been too hard to find a new official office for Nelson, Murdock, and Page, just a little hole in the wall on 41st and 10th with enough desks for each of them and a conference room to boot. Unfortunately, the air conditioning didn’t work for shit and the wall outlets had a tendency to spark threateningly each time someone dared to plug something in, but the three of them decided that beggars really couldn’t be choosers. Matt could smell the bronze sign beside the door that bore all three of their names; it was the first thing they bought together as a firm, even before they had an office. It had been a treatise of sorts, a way for them to say “We’ve all fucked up, we’ve all been mad at each other, but now we’re here. We’re here and we’re going to make the best of it and hopefully get paid in something other than produce and baked goods.”

Matt’s morning was, as usual, uneventful. He did some paperwork, started on some research for a new case, and pretended not to hear the disappointment in clients’ voices when they realized they’d be “stuck with the blind one”. He actually heard one of them say that to her husband once they were a couple blocks away, lamenting about how they at least wanted a lawyer who could make eye contact with a jury. He told Foggy about it, they laughed, and Foggy promised to spit in their coffee the next time they came in, which he almost wasn’t lying about.

Karen was off trying to subtly interrogate (or, as Foggy put it: nearly blackmail) some drug dealer or other, so Matt and Foggy took the excuse to grab an early lunch at a new deli that had opened on the other side of the Kitchen. Matt ordered pastrami on rye like a normal person, while Foggy gave step-by-step instructions on how to make whatever monstrosity he thought counted as a sandwich (“Don’t knock it till you try it, Matt!” he had said, “one day all the world will know what an excellent combination pickles and strawberry jam are!”). They sat on the patio, talking about nothing at all as the sun beat down on them and made their Coke bottles sweat.

“So,” Matt began, wiping at his face with his paper napkin and crossing his legs.

“So,” Foggy echoed.

“I believe we’re yet to address the big, scary, blonde elephant in the room.” Matt gave that lopsided smile he always put on when he teased Foggy, hoping that it wouldn’t betray how strange he felt about the whole situation. He really didn’t mind Marci. If anything, he sort of admired her. She was everything a lawyer was supposed to be: brilliant, ruthless, somewhat conniving. The first time she and Foggy had broken up, Foggy had played “Blood in the Water” from the Legally Blonde soundtrack on repeat for about two days straight. Behind the cutthroat courtroom demeanor, though, Matt knew that she was a good person, that she made Foggy happy (or at the very least kept his bed warm).

Foggy set his Coke bottle back on the steel mesh bistro table, “Who, Marci?” Matt nodded. “Ah, there’s not much to tell. We broke it off a couple weeks ago. Sorry I didn’t tell you, but it was really kind of a non-event. We both agreed that it was good while it lasted, but it was time to go our separate ways. We’re working out a custody agreement for the houseplants.”

Matt chuckled and balled up his napkin in his hand. “At least it was amicable, then. Did she… did she make you happy? While it lasted, at least?”

Foggy paused at that, either out of shock at the question or to think about his answer. “Yeah, yeah she did. Maybe we’re better off as friends and potted plant co-parents, but I do think that a part of me loved her.”

“How do you know?” The question was out of Matt’s mouth before he had a chance to think about it.

Foggy cocked his head, “What?”

“Nothing,” Matt took a swig of his Coke and tried his damndest to look nonchalant.

“No, I- How do I know I loved her?” Foggy leaned forward in his chair.

Matt was caught. Despite its many benefits, being best friends with a lawyer had one very big drawback: Foggy never let a conversation go unresolved. Matt swallowed dryly and wondered if it was too late to run away and herd goats in Iceland. “How… what did it feel like to love her?”

Foggy gave out a hefty sigh and sat back in his seat, “Matt, buddy, I love you, but I don’t think that this is a conversation that either of us want to have sober. We’re going back to Josie’s tonight, my treat.”

Matt’s short relief at the subject being dropped was soon replaced by anxiety about now having a scheduled confrontation, but he forced himself to nod and smile stiffly at Foggy anyway. Foggy let Matt rest a hand in the crook of his elbow as they walked back to the office just like he always did, and Matt began praying in his head that he’d get hit by a bus sometime between now and the end of the workday.

---

Most bars wouldn’t be just as packed on a Monday as a Friday, but Josie’s was not most bars. Just based on the number of voices, Matt might’ve confidently guessed it was the night of some big holiday had he not known better. At the moment, though, Matt didn’t quite care about the bustling bar from where he and Foggy sat in a tucked-away booth behind the pool table. Matt had to convince himself not to feel guilty about letting himself indulge in the booze this early in the week, convince himself that the nuns at St. Agnes wouldn’t be disappointed in this small piece of excess. He was Irish Catholic, what else was he supposed to do in times of crisis if not drink himself into a stupor? They were each almost done with their first beer, which Foggy decided was enough to start interrogating Matt.

“Now, Matty,” he began, licking the beer foam off his upper lip, “I’m no rocket surgeon, but it sounds to me like you’re having a minor existential crisis.”

Matt clenched his jaw and pointed his glasses towards his lap, refusing to answer.

“Alright, fine, be that way. Guess I’ll just have to explain it to myself.” Foggy gave Matt’s shin a gentle kick below the table. “So, three months ago, your on-again-off-again, brainwashed, undead, pseudo-sadomasochistic girlfriend gets crushed beneath a falling skyscraper, apparently taking you down with her. You take a few weeks to wallow in self-pity, have a crisis of faith, fake your death, and almost kill an evil billionaire crime lord. Now, after it’s all over, you have to mourn her death for a second time, and all of a sudden you ask me what it feels like to love someone, which leads me to believe that little Matty Murdock is starting to feel some crushing guilt over sacrificing everything for a girl that he isn’t even sure he loved.”

Matt swallowed. “That about sums it up.”

Foggy let out a hefty sigh, “Jesus, Matt, if I could resurrect Sigmund Freud right here and now, I’d do it.”

Matt rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Please, no more resurrections. I don’t wanna hear about that anywhere other than church.”

“I don’t blame you,” Foggy finished off his beer and set his jaw. “You know what I’m gonna say, don’t you?”

“Something about the past being the past, and how I can’t control other people’s lives, and I’m already the saddest Catholic orphan in the state of New York, so why do I feel the need to pile even more guilt on top of it?” Matt takes a certain amount of comfort in being able to guess how Foggy will therapize him before it even happens.

“Bingo. Elektra was a… complicated lady. I don’t blame you for having mixed feelings about her. But at the end of the day, she’s gone and there’s nothing we can do about it. At least, not now that you dismantled that ancient immortality cult or whatever the fuck, your life is so weird.” Matt laughed again. “There’s no point in wondering how much you loved her, all that matters is that you did.”

Matt was silent, and Foggy’s breath halted for a moment. “Oh. You didn’t love her at all, did you?”

Matt bit his lip and turned his head away, “I… I don’t even know if I could’ve. The sex was nice, I think, but I don’t even know how much I wanted that.”

Foggy sighed and his heart picked up the slightest bit. “Matt, I… I know you’re not exactly the introspective type, but I think that that’s really only something you can figure out for yourself.” Matt clenched his fists, hoping that Foggy couldn’t see his white knuckles. “Why don’t we call it a night, buddy? You look like you could use some rest.”

“Yeah, I… yeah.” They slid out of the booth as Foggy dropped some money on the table before pulling Matt into a brief hug.

“See you tomorrow, bud. And actually go home, I think the neighborhood will survive one night without its favorite vigilante.”

---

Despite his promises to Foggy that he would try and think this out for himself, Matt did not, in fact, do that. He knew that it was horribly predictable of him, but he decided to just lock all those thoughts away for another time. He was happy now. The firm was up and running again, Daredevil was back and here to stay, Fisk was safely and permanently behind bars, the last thing he needed was some sort of quarter-life crisis. Two weeks had passed since Matt and Foggy’s heart-to-heart, and things were fine. They were fine.

Matt jogged down his building’s stairs to meet Foggy at the front door like he did every morning. The first few years, Foggy had insisted on helping lead Matt to the office because he knew Matt secretly liked it. Now though, it was just a ritual of theirs: meet at Matt’s building, grab coffee from the only cafe in Hell’s Kitchen that was yet to be converted into a Starbucks, and walk to work together. Even though Matt could get along without a guide better than he had initially let on, Foggy still did a damn good job at filling in Matt’s sensory gaps, and they both liked the company. Matt’s hand looped easily around Foggy’s elbow, and he immediately sensed a difference. Foggy’s breath was slow, still groggy and sluggish, and the lingering scent of pheromones covered him head to toe.

Matt raised an eyebrow and gave Foggy a wry grin, “Someone had a good night.”

“Someone sure did,” Foggy relented, rolling his eyes at Matt’s instant recognition of his after-sex glow. “And someone’s still sore and tired, so I’d very much like to get a move on for some java.”

Matt chuckled and started walking, sweeping his cane out in front of him. “Tell me about it. I need to update my catalog of your sexploits.”

“First of all: gross, don’t call them sexploits, Jesus. Second: gladly.” Foggy was quiet for a moment before continuing, “Just wiggled my eyebrows seductively, B-T-dubs. But yeah, Karen and I grabbed a beer after work, I met a very cute graphic designer, and we shared a very romantic and PG night together. Even managed to snag his number, too, wink-wink.”

Matt paused for only a moment, too quick for Foggy to notice the hitch in his breath or the stutter of his heartbeat. “Oh, he?”

Foggy nodded overdramatically simply because he knew that Matt would be able to hear the muscles in his neck contract and release. “Mm-hm. Javon. He even recognized me from the news! Said he watched the Punisher trial every day.”

“Ooo, a fan.” Matt measured his tone carefully, adding just enough curiosity and levity to mask how fast his heart was racing.

“I hate to say it, Matt, but I think I’ve outgrown the Kitchen. I’m a celebrity now, I need to go start some law firm for the stars out in Beverly Hills.” Foggy puffed out his chest and stood tall, putting on his best arrogant rich person voice.

Matt laughed and let Foggy change the subject, barely paying attention to whatever Foggy was talking about, just nodding and making vaguely affirmative noises. He couldn’t quite place what had his heart beating so fast. Despite the jokes that Foggy and Karen had made, Matt’s Catholicism didn’t make him automatically hate all gays. He may have been Catholic, but he was also born and raised in New York City, any prejudices he had were more toward Episcopalians than queer people. On top of that, too, Matt knew that Foggy slept with men. The more he thought about it, though, the more he realized that he didn’t think he should know. Foggy had never actually come out to Matt, he had just heard Foggy in their dorm room with TAs or baristas a couple times. Was this Foggy coming out to him? Why did that make him so nervous?

Ten minutes later, waiting for their coffees at the cafe, Foggy mentioned Javon again. “Oh, hey, I forgot to mention: Javon said he had an aunt or something who hadn’t been getting her alimony. I don’t know if he was just saying it to start a conversation, but it might make for a good case. Apparently the ex-husband is pretty loaded.”

Matt nodded and clutched a little tighter at his cane. “Yeah, just let me know and I’ll dig up the paperwork.” Matt swallowed and shifted a little on his feet, not quite sure how to breach the subject. “So, you’re, um, sleeping with guys now, too?”

Foggy sputtered out a shocked laugh, “Yeah, Matt, astute observation. You know, with insight like that you’d make a pretty decent lawyer one day.”

“No, I just mean, you’ve never mentioned it before…” Matt trailed off.

“Oh. Huh, guess I haven’t.” Foggy clicked his jaw shut and crossed his arms casually. “Well, to keep you in the loop, I’m bisexual.”

Matt’s heart continued to pound away in his chest like a tympanum, and he struggled to think of a casual way to respond to that. He couldn’t be too serious, that would make the whole thing even more awkward, but he also didn’t want to brush it off, that would just make him seem flippant and aloof. Running out of time, he eventually settled on, “Hi, Bisexual, I’m Matt” which rightfully earned him an exasperated groan and a punch to the shoulder.

---

So. Foggy was bisexual. After work that day, Matt simply found himself pacing around his apartment, running those words through his mind. Foggy was attracted to men. Hypothetically, Foggy was attracted to Matt. He rummaged around in his memory once the thought struck him. Come to think of it, Foggy’s heart rate had spiked when they first met, but it was hard to tell from the memory alone if it had been attraction or just surprise and nerves from meeting his roommate for the first time.

Matt had never really had the time to question his sexuality, is the thing. He spent puberty training with Stick, or studying for the SAT, or trying to ignore the way that the other kids at the orphanage talked about him behind his back. He hadn’t had the time to try dating girls, let alone to question if he wanted to date boys. Matt was nearly 35 now, and he feared that that was surely too late to begin to ask these questions.

Matt was restless, unbearably so. The thoughts bouncing around his head found their way to the rest of his body, filling his limbs with a buzz that he knew only one thing could fix.

He strapped and zipped himself into the Daredevil suit, fingers uncharacteristically clumsy, and climbed onto his fire escape and into the city. He focused on his surroundings, tuning himself in to every shout and yelp he could hear. A bar fight on 44th and 11th. A mugging on 50th and 9th. A twitch of his head and Matt heard it, over on 37th and 10th, a woman took in a shaky breath as heavy footsteps stalked toward her. Matt turned towards the woman and her attacker and ran, leaping across the rooftops and catapulting himself off of fire escapes until he jumped down into a dark alleyway.

The woman was shaking, car keys clutched between the fingers of her right hand as a large man with raspy breath cornered her beside a dumpster. Matt crept closer, still unnoticed by the man, and waited for his opportunity.

“Come on, baby, I won’t do nothin’. It’s just some fun, is all.” The man’s voice was low and quiet, rumbling through the alleyway and echoing into the street.

Matt stepped out of the shadows behind the man and lowered his voice. “What do you think you’re doing?” Foggy always made fun of his Daredevil voice, said it sounded like he was trying too hard to be scary. He would drop his chin down to his chest and make his voice as low as possible and say something like ‘it is, I, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, savior of the needy and protector of the weak!’’

The man jumped and turned to face Matt, his breath picking up. “Oh, shit,” he whispered, inaudible to anyone but Daredevil.

Matt turned to the woman. “Get out of here,” he said, and, when she hesitated, added, “now!”

The woman nodded her head quickly before running out of the alley, leaving Matt to deal with the scumbag that had cornered her. Matt curled his fingers into a fist and threw a punch, connecting soundly with the man’s ear, stunning him for a moment. Once he was hunched down, Matt kneed him in the chest, then brought both hands down between his shoulder blades, knocking him down to the ground.

The man groaned, and Matt couldn’t help but wonder if Foggy sounded like that while he had sex with men, if the sound would ripple and tear out of his throat in the same needy way.

The man began to get up, but Matt brought his foot down on his back before he could stand up again.

What was it that Foggy had said about Matt when they met? That he was a really, really, good-looking guy.

Matt began to step back before the man lurched out, surprisingly quick for his size. Matt moved to the side with ease, and used the man’s momentum to send him hurtling towards the concrete ground. Below him, Matt smelled something spicy on the man’s breath.

That’s right, Matt had to remember to bring Foggy that leftover Thai he had in his fridge. Foggy’s voice always had this special lilt whenever Matt surprised him like that. Matt could practically hear him in his head already, ‘Aw, thanks bud! You really shouldn’t have!”. It reminded Matt of this one time back at Landman and Zach, they had only been there a couple of weeks, but-

Oh, shit.

Matt hadn’t been paying attention. The man’s hand had slipped into his jacket pocket when he was down. Before Matt could stop him, he had lunged forward and swiped a switchblade across Matt’s ribs on the right side. Matt didn’t feel anything at first, just surprise that he had let it happen in the first place. Then the pain set in, hot and stinging, then the rage. Matt grabbed the man by the collar and slammed his head against the wall beside him, satisfied to hear his skull make contact with the brick. Matt threw two more punches to the temple and the nose, and the man was out cold. A small voice in his head whispered to him: Psalm 11:5; The Lord tests the righteous, but his soul hates the wicked and the one who loves violence. Matt beat the voice back with a stick and focused back on the matter at hand. He dropped the man to the ground and stepped back, clutching his side.

He had been stupid. He had been stupid and sloppy and distracted and it was his own damn fault that now he was bleeding from a six-inch gash in his side. Matt caught his breath and tried to have an intelligent thought. He needed to get this sewn up, he needed to go to Foggy.

Thankfully he didn’t have to go far to reach Foggy’s apartment. In less than five minutes, Matt was crouching outside Foggy’s window, tapping Shave and a Haircut onto the glass. After a moment, Foggy rushed over, heart pounding, and helped Matt into the living room.

Foggy didn’t waste any time, immediately grabbing his huge first aid kit as Matt removed his helmet and began taking off the suit. “What happened? Is there anything I can’t see?”

“No, just the cut. Nothing broken.” Foggy ran back over to the couch where Matt was sitting and helped him out of the remainder of the suit. Once Matt was left in only his boxers, Foggy laid a thin sheet of plastic over the couch, heart still pounding rapidly.

“Okay, shit, that’s most definitely gonna need stitches.” Foggy cleaned off Matt’s size with an antiseptic wipe.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Matt leaned back against the plastic-covered couch and kept his right arm raised to give Foggy easy access to the gash. They were both quiet after that, Foggy focusing on keeping his stitches even and tight, and Matt trying his hardest not to wince every time the needle pulled through his skin.

Foggy worked quickly and precisely, following the lessons from his EMT course to the T. His hands were gentle as they swept across Matt’s exposed skin, covering the sutures with thick gauze and wiping off any remaining blood from Matt’s torso. Foggy’s heart didn’t stop racing for a second, but his hands didn’t waver. He was warm, invitingly so.

He leaned back once he was done and let out a long sigh, “Alright, you should be good to go. Well, good to go home. You’re absolutely not fighting with that for at least another couple days.”

Matt laughed lightly and turned to face Foggy head-on. He was still wearing most of his suit from work that day, sans jacket, and he had recently switched shampoos. This one was sandalwood, light and earthy and perfectly Foggy. His face was still warm, warmer than it should be inside the cool apartment, and it was oh so close to Matt’s own. Foggy inhaled quietly and licked his lips, which was apparently the only signal that Matt’s body needed to lean in and kiss him.

Matt did not decide to kiss Foggy. All he knew was that one moment he was not kissing Foggy, and the next he was very much kissing Foggy. Foggy’s face grew even warmer, his heart even faster, as Matt held their lips together. They were both still for a moment, before Foggy tilted his head and leaned in against Matt, running his tongue along Matt’s lower lip. Matt opened his mouth and graciously kissed back, bringing a hand up to cup Foggy’s jaw. The moment his hand made contact, though, Foggy pulled away, out of breath. 1 Peter 2:11, the voice whispered again, Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul.

“No,” Foggy said simply, gulping in air like a man drowning. He ran a hand over his face and shook his head, “No, I can’t do this.”

Matt’s own heart was pounding now, and his palms began to sweat, “Foggy, I’m so sorry, I don’t kno-”

“Matt, you can’t just do that to a guy,” Foggy stood up and handed Matt the Daredevil suit before starting to pack up his first aid kit. “I know you’re on a soul journey or whatever right now, but you can’t do something like that until you figure your shit out. I’m sorry, just- just get dressed and go home, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.” Foggy put the kit back in the cabinet below the kitchen sink and just like that, he disappeared into this bedroom, leaving Matt alone, holding the Daredevil suit, in his best friend’s living room, after kissing him with absolutely no idea why.

---

The next three days were absolutely terrible. Not because anything else happened between Matt and Foggy, no, it was the exact opposite. Foggy was acting perfectly normal, joking around with Matt the same he did every day, as if Matt hadn’t come stumbling into his apartment with a six-inch gash in his side and then immediately kissed him. Of course, Matt was still acting perfectly awkward and uncomfortable like any other reasonable man would, but Foggy was just as goofy and relaxed as he always was.

Matt was terrified that any moment at work could be the one where Foggy decided to turn it into a conversation. He kept his alone time with Foggy to a minimum, and practically ignored him if he, Foggy, and Karen were all together. He was afraid to joke, afraid to touch, afraid to do anything that might further incriminate him as a filthy best friend kisser.

The nuns used to tell Matt that God worked in mysterious ways, that He was testing Matt, to look to the Bible for answers. When he missed his father, he was told to remember how Adam mourned Abel; when he missed his eyesight, he was told to remember how Saul was rewarded for his suffering. Matt wondered what verse they would refer him to now. Maybe this whole time Matt had been less of a Devil and more of a Judas.

At the end of the third day, when Matt announced he would be working late, Karen decided that she would, too. Matt heard the trip in her heartbeat as Foggy bade them goodbye and knew that she had an ulterior motive.

Once they were alone, she walked over to him slowly, as if she were approaching a spooked animal. “Matt, what the hell is going on with you?”

Matt didn’t even raise his fingers off the file he was reading, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Thou shalt not lie, Matthew.

Karen snorted and crossed her arms, “Bullshit you don’t. You’ve been acting weird around Foggy for days. Did something happen?”

Matt sighed and pulled his fingers away from his file. He supposed if he were to have this conversation with anyone, it might as well be Karen. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice from shaking, “I kissed Foggy.”

Karen didn’t speak for a moment, just uncrossed her arms and breathed out of her mouth like a dumbstruck fish. “You what?”

“I kissed Foggy,” Matt said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world, as if he were saying that the sky was blue or Josie’s draft beer tasted like piss.

Karen sputtered. “I- I’m gonna need you to start from the beginning. You’re skipping, like, a metric shit ton of context here.”

Matt leaned back in his chair and took his glasses off, resigning himself to a lifetime of embarrassment and shame over what an ass he was. “A few weeks ago, Foggy and I were talking about Elektra, and I… I realized that I don’t think I ever really loved her. Not in a romantic way. Maybe not even in a sexual way. I was having a crisis about it, and then last week Foggy told me he was bisexual. Which isn’t a problem, obviously, but I just… I couldn’t get it off my mind. Then a few days ago, I got a nasty cut when I was on patrol, and I went to Foggy’s to get it patched up and I… kissed him. I wasn’t even thinking about it, I just did it.” He held his glasses awkwardly in his hands, turning them over as Karen formulated a response.

“Okay, that’s a lot to take in,” she sank into one of the chairs on the other side of Matt’s desk and ran a hand through her hair. “Are you-”

“I have no idea,” Matt said, and it was the truth. “I hadn’t even considered it until last week. Part of me thinks… part of me thinks it’s too late for me to try to figure this out. I don’t know if I’ve ever loved a man, but I don’t know if I’ve ever loved a woman, so what do I compare it to?”

“Matt, I’m not really sure what to tell you. You know that Foggy’s not mad at you, right?”

Matt huffed out a laugh, “Yeah, that almost makes it worse. I’m mad at myself, but he’s acting perfectly normal.”

“Do you want him to be mad at you? Do you think you deserve to be punished for that?” Karen leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees.

Matt blinked and furrowed his brows. “I… I don’t even know.”

“Would you be mad at Foggy if he kissed you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why should he be mad at you?” Karen was entirely too good at breaking down Matt’s defenses. She spoke like a boxer fought: hit them in the head to get the body open, hit them in the body to open up the head; get Matt to accept a hypothetical situation, then flip it around on him. “Matt, I think that this problem has a lot less to do with Foggy and a lot more to do with you. I think… I think if you say you’ve never loved a woman, and you kiss Foggy without even thinking about it, then you might need to start seriously considering the possibility that you could be gay.” Karen’s voice was even, but was etched through with just the slightest line of pain. She had realized, brilliant as she was, that if Matt had never loved a woman, then that meant that he had never loved her. Matt knew that she didn’t have feelings for him anymore, but she did once. Now, she knew that she never actually had a chance with him, not really.

Matt swallowed down the lump that was rapidly forming in his throat and put his glasses back on. He shuffled his files into a neat stack and stood up from his desk, grabbing his suit jacket. “I… thank you, Karen. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Matt took his cane from where it was leaning against his office door frame and left Karen behind in the office.

Matt hadn’t stepped onto the sidewalk with any clear destination in mind, but his feet started to move, and before he knew it he was standing in front of Clinton Church. He opened the door and sat in a pew at the very front, as close to the altar as he could get. He didn’t know if he could call what he did praying, but he sent his thoughts up to God, desperate pleas for answers or revelations, anything to clear his mind and show him the right path. The room was completely empty except for Matt and God.

Matt might not have seen his peers’ faces as he grew up, but he heard their voices, heard every taunt and name they directed at him when they thought he wasn’t around. They said he was a freak, a loser, a queer. Father Lantom and the nuns did everything they could to discourage that kind of language, but Matt didn’t blame them for not getting through to the boys. Those kids had been sinners from the start, just as he had, the only difference was that Matt knew that he was a sinner, too. Matt wasn’t stupid, he knew what that word meant when used like that. He wasn’t stupid, but he was afraid. If the kids wanted to call him those things, he’d prove them wrong. If they called him a freak, well, he’d been told he was handsome enough to outdo the best of them. If they called him a loser, he could just go ahead and graduate summa cum laude from Columbia University and open up his own goddamn law firm (blasphemer, the voice said). If they called him a queer… if they called him that, he’d just be the opposite. He kissed all the girls that he’d been told were pretty, he learned how to flirt like a pro, he gained a reputation as Hell’s Kitchen’s Catholic Cassanova.

The night he lost his virginity, he didn’t cry, but he’d come close. He’d kissed plenty of girls before this one, but he had known it was just kissing, it wouldn’t go any further. But Amy was impatient, and Matt was insecure, so he had sex with her. He’d wanted it, she didn’t force him or anything, but looking back, Matt had to wonder why he wanted it. Was he attracted to her, or did he want to prove once and for all that he wasn’t what everyone said he was, he wasn’t a freak or a loser or a queer. That night, as he lay awake in Amy’s bed, the mattress too firm and the pillows too soft, he didn’t sleep. Instead, he recited every prayer that he could remember, every prayer he’d ever learned in Sunday School, one right after the other. If he felt this awful afterwards, then surely that was just confirmation of what a grievous sin it was.

His first year knowing Foggy had been electric. They were completely attached at the hip. If either of them went anywhere, the other was sure to follow. Foggy introduced Matt to pot, and Matt showed Foggy the glory of the Moody Blues. Ever since they’d met, but especially that first year, Matt was always wanting to touch Foggy. He would do all the acceptable friend touches, the slaps on the shoulder, the light punches on the arm. He learned how to domesticate violence and turn it into affection. He even got an extra touch: curling his hand around Foggy’s elbow as he led Matt across campus. But he’d always wanted to do more. He wanted to sling an arm around Foggy’s shoulders as they stood next to each other at a party, he wanted to place his hand on the small of Foggy’s back as they passed each other in the dorm, he wanted to give him tight hugs goodbye instead of just a polite, distant wave.

To his left, footsteps began to echo throughout the church, and soon there was another body sitting beside him.

“Haven’t seen you here in a while. You must’ve really fucked up this time.” Maggie smelled like rosemary and cotton, and her gentle voice betrayed her stinging words.

“It’s… complicated,” Matt replied, because how the hell else was he supposed to put it?

“Most things are.” Maggie waited for him to elaborate, but Matt stayed silent. “You gonna actually tell me or are we gonna keep sitting here like idiots?”

Matt took a deep breath and pointed his face down at his hands. “I don’t… I think I might be gay.”

Maggie was still for a moment while her heart picked up. She slid a little closer to Matt and rested a hand on his shoulder maternally. “I’m guessing this is new information?” Matt nodded. “Is it that blond friend of yours?” Matt nodded again and leaned forward, resting one elbow on his knees while the other hand came up to cover his mouth.

“I have no idea how to do this,” he confessed. “I feel like I’m too late. I feel like I’ve lost too much time.”

Maggie thought for a moment before she spoke again, taking a small flask out of her habit pocket and handing it discreetly to Matt. “When I met your father it was like… it was like the entire world made sense, all of a sudden. Every question I’d ever asked had an answer, and that answer was Jack Murdock. He didn’t make any grand gestures like you see in the movies, no serenades or skywriting. But he did know me, better than anyone else ever had. He would rub my shoulders when he could tell I’d had a long day, he learned all the words to my favorite songs so we could sing along to them together, he ordered my coffee exactly how I like it every time without fail. Loving him was as easy as breathing.”

“But you left,” Matt took a long swig from Maggie’s flask and swallowed it down sharply. He knew it was a low blow, knew he was out of line, but he couldn’t help himself. How was this anecdote about his parents’ love for each other supposed to comfort him if his mother abandoned him and his father had died alone?

“But I left.” Maggie sighed and pulled her hand away from Matt’s back. “I don’t know if I made the right decision. I did love your father, and I do love you, but I also love the Lord, and I love the man you’ve become without me. Your father and I were like boats moving in opposite directions. We met, we loved each other strongly for as long as we could, but eventually our time to love each other ran out, and we had to keep moving in our opposite directions. Not all love lasts forever, Matthew. The important thing is that you have it.

“I remember watching you grow up in this church, despite all the hurt that you’d been through. I know what the other boys said about you. What other churches said about you. And I saw how it affected you. I know you’d never admit it, but it got to you. It’s probably why you’re such a drama queen now, you and your red leather. I can’t tell you what you are, Matthew, but I can tell you that something in you changed the first time those boys called you a queer. And I hope that you can get back what you lost when they did.”

Matt buried his face in his hands and let out a sob. He felt the tears pool on the lenses of his glasses, felt his shuddering breaths echo off of the high ceilings and stained glass, but he didn’t care. The sound reverberated against portraits of the Christ and his virgin mother, and, basking in the echo, Matt almost felt holy.

Matthew’s mother put an arm around him and he let her.

---

Matt perched on Foggy’s fire escape, eyes still red-rimmed and glistening with tears, and tapped out Shave and a Haircut on the window pane. Foggy’s heart raced and he ran to the window, clearly thinking Matt must’ve been injured.

Foggy let Matt in and examined him incredulously. “You know, I understand coming in through the window when you’ve got all your Daredevil fetish gear on, but why not use the front door if you’re just gonna be in regular clothes?”

“It’s quicker,” Matt said simply, trying and failing to put on a sly grin.

Foggy noticed Matt’s puffy eyes and sucked in a breath, “Are you okay, should I get the first aid kit?”

“No, no, I’m not hurt,” Matt knew he would have to be the one to say it, but it still felt like pulling teeth.

“Is this about the other day? Because it’s really okay, Matt, don’t worry about it.”

“No, Foggy. Well, yes. Kind of.” Matt felt Foggy’s scrutinizing glare and set his jaw. “I’m gay.”

“You’re… gay. You. Gay.” Matt nodded and ducked his head, wringing his hands. Foggy barely suppressed a giggle before blurting out, “Hi Gay, I’m Foggy.”

Matt knew this was supposed to be a serious, emotional moment for them, but in the midst of it all, that was the funniest fucking thing he’d ever heard in his life. Matt let out one snort, then another, and soon enough he was bent over, wiping away new tears. “Are you kidding me?” he wheezed, “I spent the last month having a complete breakdown, and now I fucking come out to you and that’s what you say?”

“You said it first, asshole!” Foggy was laughing too, the brightness of it filling the whole room. They let themselves get it out before Matt felt Foggy pin him with a horribly sympathetic stare. “How… when did you figure it out?”

Matt paused to catch his breath and do the math. “Two hours ago?”

Foggy straightened his back. “Holy shit, Murdock. Sit down, you need a beer.” Matt obliged without complaint, dropping himself on Foggy’s plush couch while Foggy grabbed two of his fancy IPAs from the fridge. Foggy sat down beside Matt, handing him a bottle, and spoke again, “D’you wanna talk about it?”

“That’s probably the healthy thing, isn’t it?” Matt took a long gulp as Foggy nodded. “This afternoon, after you left the office, I told Karen about everything. Me and Elektra, my fucking existential crisis, and the… the kiss. And she yelled at me for beating myself up so much, obviously. Um, but then I went to go talk to Maggie- talk to my mom. She told me what loving my dad was like and it… it made something make sense. And she told me about watching me grow up in the orphanage, when the other kids would call me a freak and a queer and a fag. I think this whole time… this whole time I’ve just been trying to prove them wrong. Partially by being smart and a lawyer and all that, and partially by being…”

“By being straight,” Foggy finished Matt’s sentence, of course he did.

“Yeah.” Matt rubbed his thumb across the cold glass neck of the beer bottle, when something in the air changed, something in Foggy’s scent. A decrease in serotonin, an increase in norepinephrine. Something about all this was hurting Foggy.

“Um, thank you for telling me, Matt. I appreciate how hard this has been.” Foggy’s words were comforting but his tone was all wrong, all sour where it should be sweet.

Matt cocked his head, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Lie.

“That’s not true,” Matt said flatly. “You know that I can tell when you’re lying.”

Foggy shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “I just… why did you kiss me, Matt?”

Matt blinked. “What?”

“Matt, you- you know that I don’t look like a fucking Calvin Klein model or anything. I’m no vestal virgin, but I’m not exactly in high demand, either. But you, you’ve got washboard abs and fucking superpowers, you could have kissed any guy on the street and he’d probably thank you, gay or straight. And then you stumbled in here, smack-dab in the middle of your sexuality crisis, and made out with me, and I have to wonder if it being me had anything to do with it. Did you actually want to kiss me, or was I just there, Matt?”

Matt was genuinely at a loss for words. He’d known Foggy for over ten years now and, outside of his particular brand of self-deprecating humor, he’d never heard Foggy talk like that about himself. When they first met, it had taken months for Matt to learn that Foggy was chubby. Which isn’t to say that Matt automatically pictured him as skinny, he didn’t really picture him as anything other than a cloud of pot smoke and Legend of Zelda references. To Matt, Foggy had always been simply magnetic. Foggy filled up a room with his laugh, he gave Matt an elbow to grab onto or a heartbeat to focus on in unfamiliar settings, he never hesitated to play with clients’ kids in the waiting room while Matt started work on their case. Foggy was Seinfeld references and gluten-free pot brownies and early 2000’s indie pop and secret musical theatre obsessions. Foggy was… Foggy.

Matt took in a slow breath and placed a hand on Foggy’s cheek. “Foggy, I did kiss you because you were there. And I think I would’ve wanted to kiss you if you weren’t there. And now we’re both here, and I’d very much like to kiss you again.”

Foggy shuddered minutely, “Dude, you have no idea how many dreams I’ve had where you’ve said, like, that exact thing.”

Matt chuckled and pressed his lips to Foggy’s, smiling against his mouth. He held a man in his arms whom he’d known for over a decade and felt his shining weight in his arms, the short crop of his hair under his fingertips, the lightest five-o’clock-shadow against his chin.

Those boys all those years ago thought that anything they said inside of a church was gospel, that the Lord spoke through them as long as they stood in His house. Matt had wondered if his Bible was different from theirs, if his braille had been translated from something kinder than the Leviticus he would hear them whisper sometimes.

They were the ones who learned about Hell before Heaven, about sin before redemption. Sitting here on a second hand couch, in a drafty apartment, kissing the man he’d loved for ten years without realizing it, Matt didn’t know if there was a difference. He didn’t know if he cared.

#daredevil #netflix daredevil #matt murdock #foggy nelson #mattfoggy #matt murdock x foggy nelson #matt x foggy #fic rec #my fic

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mozak-hh · 3 years

Text

Genshin impact A-Z smut alphabet:

Kaeya:

As Requested! hope u enjoy xx

NSFW- You have been warned~

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after):

This man can’t get enough of your body, even after sex. He’ll let you rest your head on his chest, and will slowly run his hands through your hair while you tangle yourselves in bedsheets. He’ll give you hazy looks of love and affection, tell you how this will definitely put a spring in his step at work tomorrow. “hopefully this becomes a common occurrence~”

B = Body part (They’re favourite body part as well as their partners):

On him, his mouth. There’s nothing more erotic to him that love bites. Grasping your small neck in his hands and softly biting down. leaving little nips on your thighs and hips. he’ll even look up at you as he bites the lower parts of your body, gliding his tongue over the teeth marks.

On you, your breasts. Soft skin great for moulding in his hands. Especially when doing doggy style. Kaeya has a pretty big build (its canon that he’s the tallest out of all the genshin boys), so he’ll mould his body into yours from behinds as he hungrily thrusts into you, grabbing your breasts and kneading them slowly.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum):

Kaeya loves your cum. When he goes down on you, he’ll make sure to drink your juices after you orgasm. This man likes cumming himself, and he’ll cum as many times as he possibly can. His seed spilling out of you as he continues to ram you into the early hours of the morning. Without question, always inside. Unless you’d like to drink it instead~

D = Dirty secret (Dirty Secret of theirs):

He’ll never tell you, but when Kaeya spends those lonely night doing night shift at the night’s headquarters, he’ll stroke himself beneath his desk while looking at pictures of you. Why not? there’s no one he and he misses you dearly. More importantly, he needs his throbbing heat inside you folds.

E = Experience (How experienced are they):

Very Experienced. He’s probably slept with every single women in Mondstadt. So he knows how to please his woman.

F = Favorite position (Basically says it in the title):

https://www.healthline.com/health/healthy-sex/comfortable-sex-positions

The duo. He wants to make sure your comfortable, and not in too much pain. This also gives him great access to touching your breasts and thighs.

G = Goofy (How serious are they? Do they prefer joking?):

Hmmmm.. I wouldn’t call it particularly “goofy,” but he’s not afraid to laugh and joke during the zone. He’ll snicker if you make cute expressions and stuff, and if he messes up or does something stupid he’ll laugh it off.

H = Hair (Does the carpet match the drapes? Are they groomed?):

Indeed it does. He would keep it well trimmed too. I’m not sure if he’d take it all off, there is a chance that he probably has. Just cus he doesn’t like the feel of it. He’s bedded enough women to know how to keep it clean.

I = Intimacy (How they are during the moment):

He gets worried about you easily. If you’ve gone for quite a while or haven’t talked to him that day he’ll get a bit scared. So when he finally sees you he wants to please you so you don’t go away again. If you want him to go rough hell definitely go rough, but most times it’ll be very intimate.

J = Jack off (Masturbation headcanon):

Yes. Before you, he would just pick up some random girl from the tavern, so he wouldn’t need to fulfill he’s needs himself. However, After you caught his interest he couldn’t sleep each night without letting off steam. When you two decide to become a couple, he’s finally able to quench his terribly high sex drive. Those pathetic months of stroking himself were horrible.

K = Kink (One of their kinks):

So, so many

Bondage

Orgasm denial

Hickeys

Hair pulling

Face sitting

Lingerie

Edging

Overstimulation

That’s just the basics really. Pull his hair and he’ll groan. He’ll tie you to the bed and blindfold you as he goes down on you, edging you until he slams his big cock inside. And when you grow tired. He’ll place you on top of his face and eat you up till you start rocking against his tongue

L = Location (Favorite place):

Any place in his house. Kitchen, lounge room, bedroom, shower. He’ll fuck you just about anywhere. Just as long as it’s not in front of anybody.

M = Motivation (What turns them on):

What wouldn’t get this man going? You being horny is probably the biggest turn on for him though. Grab his collar and bring his in for a kiss. Moan when he rests his hand on your back. Pull his hair and whine. Call him daddy... he’s going to give you what you want.

N = No (Something they won’t do):

No side hoes, public sex, knife play, blood play, or anything that’s going to hurt you. If you really wanted to, he’d probably be down for a threesome, just depends on who *cough cough diluc*

O = Oral (Giving or receiving):

Omg you would not regret it if you gave this man head. He looks so hot when his cock is in your mouth. Moaning and biting the back of his hand, the other hand wrapped around the back of your head. Thrusting into you in a rhythmic pace.

P = Pace (Are they fast or slow):

Unless he’s reading you or trying to savour the moment, he’s probably gonna go fast.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies):

How else is he going to get his daily fix of you? There’s multiple times where he’s fucked you in the supplies closet in the Favonius headquarters just because he couldn’t wait to get home.

R = Risk (Will they be down to experiment in risky locations):

Yes yes yes yes. In the headquarters, behind the tavern, secret halls in the church. Just about anywhere private.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go):

Oh many, many rounds. Till the sweat soaks the sheets and tears run down your face. If he has the chance, he won’t stop till he knows you can’t stand up.

T = Toy (Do they own toys and if they do, will they use them):

Probs not in the genshin world girlie- besides, he’s all you really need.

U = Unfair (How much will they tease):

Why of course he’ll tease. If you’ve been a naughty girl, he’s gonna get you on your knees begging for him.

V = Volume (How loud are they if they even are):

He can be loud if he lets go. But he only really does low moans and heavy breathing. The type of moans that rumble the throat. He’ll press his mouth to your ear so you can here them too.

W = Wild card (Headcanon of choice):

One time he had to stay late at his office so he could get all his work done. You wanted to surprise him by stripping in front of his desk. Safe to say he was a very happy man in the morning, and you couldn’t look at Jean without getting embarrassed over what you two had done.

X = X-Ray (What’s going on down there):

8.5 inches . Any bigger and he’s gonna break you. He’s got a bit of an upward curve too. Some veins as well.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive):

He’s sex drive is off the charts. Probably the highest out of everyone in Mondstadt. This mans got stamina, so he will fuck you when he gets a chance.

Z = ZZZ (How quickly do they fall asleep):

He’ll always stay up till you fall asleep since he thinks it would be impolite to ignore you afterwards. But after you’re out, he’s out.

Thanks for reading! x comment who you’d like to see next ;))

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact headcanons #genshin kaeya #fanfic #kaeya x reader #kaeya #genshin impact kaeya #kaeya x y/n #kaeya smut #genshin smut #a z challenge

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laketaj24 · 4 years

Text

Marked

Author’s Note: Hey! This piece was requested, and I decided to make it a few parts. So here is the first, and this part is based on one of my favorite songs, Slow Dancing in a Parking Lot. I really like hometown, slow country ass romances lol. So this is what I am giving you! I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Happy Reading! (My taglists and requests are open!)

Warnings: Public Sex, Fluff, Language, Dubcon, OMEGAVERSE

Pairings: Alpha!Henry Cavill x Omega!Reader

M A S T E R L I S T

“Hi.” You waved at your new neighbor. The small family of four seen you a total of seven times and still had not introduced themselves once. Where was the small-town charm you’d seen in all those movies?

The man looked to you first, tall and muscled he waved. “Good morning!”

“Morning!” You yipped, finally, some interaction. “Your family is beautiful.” Those were the only words that you could think of besides saying something about the weather.

“Thank you, how are you liking Longview?”

“Love it.” You lied. It had been two weeks, you’d left the house a total of three times and each time you got lost. “It’s beautiful here.”

The drizzle of rain started overhead, it always rained in Washington, maybe that’s why you stayed in all those days without hesitation. It was sunnier in Southern California, and there was always something to do, here it was the opposite.

“That’s wonderful,” he yelled before ducking into his blue minivan. Your neighbor waved quickly as he backed out of his driveway and onto the road.

The family next door was the only one for about five miles, besides the one across the street, and he never really made an appearance other than coming home from work. You liked to people watch, it was easy to do when there were only two houses to watch. You made your way back into the house, nursing the warm cup of coffee.

When you moved here, you were no stranger to the place. Summers had been spent here with your uncle, sometimes holidays, and upon his death, you inherited the house that gave you some of your fondest memories. Building a life here was what you were intended to do, and you didn’t really have a choice, it had all fell apart everywhere else you went. This inheritance was your one get of jail free card, and it came right on time.

Longview didn’t hold much, two grocery stores on each side of the town, one bookstore, three churches, and one bar called the Sly Tree. These things you’d remembered because they held an interest and you had planned to visit them all. Tonight it was Sly Tree.

The yellow crop top looked good against your honey-colored skin and with the slight inch of your mid-drift showing it gave the illusion that you were a good girl who’d come to play, or at least that's what you wanted it to mean. Who knew if they took it that way, you sat at the bar. There were a few more people in the place, but none that piqued your interest. The bartender tapped your glass. “Refill?”

“I can’t.” you shook your head, there was no hope of you getting home safely with another drink in your system. “But thank you.”

“You moved into Harper’s old place?”

“Yes, he was muy uncle.”

“Good guy, he always came in here on Sunday’s spreading lies about wolves.” The bartender was friendly enough, the cute smile and wide eyes caught your attention, but he was young.

“He told me about those damn wolves.” You giggled. They were all around the property. Hence the reason you opted to not have a dog, coming home to a missing dog was not your intention.

“crazy man, good, though.” He handed you a sprite. “Drink this.”

“Thank you... what’s your name?”

“Cody.”

“Nice to meet you, Cody, is there anything fun to do around here?”

“A few towns over, maybe.” He shrugged a matter of fact and exhaled. “Hunting is pretty cool, though? You should come in one day?”

“I’m certain she doesn’t mean killing deer.” The smooth voice came from the right of you, the familiar face of your quiet neighbor actually brought some light to your life. Maybe you wouldn’t have to feel alone after all.

“Hey.”

“Hey, neighbor,” he smirked. “A beer, please.”

You’d never talked to him, only observed from afar, and there was much to observe. He was tall, strapping with broad shoulders, a body that made you think unsavory things and, unlike the family man across the yard, unattached. “So, you do know that I’m there?”

“How could I not?”

“You never speak.”

“Haven’t had the opportunity.”

“Opportunities have been available, Cavill.” You said his last name thinking of the gray mailbox it was engraved in.

“Hmmm.” He placed the bottle cap of the beer on the table and took a swig of the beer. “You like to hide in that house of yours, I didn’t want to bother you.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“I’m Henry, and if I am not mistaken, you’re Y/N.” Henry swiveled in his chair to face you. “Your uncle spoke highly of you.”

“That’s good to know.”

“So, you’re in a bar on a Wednesday at eight, cabin fever must’ve set in?”

“It did.”

His car smelled of cedar, and you loved it. You sunk back in the passenger seat and kicked your feet up on his dashboard. The small city passed by, and for once in your unsettled roused life, you felt at ease. There was only one red light but about five intersections that lead you in a circle.

“Where are you from?” Henry asked with his arm hanging out of the window, his fingers waving as the window passed through them. “Technically, I’m from Georgia, but I lived in California for almost four years.”

“So. Cal?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“I didn’t.” he laughed. “But I’ve always wanted to use that abbreviation.”

“Good sentence, no one calls it that by the way.”

“Then how was it a good sentence.”

“I just didn’t want to diss you all the way.”

“Ah, the courtesy country girl, I lucked out.”

“Thank you.” You bit your lip. “You go to the gym often?”

“Never.” Henry laughed. “I run and lift trees.”

“All this comes from that?” It was impossible not to touch his arms, they looked terrific through the tight-fitting grey shirt.

“Five years of it, yes.”

“I guess I lucked out.” You whispered with a small grin on your face. “Where are we headed?”

“Right over there.” He pointed to the grocery store parking lot, and the car headed that way. You had never been parking, but you’d heard of it just not in a place this obvious.

“There are no lights in that parking lot.” You chuckled. “Choosing dim-lit places like this on purpose?”

“Definitely.” the half cocky answer was coated with sarcasm. Henry didn’t seem like that type. He parked the car and turned the music down. “Now, you tell me one of your favorite songs.”

“Does it have to be fast?”

“It’s totally up to you.”

“I’m drawing a blank here,” I said after a few seconds.

“I’ll pick one, you keep thinking.” He strolled through his phone, and then the slow music came through the speakers. henry climbed out of the truck, walked over to your side, and opened the door. “Dance?” He asked.

“I suck at it.”

“Good, I don’t have to whip out my Footloose moves.” He winked as he helped you from the truck into his hands. Sweet guys like him never seemed to come your way, not in Georgia, California, or any of the other places you’d been. He was novel.

He moved as if he actually could dance, pulling you against his chest and swaying playfully to the music. The song was lulling, complementing the atmosphere of the night.

“So, where’s your girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?”

“Someone as perfect as you have to be in a longterm relationship contemplating marriage.”

He laughed, shaking his head, his eyes flickering amber in the light for a moment and then back to their normal state. Henry’s fingers intertwined in yours. “I have no one, and if I did... I am certain you’d of seen her by now.”

“Just checking.”

“What else do you want to know?”

“What can you tell me?”

“I drink every Saturday night. I get in lost in the color brown, it’s the prettiest color... Trees, dirt all beauties often overlooked, but they’re the most important ones. I sleep with the air on me. I wake up super early, walk to the river and piss every morning. I like to sing in the shower, but I suck at it. I like you.” The vomit of words was the most alluring thing you’d heard since you came here. Henry twirled you around and pulled you back to him.

“You tell every girl you take home these same lines?”

“Just one.”

“You’re smooth with your lines Henry...”

“I can still break out my footloose moves if you want?”

“No need to...” You smiled. “This is better.”

“Good. I haven’t stretched just yet.”

You shouldn’t have kissed him, your hands shouldn’t be gripping his curls, and you definitely shouldn’t be hoisting yourself upon him, but here you were doing all of it and importantly enjoying it. Your tongue lightly swiped his lips before it was met with his and a small groan. Five hours ago, you met him. You didn’t know his last name or if even shared your beliefs, but you wanted to fuck him.

“How are the public indecency charges around here?” You whispered.

“I haven’t been charged with that one yet.” He carried you to the passenger’s seat.

“There’s a first for everything.”

“I know the sheriff.” he laughed. “I think I can get us out of it.”

Everything was rushed, but it didn’t stop you from deepening the kiss and tugging on his belt buckle.

“You sure you want this?”

You press your palms into the leather seat, and he pulls your pants down to your ankles. “I haven’t been sure of anything else.” You giggle as you rock your hips against him, grinding your mound against his hardened cock. He pushed your panties aside, rubbing the head of his cock against your lips and hoisted you up.

“You’re already wet for me, sweetheart.” he pushed inside of you, throbbing and suppressing a carnal growl.

You sunk your teeth into his shoulder when he pulled you down on his cock and began to fuck you. Then his eyes met yours, and they glowed in the dim light of the parking lot, it was surreal animalistic. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since you moved in...” He fucked harder, bouncing your tits in your bra. “How I wanted to fuck you and make you mine...” he grunted.

Your head fell back in ecstasy, and he rubbed his nose down your face before his tongue licked down your chest.

“Your fucking scent.” He growled, rutting into you. “You don’t even know what you are... sweetheart.”

“What am I?” You whispered.

“Mine.” Henry’s teeth bit into your skin, and you squealed. “Omega.”

His eyes shifted again in the light, and his teeth were still in your flesh.

“Omega?”

Your uncle used to talk of omegas, again when he was drunk... You pull away from him, but he continues to fuck you. “Henry.” You moaned. “Fuck! Henry!” You feel him swell inside of you.

Henry’s bitemark was fresh on your chest as was this inflamed urge to ride him harder, your body willed as if it could not stop. “Feel it.” He commanded. “Your body knows you’re mine too.”

“Ohh, fuck!” He grew bigger, swelling as he thrust faster and then locking into you. “Don’t cu-.”

Henry’s hand clamped down over your mouth, and he shuttered, your body shuttering, joining his climax. The warmth of his cum was soothing, fucking made you want to cum again. “Get dressed.” he kissed your lips. “Now.”

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#Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill fandom #alpha!Henry Cavill #Henry cavill x reader #Henry cavill x you #henry cavill x y/n #laketa j writes

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avenging-criminal-bones · 3 years

Text

After All This Time || Chapter Two

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Word Count: 1457

Summary: You being a new recruit pissed SSA Aaron Hotchner off. You being smart enough to give Spencer Reid a run for his money pissed him off even more. Really, he just despised your presence. Hated your every move.

Until one day, he just… didn’t.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: general canon level violence, they talk about a new case, more angry Hotch, more angry reader

A/N: I'm excited that so many people want me to tag them! It's technically only like eight haha, but it's still so cool to me that people want to be told when I'm posting.

TAGLIST:

@kingofthetwats @wanniiieeee @uwu-sebastianstan @piggyinthesea @yoshigguk @thatisthemagic @errorcosplay67 @ivebeenthinkingboutu @big-galaxy-chaos @rynfoxsleeps

* * * * *

Chapter Two

Five months later, and you were still sitting at your desk in the late hours of the night. 12:34 AM. Too late. You had been staying at the bureau after hours to make it look like you were already taking this job as seriously as you could. To be fair, you were taking it seriously, but you figured the late hours being noticed would be a benefit.

So when your phone rang, you answered it immediately.

"L/N."

"Hey, Y/N, it's JJ. Can you come in for a case? Hotch just called and woke me up. I know it's pretty late, but it's a pretty bad one, we're going to Michigan."

"Yeah, not a problem. I wasn't asleep yet." You don't lie necessarily, but it's a half-truth for sure. JJ doesn't need to know that you were already at the BAU building, less than fifty feet away from the briefing room where you would all be meeting.

"Great, thanks Y/N. See you soon."

She clicks off the phone and you sigh before pushing yourself off of the desk.

"L/N." You almost drop the coffee you had been about to sip as you spun around in your swivel chair.

"Yes, sir?" You ask casually, deciding it was better to play dumb.

"Stand."

Obeying your order, you narrow your eyes and stand up, squaring your shoulders and trying to look bigger than you are.

"Now, explain." Hotchner stands in front of you, arms crossed.

"Explain what? That I'm here and we have a case?" You shake your head as you turn away from him.

"Did I say you could turn, Agent?" His voice sends a shiver through your core and you mentally slap yourself. Now is not the time.

Spinning back around, you catch a glimpse of Derek and Garcia walking in to the briefing room. "We have a case, Hotchner. Let's ignore the fact that I was just doing my paperwork and get in there please." It takes everything in you to turn away a second time. You bend down and grab your shoes, sliding them onto your feet before walking away from him and into the room.

You can feel his gaze on your back, but you ignore it, slipping through the conference room door and letting it fall shut behind you.

"Hey guys." You greet as you sit down.

"Hot mama-"

"Hey, beautiful-"

Derek and Penelope greet you at the same time, causing you two girls to giggle and Derek to stifle his laugh because, 'men don't giggle'.

The three of you exchange small talk until the others walk in, most of them looking like they had been in the deep clutches of sleep.

Spencer's already messy hair looked ten times worse, and Emily wasn't wearing a bra, which she was subtly trying to hide by hunching her shoulders forward.

She sits beside you and you send her the 'you good?' look.

"Don't even mention it, Y/N." She threatens lightly with a laugh before Rossi, JJ, and Hotchner walked in.

You kept your gaze down, but you knew his eyes were on you.

"Garcia, you have the slideshow pulled up?" JJ asks gently, knowing that the other blonde woman absolutely despised cases like this. Really the whole team did.

"Yeah... It's a doosy, team. Not pretty at all." She shakes her head and starts the slideshow before handing the tablet to JJ.

"Okay. Ariel Stanton, Franklin Lewis, and Ella Craft. Three kids, all mutilated with their heads severed and preserved. Their bodies were found in the same area of the Raisin River in Petersburg, MI. The heads-"

Penelope got up then and mumbled a string of 'I'm sorries' before all but running out the door.

Your fingers clutched at the dress pants you were wearing as JJ asked, "Does anyone else need to leave before I keep going?"

A collective shake of the team's heads is enough to convince JJ that she can keep going.

"Their heads were all found beside the river bank, fully intact. Two of the bodies came with a note to the precinct, it read: "Fear me, for I have God on my side. God will help me cleanse the Earth of its sinners. These children had to go, for they were not with God.""

You start speaking when the profile is complete, "Okay, so the references to God and doing His work suggests that this unsub sees himself as holier than thou. Most likely a man, age 30-40 and probably grew up in a family that was very religious; they would have prayed before meals and there would be records of this family donating very generously to the church that they attended."

"No. That profile is wrong, L/N. If you had paid any attention, you'd know that the use of the word 'cleanse' means that he thinks these "sinners" are dirty, he's not thinking that he is necessarily better. I don't need your input again."

"Hotch come-"

"You do not have the right to call me that. My team calls me that. To you, I am Agent Hotchner." His gaze was cold, but there was something there.

"Fine. I'll be on the jet." You stand up and as you bend to pick your purse off the ground, Emily whispers in your ear.

"I agreed with you. I'll brief you on the jet."

You nod once and swiftly walk out of the room, "accidentally" bumping Hotchner on your way out. Luckily, he doesn't say anything about it.

Later on the jet, you have your headphones in and are listening the your favorite song of the week. Your taste in music changes frequently, but right now, you were into the old rock and were listening to Journey.

Your lips press into a hard line when you see Hotchner walking up to you. Taking your headphones out and sit up straighter.

"What do you want?" Your voice is bratty and you sigh, quirking an eyebrow up at him.

"I uh, am here to apologize. Rossi thinks it's necessary that I say 'I'm sorry'. So here I am."

You just stare at him.

"What, Y/N?"

"You had something to say?" You cross your arms and lean back in the seat.

His eyebrows furrow when he thinks about what you said and gets a bit confused. "What do you mean? I just said it."

"Oh, did you?" You turn to Spencer, who was sitting across from you, and said, "Did you hear what Hotchner just said?"

"Uh, yeah. I did, why?" He looks up from the book he was reading.

You smirk slightly at Hotch before saying, "Can you use that amazing brain of yours to tell me what he said?"

""I uh, am here to apologize. Rossi thinks it's necessary that I say 'I'm sorry'. So here I am." Why did you need that?" He says after repeating the sentences word for word.

Hotch glares at you a bit as you shrug your shoulders.

"I don't know... I just didn't hear an apology in that." You bat your eyelashes up at the older man and add, "You said that Rossi told you to apologize, but you never said that you were sorry."

"Really, L/N? You want me to get on my knees and beg you?" He asks, spitting the words out like incredulous knives.

You keep the snide tone as you reply, "If you'd like to get on your knees, I may be more inclined to accept the imminent apology."

"Don't be a brat, L/N. I get that some of your past lovers may have liked that, but it has no place in this team. I am still your superior and I recommend you treat me like one."

He walks away without having ever apologizing, and you're left there with your jaw on the floor from his parting message.

"-Yeah! And then he was like, 'Don't be a brat. Your ex probably liked it but I'm your superior-"

"O-M-G, O-M-G. What did you say back to him?!" A very excitable Emily asks from you shared hotel room in Michigan.

"Nothing. I couldn't say anything to him because he just spun and WALKED. AWAY." You nod your head at her, your eyebrows raising as you conveyed your own disbelief at the story. "Yeah, it was horrible. I was so mad."

Emily wiggles her eyebrows, causing you to shake your head.

"Whaaat? No. No!"

"Yeah, Y/N. There's some MAD sexual tension between you two."

"Oh, get out!"

As you laugh at her statement, you pick up the pillow behind you and hit her in the side of the head with it.

"You're gonna get it now."

Faking a gasp, you stand and say, "Is that a threat, Emily?"

"Yes. Now run, bitch."

Yu both giggle and spend the night acting like teenagers again. You didn't have time to think about Aaron if you wanted to which you... no.

You didn't want to.

#aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #angst #enemies to lovers #bau #fluff #smut eventually

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cutesilyo · 3 years

Text

no place in the world (like manila) — an amephil fanfic

A few months after the outbreak of the Philippine-American War, Alfred falls in love with and is betrayed by a bright-eyed teenager with the prettiest smile on this side of the Orient in a single night.

This is not a love story.

Also available on AO3.

—

"Sir, I don't think it's safe for you to leave the camp," Major-General MacArthur warned. "I don't know how, but the revolutionaries know your face. They could attack you!"

"Pshaw," Alfred snorted. "I'm a nation. What could they do that could take me down, huh?"

MacArthur's mustache bristled in displeasure. "Be that as it may sir, might I remind you that you only arrived in Manila a week ago? Knowing you, you'd just get lost and I'd have to put together a whole squad of troops just to hunt you down. You could get captured, Alfred. I don't know how to tell you just how badly that would bring down morale."

Alfred just wagged his fingers, a bright grin on his face. "Look, if I get captured, I'd bust out of whatever crappy holding place they'd put me in without barely breaking a sweat! And knowing our soldiers, that's just the stuff that would make a great story to tell at dinnertime. How's that for morale?"

The way that MacArthur simply stared at him blankly told Alfred that this was not a convincing argument.

"I hate it when you do that," he groaned, slumping back on his seat. The leather was hot with the heat of the tropical sun and it stuck uncomfortably to his skin. Oh, how badly he wanted to just finally get up and leave. "I'm just saying, I can't stay inside here forever just waiting for you to dictate our next move."

"It's part of our strategy—"

"And it's boring. I'm bored, Major-General. I might as well look around." Alfred's eyes glinted dangerously. "Besides, you'll capture the whole nation for me soon enough, won't you? No harm in wanting to see what we're winning once this war is over."

The silence lasted for a few seconds before the major-general sighed in defeat.

—

Private Patton R. Wilkes was assigned to “accompany” Alfred while he roamed around Manila, but he knew that MacArthur just wanted someone to make sure he would actually return to camp instead of getting lost or, God forbid, taking the next ship back to America. Though the both of them were dressed in civilian clothing, the private carried himself with a strict stiffness that just screamed hardened military man. If Alfred wanted any chance of escape, it looked like the private would be hard to shake off.

Alfred tried to stay optimistic about the trip anyway. He hadn't paid much attention to the city while he was on the way to the American camp, but he certainly expected it to have an air of exoticness. He was a bit disappointed not to see anything like the palaces of Japan or the distinctly oriental architecture of China. Instead, he found street signs written in Spanish, the excited chatter of fast-talking brown-skinned people, and the cacophony of guitars, church bells, and the sound of horse-drawn carriages trotting along the stoned roads. Walking around Manila was like looking at a funhouse mirror version of Mexico: more or less the same, but with just enough differences to make his head spin.

"Uh, you alright there, sir?" Patton asked.

"Was just thinking about a bad memory, is all," Alfred grimaced. He's sure that Alejandro would have his head once he returned to the continent. He's been pissing off a lot of Spanish-speaking nations recently, that's for sure. "Come to think of it, the Philippine Islands must have its own personification too, right?"

The private's face darkened. "He's a force to reckon with, sire. Haven't seen no hide nor hair of him myself, but some guys in the other squadron barely survived after fighting with the kid."

"A kid?" Alfred furrowed his eyebrows. He didn't know there were still nations out there who were that young. Then again, he was only a teenager himself, and he was even younger when he fought against Arthur as well. "I don't know how I feel about fighting a kid. Couldn't I just give him a lollipop or something and this could all just work itself out?"

He meant it as a joke, but Patton seemed to take it seriously and started furiously shaking his head. "Don't think you could even try negotiating with him sir, the kid's a savage. Hacked and slashed his way through the guys with some kind of golden knife, they said. We're lucky our medics are so darned fast, otherwise, we would've been down almost a dozen men from him alone."

Something in Alfred's resolve hardened at the thought of losing his soldiers to someone so brutal. He clapped the other man on the shoulder and said, "Don't you worry, Pat. We'll end this soon, and when we win, we'll make sure that nobody from these islands ever lays a hand on any of our own."

That seemed to comfort Patton somewhat, though he was still shaking with anger. "I'll give them a good walloping right by your side, sire."

"Now that's the kind of patriotic determination I wanna see!" Alfred crowed. He then immediately scrambled for his wallet and hurriedly gave the private a wad of bills. Some onlookers openly gawked at seeing the number of dollar bills in his hand. "Tell you what, why don't you buy some booze, head back to camp, and inspire your fellow soldiers, eh? God knows we need some fun around here."

"Um," Patton blinked, caught off-guard. "I don't know if Major-General MacArthur—"

"Tell Major-General MacArthur that I'm just trying to boost morale," Alfred winked. "Also, tell him I'll back by next morning!"

He didn't get to hear Patton's response as he took off running wildly in the opposite direction. He barely registered running past the stores, wet market, and the cathedral; he just wanted to be alone and independent, exploring this new land to his heart's content. The buildings were shorter and the roads were narrower here than in his own country, but Alfred was just so glad to finally be in a place filled with people just like he was used to.

Alfred collapsed on his knees, winded. When he looked up, he was surprised to see that he had apparently made it to one of Manila's many ports. Past the numerous small fishing boats and trading boats, he could see that the sun was already beginning to set. The sky was painted in a pretty combination of pinks and oranges in contrast to the ocean's blue, the stars already starting to twinkle faintly into appearance one by one. The rhythmic lapping of the waves against the rocks seemed louder than everything else around him — a stark reminder that no matter where he went, there was always something bigger to discover.

He stood there for a moment, mesmerized when a loud grunt startled him out of his stupor.

He turned to find some kind of bull staring at him with its beady eyes, its long horns curving towards the back instead of to the front. It was pulling a wagon full of leafy vegetables that Alfred couldn't recognize, and the old man riding it looked startled to come across a foreigner.

"Hijo, padaan naman po," he said, with a strained smile.

"Oh, sorry, I don't know what you mean," Alfred tried, but the man just continued smiling at him. He was starting to think that maybe abandoning Patton, who wasn't fluent but at the very least conversational in Tagalog, was a bad idea.

Luckily, someone came to his rescue. A teenager with bright eyes approached him, an amused twitch of the lips on his sharp face. He was dressed simply: unlike the suit and tie ensemble of the richer Filipinos he'd come across or the pale blue uniform of the Philippine Army, he wore a thin white top and trousers cut just above his ankles. The scabbard on his hip would have been concerning if Alfred didn't know just how many Filipinos carried knives in their daily lives. All in all, he looked just like any other street vendor, but the red handkerchief tied around his neck was vibrant enough to make him stand out. "You are American, yes?"

"Ah yeah," Alfred flushed, a bit flustered. The way the stranger leaned in was a little too close for comfort, but he looked harmless and at least he spoke English. "Can you help me? I think that man is talking to me, but I can't understand what he's saying."

The teenager grabbed his arm to pull him to the side. The old man tipped his straw hat in thanks, and the teenager smiled, saying: "Pasensya na po, lolo! Hindi kasi taga-rito."

The two of them watched the wagon pass them by. They stood there in silence for a moment, and then Alfred blurted out, "I didn't know I was in the way, I swear."

"You did seem quite distracted." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other boy laugh. The both of them turned to each other at the same time, a small smile on each other's faces. "Not that I blame you. I am sure you have sunsets in America, but it is different here than in other countries. I think the colors are more vibrant, do you agree?"

"Certainly takes my breath away," he admitted. "I do have to ask, how come you speak English so well? I've only been in Manila for a few days but I don't think I've met another Filipino that's as good as you are."

The teenager only laughed again and held on to Alfred's arm tighter. As he looked up at him, his eyes and grin were equally bright with mirth; and despite himself, Alfred was a bit charmed. "Us Filipinos are not as stupid as you think, señorito. Now, you say you are a stranger to Manila, yes? Come with me, and let me show you around my city."

—

They ended up hailing a tranvia, a carriage made to carry a whole group of people instead of just a pair. Alfred found it small and quaint, making an internal note to build tram lines in the city once he was able. Yet the energy that the teenager had with him was larger than life. He had apparently noticed the other passengers giving Alfred a suspicious side-eye, and immediately launched into a round of jokes to dispel the tension. Though he barely understood the jokes due to them being told in a mix of Spanish and Tagalog, the way that the whole tranvia burst into loud laughter was enough to assure him that his companion was quite the comedic performer.

When they got off, the driver even thanked them for the entertainment and told them not to pay the fare anymore. Alfred let out an excited whoo! as the teenager did an exaggerated bow.

As the carriage rode off, Alfred turned to his new friend and exclaimed, "Wow! The way you handled that was amazing! I mean, I've been through worse than an awkward train ride, but you definitely saved my ass back there."

The teenager blushed slightly. "Think nothing of it. I would rather see my companions happy and comfortable in my care than anything else."

"Still, that thing you did was certainly a swell sight." Alfred breathed in the cold evening air and let it out with a contented sigh. He looked straight into the other boy's eyes as he said, "And it's really nice that you're going through all the trouble to be with me tonight too! Like, we don't even know each other's names but you just whisked me away like some kind of fairytale hero! That was really awesome of you, I have to say."

"You are a man of sweet words," the teenager said, with a smile that looked almost bittersweet. Then, as if he had completely forgotten about his melancholy, he grabbed Alfred's arm again and dragged him towards the next street corner. "But let us not waste time talking! Most of these shops close soon, and I would hate for us to miss them!"

Helpless, Alfred let himself be strung along.

Sadly, most of the shops they went past had already closed for the day. Still, the teenager cheerily talked his ear off about what wares they sold and the local gossip about the people who ran those stores — like Pepito, owner of the clay pottery store, who had apparently given away all his lotto winnings to the next city's blacksmith. The one time that they had actually been able to buy something was when they came across a small, brightly-colored cart that apparently sold the Filipino version of ice cream. Both the vendor — Mang Tomas, as he was introduced — and the teenager had chuckled when he brought out a wallet full of dollars, so the teenager had to reach into his own pocket to pay with a few coins. As they walked past yet another cathedral, Alfred caught his friend singing the hymns under his breath. When they reached the plaza, the teenager then asked the lady standing nearby — Aling Nena, he was told — to give him a jasmine garland, the scent of the white flowers so powerful that it immediately made Alfred sneeze on his friend's face when he put them around his neck. Yet instead of getting mad like he expected, the teenager had only laughed and told him he looked handsome.

No matter where they went or who they talked to, his friend always seemed to know everyone's names. Alfred had no idea how he had the time to possibly get so familiar with all the people around him, but he certainly understood the sentiment; he loved talking with all the Americans that he came across with too. Personally getting to know the people who made his nation always made him feel more connected with them in a way that war and politics never could.

And if the Philippine Islands was truly to be his someday, Alfred knew he wanted to treat them similarly. More than anything or anyone else though, nobody in the archipelago had intrigued him most than the young man beside him whose smile was brighter than any star.

Yet all his experience in small talk failed him tonight, and not for lack of trying. Every time he asked questions about his friend, he was always diverted away from the topic.

Which part of the city are you from? was met with a vague Do you ask the flower which vine it came from? You are better off simply enjoying the whole garden.

Where is your family? had been completely ignored as his friend said You must be hungry, yes? I know a place with the best empanadas this side of Binondo.

What is your name? earned him a cheeky wink and a teasing If your mind still ventures to inane questions like that, then I am not doing very well in completely impressing you.

How old are you? made the teenager burst out into loud, hearty laughter that lasted for more than a minute. Alfred didn't even bother to try asking anything else after that, choosing to focus on his empanadas and arroz a la valenciana for the rest of the meal.

Later, when they were served a bottle of gin to share along with a bowl of peanuts, his friend had the grace to apologize for his behavior.

"I truly am sorry," he said, but the playful grin on his face made it difficult to take his apology seriously. "I simply do not think that you knowing more about me is more important than us having a good time together."

"How am I supposed to find you again if I don't know who you are, huh?" Alfred couldn't stop himself from whining. He ignored the glass in front of him, taking a swig straight from the bottle and letting the alcohol burn down his throat. His friend watched him in bemusement. "This has been the best night of my life in a long time. And if this is the last time we see each other, I don't think I'm going to forgive myself if I don't push you into giving me a hint."

This time, it was his friend's turn to take a drink: he filled his glass half-full and downed it all in one go. "You are certainly bold, señorito, I will give you that. A good friend of mine warned me about how loud and annoying Americans were, but it seems he neglected to tell me about how forward you all were as well."

Alfred resisted the urge to roll his eyes; of course, he would get deflected yet again. "Alright, I'll bite. Tell me more about your friend."

The teenager looked surprised. "You wish to know more about a man that insulted you?"

"If this is the closest I get to you telling me more about yourself, I'll take it," he shrugged. "Besides, I'd love to know how this friend of yours thinks. Americans are the greatest people in the world! He must be stupid if he doesn't know that."

The other boy laughed. "Of course you would say that, you biased brute. And I will have you know that my friend was quite smart, actually. One of the smartest men I have ever known."

Alfred felt like he wouldn't like the answer, but he asked anyway: "Was?"

All traces of laughter from his friend's face faded away into a hollow smile. "Killed by firing squad a few years ago."

Silently, Alfred poured gin into both of their glasses. They drank in solemn solidarity.

"My sincere condolences," said Alfred, and he meant it: he had lost too many friends himself over the centuries. "And I'm sorry I called him stupid."

His friend waved it off. "No worries. Pepe was incredibly intelligent, but he definitely had his fair share of stupid moments — you wouldn't believe how many times that man fell in love over the course of his short lifetime. Still, I miss him terribly and I wish he was still around. God only knows what he would have thought about everything happening at present."

"Oh, I know the feeling." Despite him dying decades prior, Alfred still longed for George Washington's steadfast guidance sometimes. He reached, a bit messily, for another drink. "It's uncanny, yeah? Some people just have this weird ability to analyze the present and predict the future. I certainly don't know how they do anything like it, really. I kind of just talk big and hope for the best."

"Funny that you talk about the future," the teenager chuckled. "Somehow, my friend even managed to predict that you would come here, Alfred. I did not believe him at the time, of course, but here you are."

"Here I am," Alfred repeated faintly. "Hold on, how did you know my—"

"Why were you all alone in my city, señorito?" His friend interrupted, looking up at him through his eyelashes. He leaned closer, close enough for the skin of their arms to touch, and Alfred suddenly forgot about all his worries. "I was very surprised to see you on your own, looking every bit like a lost little lamb. You are very lucky that I found you."

"Lucky indeed," he murmured, adjusting the collar of his shirt. It felt like the temperature in the room had risen by a dozen degrees. "Just wanted to explore, is all. MacArthur told me we had to stay low for a few more weeks, I got bored, and he let me out."

Those bright eyes were practically glittering as the teenager looked up at him, his fingers slowly tracing up his arm. "And you were alone? I always thought American soldiers traveled in pairs, but perhaps I was mistaken."

"No! No, you're right, you're definitely right," Alfred stammered out. He was sure his face was completely red by now. "I was with Private Wilkes earlier, but we, ah, got separated. He must be on the way back to Bulacan by now."

"How unfortunate," the other practically purred, clearly delighted. "Say, tell me, how did this Wilkes look like? Because I am sure that he does not look as handsome as you do."

That damned smile, now coy instead of kind and sweet, was tantalizingly close. If only he had the courage to lean down—

Alfred, trying desperately to distract himself, grabbed the bottle again and took a long swig.

There were about a million promises that threatened to spill from Alfred's lips, each one more outrageous than the other: Come with me. Stay with me. I'll keep you safe. I'll love you. Yet at the moment, he found himself tongue-tied. He didn't know if it was the alcohol or the atmosphere or the way the young boy across the table had so effortlessly allured him, but he felt like he was about to go insane. He barely registered the both of them standing up to leave, didn't question why they didn't need to pay at the restaurant, paid no heed to what his friend had whispered to the men standing guard by the door. His mind was in a muddy haze, and all he could focus on was the fact that his friend was holding his hand as he was led into the dark streets.

Dimly, Alfred thought that however striking he looked by the setting sun, he looked much more ethereal bathed in moonlight.

He must have said this aloud because the teenager laughed.

"You are a man of sweet words," he said, and there's that oddly bittersweet smile again. "And I wish we could have met in better circumstances."

"What's wrong with the way we met today? I had fun," Alfred argued. He swayed slightly on his feet, and his friend held on to him to keep him from falling. "Didn't you have fun?"

"You forget we are at war, señorito. And you forget that you are seeking to control me and my people, not find a lover." Despite the harsh words, the way his friend said this was soft and sad. Almost like he was somehow hurt. "It does not matter what we feel today if we are bound to fight each other tomorrow. Should you not know this by now?"

They walked together in silence, each supporting the other. Slowly, Alfred's alcohol-induced dizziness began to subside. It was replaced by a growing emptiness in his chest — and a heavy, heavy realization.

"You knew I was America this entire time." When his friend deigned to respond, he continued. "Then, why...?"

At this, the teenager laughed — broken and wistful and desperate, all at once. "I do not know myself. I was ready to attack you, but for some reason, the look in your eyes as you watched the sunset stopped me. I thought, if you could look at my country with such amazement, then you could see that this war is unnecessary. That if you could know my land and my people the way I knew them, full of vibrancy and color and light, then you could realize that they did not deserve to die.

"Yet as the night went on I began to realize my efforts were fruitless. It was not them you were looking at anymore, but me." Here, his friend faced him; Alfred barely catching a glimpse of his wet eyes before the teenager looked away. "Believe me, I would love to spend another night like this with you. But you have your responsibilities and so do I."

"Fruitless," Alfred repeated hollowly. The cold night wind was in stark contrast to the hot rage he felt bubbling inside him. He forcefully wrenched himself away from his friend, yelling: "You made me tell you classified information!"

In seconds, he watched the teenager's face go from shock to hurt to an angry glare.

"Do you not understand how badly I need to win this war? My people did not give their lives to free me from Spain just so you could swoop in and take over! So forgive me, señorito," his friend spat mockingly, "for trying to find whatever advantages my poor nation can get against such an imperialistic nation like you!"

"And do you not understand what we're trying to do here?" Alfred shouted. "We are fighting this war to save you! Don't you see that your country is a mess? That you're underdeveloped, uneducated, and unfit for self-rule? I was the hero who helped save your people from Spain, jackass, and—"

"—and you promised to give us independence, and yet all your countrymen seem to do is kill." The teenager finished, both his eyes and the hilt of his knife glinting golden under the moonlight. "Is that what freedom means to you, America? I beg to differ."

As Alfred stepped away from him in furious, furious betrayal, all he could think about was that the other boy looked so small.

"I thought of you as my friend," he said.

"And I thought of you as my liberator," the teenager said coolly. "I see we were both wrong."

A harsh whinny interrupted them both. Alfred turned to find Patton riding a chestnut brown horse, his face red from exhaustion but seemingly unharmed. The private stopped in front of him, dismounting without grace on the pavement. His face was red from exhaustion and his clothes looked considerably ruffled, but otherwise, he looked unharmed.

"It ain't my position to say this sire, but don't you dare ever try to run away from me like that again," Patton panted, giving a quick side-eye to the other teenager before dismissing him. "We best hurry now, because those two won't be happy about their stolen horse."

Just as he was about to ask who those two were, a pair of Filipinos with muskets turned the corner and ran towards them. He vaguely recognized them as the same two men who were standing guard at the restaurant. They shouted loudly, a mix of Tagalog and Spanish expletives that Alfred could barely recognize, and a phrase distinct enough that he felt like it was something significant: amang bayan.

Patton evidently recognized the words. He looked at him in a wide-eyed panic, saying, "Sire, we need to leave—"

And as quick as lightning, Patton fell to the ground with a sickening crack. Caught completely off-guard and his arms restrained, he was helpless against the teenager who had a knife at his throat: a knife that, as Alfred began to realize with a horrified lurch of his stomach, was engraved with golden flowers and the insignia of an eight-rayed sun.

"You must be Private Wilkes," the Philippines smiled. "I do hope you are enjoying my country."

"Get off him or else!" Alfred screamed, the combined events of the night making him feel like he was about to reach his breaking point. He reached for the pistol he kept hidden on his belt and took aim, hoping to God that the other nation wouldn't force him to shoot. Even after everything, he didn't feel like he had the nerve to hurt Philippines after the hours they spent together; maybe some other day, but not tonight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the two men had caught up to them. They angled their muskets at him from a distance. The horse, which Alfred had been planning to use for escape, had already taken off running in the commotion.

Patton stared up at him with fear in his eyes, a bleeding gash on his forehead, and Alfred's hands began to shake.

Above all else, Philippines was still smiling: eyes bright, amused twitch of the lips on his sharp face. Slowly, he stood to approach him.

Like a switch had been flicked, his features turned soft and kind again — more like the boy that Alfred had met earlier, the boy who had dragged him around the streets of Manila with lighthearted laughter, the boy whose smile was brighter than any star. All Alfred could do was stand there, mesmerized once again, as his hand was gently pried away from the gun.

"Alfred," Philippines said this quietly, almost like he was invoking a prayer. He motioned the men to stand down. "I do not wish to fight."

"I don't want to either," Alfred admitted. Maybe there was hope... "C'mon, we can talk this through, right? Look, we haven't had a battle in months. It should be really easy to negotiate, yeah? I'll set up a meeting with your generals and mine, we'll have a civil discussion with no weapons allowed, and we'll reach a compromise."

The other nation was leaning in, and this time, Alfred took his chance. He held Philippines' cheek in his hands and they kissed, soft and quick and chaste.

"Of course," Alfred said, as he pulled away. "I would need your complete surrender—"

He was swiftly kneed in the stomach, disarmed, and shot.

"Alfred, I do not wish to fight," Philippines said, as he watched Alfred collapse to the ground. "But I have to. I hope you understand."

He vaguely registered Patton reaching out to him as his eyes closed and the blood pooled around him, but all he could focus on was watching the other nation walk away into the darkness.

—

When Alfred came to, he was already back at camp. Without thinking, he immediately trudged to the general's war office.

"Good morning, Major-General MacArthur," he smiled, bright and cheery. "Gather the troops. I want to destroy Manila immediately."

—

Notes:

This is set in October 1899, during those months when there were no battles or skirmishes between the two armies. On the first day of November, the Americans launched a major attack on the Filipinos. This attack happened in San Fabian, Pangasinan, not in Manila, but let's forget about that.

Major-General MacArthur is, of course, Arthur MacArthur Jr., who was a major military figure during the Philippine-American War. I also claim artistic license in hinting that the American camp was in Bulacan because it probably wasn't.

Alfred's comments about Manila looking like Mexico are based on a comment by former president Manuel L. Quezon when he visited Mexico back in 1937: "Everything was the same." He meant that very, very affectionately.

Here's a nifty map of modern Manila. Alfred and Patton start out in Quiapo, which is basically the heart of downtown Manila. Alfred runs all the way to Muelle del Rey, which, coincidentally, happens to be the same place where the Jones Bridge stands today. Alfred and Phili take the tranvia to Binondo, Manila's business district and home to the world's oldest Chinatown.

The names of the store owners and vendors that Phili talks about are references to assorted media in Philippine pop culture. Pepito is a reference to Pepito Manaloto, a long-time comedy show about a man who won the lotto. Mang Tomas (Mang being an informal way to refer to a male adult older than you) is the name of a popular brand of gravy. Aling Nena (Aling being an informal way to refer to a female adult older than you) is a reference to the song Tindahan ni Aling Nena, about a boy who falls in love with a storeowner's daughter.

The garland of white jasmines that Phili puts around Alfred's neck are supposed to be sampaguitas, our national flower. They're usually sold near churches and are given as a sign of respect.

I have no idea if there are actually empanadas and valenciana sold somewhere in Binondo, but let's jot that down to artistic license. But these are very much Filipino foods that were adapted from Spanish foods, which is why Phili brings it up when Alfred asks about his family.

The old friend that Phili keeps talking about is Jose Rizal, our national hero. He is primarily known for being a great writer, whose novels inspired the Philippine War for Independence, and for being killed for it. He is also known for being having a long list of lovers, many of them not even Filipino. Lesser known is the fact that he visited America, hated it, went on a train ride with an American, and hated it. He wrote a whole diary entry about how much he didn't like America and Americans. He had also predicted that out of all the world powers, it would be America who would probably take an interest in conquering the Philippines when Spain was out of the picture. Go figure. Rizal was also affectionately known by his nickname, Pepe.

I imagine Phili to be particularly proficient in arnis, which is also known as kali or eskrima. It's a kind of Filipino martial art, most easily recognizable as that one martial art where everyone is dual-wielding a pair of sticks. The sticks are actually for training. Traditionally, arnis is fought by dual-wielding knives or swords, and it's meant to be quick and efficient in defending, attacking, disarming, and killing. Phili's fictional ornately designed knife is inspired by this very real ornately designed knife. The detail of the eight-rayed sun is a reference to the eight-rayed sun in the Philippine flag.

Lastly (phew!), some Tagalog to English translations!

Hijo, padaan naman po - Young boy, kindly let me pass Pasensya na po, lolo! Hindi kasi taga-rito - Sorry, grandfather*! He's not from around here. Lolo literally means grandfather but is a general way to refer to any elderly man regardless of any actual blood relation. Amang bayan - Fatherland

#hws #hws america #hws philippines #usph #amephil #hetalia philippines #hetalia america #aph philippines #aph america #historical hetalia #mine

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dfroza · 1 year

Text

A starting point of the Church

(the Body of Messiah the eternal Son and King)

it is impossible for the Body to be divided, or for Love to be a Kingdom divided.

people stray, but Love doesn’t change its True nature.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 16th chapter of the book of Matthew:

They came to Him together, a band of Pharisees and a band of Sadducees, trying to trick and trap Him.

They asked Him for a sign from heaven.

And then Jesus left them and went away.

When next the disciples crossed the Sea of Galilee, they forgot to bring any bread with them.

Jesus: Be careful; avoid the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees.

The disciples were not quite sure what Jesus meant, so they discussed His warning among themselves.

Disciples: He must mean not to buy any bread from a baker who associates with the Pharisees or Sadducees. He must have given us this warning because we showed up here without any bread.

Jesus knew what the disciples were saying among themselves, and He took them to task.

Jesus then went to Caesarea Philippi.

Jesus (to His disciples): Who do people say the Son of Man is?

Disciples: Some say John the Baptist. And some say Elijah. And some say Jeremiah or one of the other prophets.

Jesus: And you? Who do you say that I am?

Peter: You are the Anointed One. You are the Son of the living God.

And Jesus ordered His disciples to keep these teachings secret.

Jesus: You must tell no one that I am the Anointed.

As Jesus spoke of the things to come, Peter took Him aside. Sad and confused, and maybe a little bit prideful, Peter chastised Jesus.

Peter: No, Lord! Never! These things that You are saying—they will never happen to You!

Jesus (turning to Peter): Get away from Me, Satan!

The Book of Matthew, Chapter 16 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice translation:

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 12th chapter of the book of Job with Job’s response to the advice of his friends:

In responding to his friends’ collective accusation of his guilt, Job finally spoke.

Job (sarcastically to his friends): Surely, surely, my discerning friends, you are the ones!

And when you pass away, the sum total of all wisdom will perish from the earth.

I have a mind as good as yours.

Don’t think I am so far beneath you!

After all, who doesn’t know all about these things?

Who isn’t acquainted with the pedestrian platitudes you’ve trotted out?

As for me—the one who called upon God and whom God answered—

now, I am pitiful, laughable, a just and upright joke.

Those who have it easy may easily scorn the unfortunate;

they have their contempt already prepared for those whose feet slip.

Ironically, there is peace inside the tents of the raiders,

and those who upset God seem to live safe and secure;

They carry their gods around in their hands.

However, call on the animals to teach you;

the birds that sail through the air are not afraid to tell you the truth.

Engage the earth in conversation; it’s happy to share what it knows.

Even the fish of the sea are wise enough to explain it to you.

In fact, which part of creation isn’t aware,

which doesn’t know the Eternal’s hand has done this?

His hand cradles the life of every creature on the face of the earth;

His breath fills the nostrils of humans everywhere.

Listen! Aren’t we made to be discriminating:

our ears testing wisdom, our mouths tasting food?

But you tell me, “With age comes wisdom,

and a long life grants understanding.”

With God is the sum total of all wisdom and of all power;

His is the greatest of plans and the deepest of comprehensions.

So, then, what God tears down cannot be built back up;

the man He shuts up cannot be released.

If God withholds the rains and stops the streams from flowing, the earth suffers drought;

if He unleashes too much, the lands are ravaged by flood.

He is strong, and sound wisdom belongs to Him:

whether one deceives or is deceived, he is under God’s control.

He leads the counselors off as captives, barefoot and stripped;

He makes a mockery of judges.

He strips off the royal sashes of kings

and ties them at the waist, making them slaves as well.

He leads the priests away barefoot

and defeats the long-incumbent men of power.

He robs trusted advisors of speech;

He steals discretion from elders.

He heaps contempt on rulers,

and loosens the bind of alliances among world powers.

Aspects of His deep wisdom that were hidden away,

He shows in plain sight;

darkness is brought into the light.

He builds the strength of nations, only to crush them—

increases their population across the earth, only to scatter them again.

He divests each nation’s leaders of understanding,

and causes them to wander aimlessly with nowhere to go,

Until finally they grope in the dark, the light having departed,

and He lets them stumble and stagger like drunks.

The Book of Job, Chapter 12 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Sunday, may 7 of 2023 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about our “humanness”:

To be a human being is a paradox, caught between the realms of the infinite and nothingness; a union of endless possibility yet terminating limitation. Man desires to live forever but is conscious that one day he will die. He is an incongruity - a mix of flesh and spirit, saint and sinner, good and evil, angel and animal... In light of this, a spirituality that demands for us to be always happy, always "up," is dishonest, since the truth is grounded in what is real, and that includes both the miserable and the tragic as well as the joyful and sublime. It's not that there is no difference between good and evil within the heart, but both are part of who we really are. It is the bittersweet struggle, the process of walking as "saintly sinners," "holy fools," "dying immortals," and so on, that defines us. We must embrace our brokenness, in order to become whole; there is no healing without true confession of our need. Therefore we come to the paradoxical cross - the place of utter pain, separation, and death - to find healing, acceptance and life.

Please note this is not to deny that we are to walk by the Spirit and reckon ourselves dead to sin in the Messiah (Rom. 6:11); however, far from being a sign of a lack of spirituality, personal struggle is a sign of its presence.... Only those who are conscious of the tragic, who are haunted by the disparity between what "is" and what "ought" to be; only those who are divided within themselves, torn by inner tension and conflict - those aware that they are both in this world but not of it - sojourners, a long long way from home, homesick for the heavenly city, who inwardly ache and yearn to be fully redeemed - only these, it may be said, are consciously spiritual. After all, the worldling, the self-confident and self-possessed, rarely desire deliverance from themselves and are often content to rationalize the state of their soul; the spiritual person, on the other hand, senses a profound incompletion, a lack, a fracture that runs straight through the core of reality, a breach that needs to be healed...

I would utterly die of despair over myself were it not for the truth that it is not about who I am that is as important as about who He is...

There is great joy, of course, and we are indeed to “rejoice in the Lord always,” but there is also real pain in our lives, and I'd rather be in the company of those mourning the mess they have made of their lives than with someone who thinks they've got it all together... "We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet well known; as dying, and behold, we live; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, yet possessing everything" (2 Cor. 6:8-10).

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

Personal Note: I want to express my heartfelt appreciation to each of you who stand with this ministry and encourage me to continue... You are in my prayers, and may it please the LORD our God to draw you ever closer to Him through the grace we share in Yeshua our glorious Savior. Amen, thank you again, and Shabbat Shalom...

========

Psalm 41:4 reading:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm41-4-jjp.mp3

Hebrew reading page:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm41-4-lesson.pdf

5.5.23 • Facebook

from yesterday’s email by Israel365

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

May 7, 2023

When to Pray

“Continue in prayer, and watch in the same with thanksgiving.” (Colossians 4:2)

There is no set time to pray, for it is always appropriate. Our text tells us to “continue” in prayer, and this is the same word as in Romans 12:12, which urges us to be “instant in” prayer. In fact, the admonition of 1 Thessalonians 5:17 is to “pray without ceasing.”

Children should pray, as did little Samuel. When the Lord called him, he could answer: “Speak; for thy servant heareth” (1 Samuel 3:10). Young people should pray, as Timothy, who was exhorted by Paul to make “supplications, prayers, intercessions, and giving of thanks...for all men” (1 Timothy 2:1). Adult men should pray, as did Paul himself, who could say to the Christians of Philippi that he was “always in every prayer of mine for you all making request with joy” (Philippians 1:4). Old men should pray, like Simeon, and old women, like Anna, who “served God with fastings and prayers night and day” (Luke 2:25, 36-37). And even dying men should pray, as did Stephen who, as he was being stoned to death, was also “calling upon God, and saying, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit” (Acts 7:59).

We can pray at dawn like David, who said: “My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O LORD; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto thee, and will look up” (Psalm 5:3). In a Philippian prison, “at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises unto God” (Acts 16:25). Daniel “kneeled upon his knees three times a day, and prayed” (Daniel 6:10). There is no time that is not a good time for prayer. One should pray in times of sorrow and also in times of joy, as did Hannah in both circumstances (1 Samuel 1:15; 2:1).

It is a most marvelous privilege that we have through Christ that we are able to speak to the infinite God in prayer and to know that He hears and cares. Therefore, pray! HMM

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karlajoyner · 3 years

Text

Stressed Out (Sunset Curve x Reader)

A/n: So starting off I've made a master list that I'm posting real soon for you all to access my stories without the scrolling. In order to post it I have to update my post about my requests/taglist and soon because I do get a lot on that comments that ask for more Charlie or more Owen and I wanna give you guys that but I also wanna make sure that I get through the requests that you guys send me with plots and storylines. It just makes it like a thousand times easier to have something to work off of. Opposed to me coming up with my own storylines that I have to do a lot of reading on my own to get my gears working! But again thank you guys for the comments! And finally I wanna say thank you for sending in your requests and your feed back. It is much appreciated!

Disclaimer: Alex is bi in this one not taking away from the fact that he's gay in the show it just runs best for this storyline! There is no Bobby btw! Haven’t written a foursome with 3 guys before so it might suck ass. And it’s not much but it’s something so enjoy my fellow fantoms!

Warnings: Smut (18+)

————

I internally groaned walking into school. I wasn't the worst student. But by far I certainly was not the best. Which is why I had a reputation since I first arrived to high school.

That and I was in a band with 3 of my best friends. Who all happened to be guys. Hot guys at that.

Which automatically made me the schools slut. It was fine with me but the boys didn't like the label.

No matter how true it was.

"Hey y/n heard you gave Mike Dawson a blowjob this weekend. Just when I thought you couldn't be anymore of a slut"

"Mind your fucking business Hayley" I heard a familiar voice speak up for me. A smirk spreading on my face as I felt an arm wrap around my shoulder.

"Did she come to you right after Patterson? What's it like to be her sloppy seconds?" Hayley Becker spoke with a wicked evil smirk plastered on her face.

"Fucking amazing actually. God the long nights we have. It's so great" I heard another familiar voice from my left. A large hand intertwining my fingers with theirs. She rolled her eyes clearly not expecting my boys to speak up for me. But then again neither was I.

"Slut"

"Skank"

"Whore"

"Bitch" I spoke as the bell rang.

"Just watch your back y/l/n" She said before turning around and walking away.

"She will!" Reggie shouted after the dark haired girl. The three of us expectantly looking at our bandmate.

"What? I didn't even get to tell her we would too" I sighed shaking my head at the boy.

"Thanks for sticking up for me guys but I can do that myself"

"We know. But your our girl. And apart of this band so we're kinda obligated" Alex spoke as the four of us walked to first period.

"Your really not"

"Come on y/n you know we're still gonna do it"

"I know and I only let you today cause I can't deal with that bitch at this time of day. I mean seriously it's 8:00 o'clock in the morning. Does she not have anything better to do than spread rumors about me?"

"Apparently not. So you and Jake Mills behind the church?" Reggie asked.

"Didn't happen considering I was with you idiots all weekend. You know your the only guys I touch" I bit my lip hearing the three of them chuckle.

"Yeah well it better stay that way. I don't wanna hear Trevor O'Connor bragging about banging you in the boys locker room again"

"Schools golden boy?" I questioned.

"He tried starting the rumor yesterday during p.e but we quickly shut it down" Reggie explained as I stopped a few feet away from the science room to continue talking.

"So Hayleys boyfriend wants to bang me? Wow"

"Yeah but don't even fucking thing about" Luke said pushing me up against the lockers beside us.

"I wasn't. Unless you guys piss me off" I grinned pushing him off of me. Opening the door a few feet away and walking in.

"Gentlemen. And Ms. y/l/n. Your late"

"Sorry Mrs. Daniels we had to deal with something"

"And did this something give you tardy passes"

"It did not"

"Detention. All of you"

"That's nothing new to them Mrs. Daniels"

"Shut the fuck up Hayley" I scoffed taking my seat beside Alex.

"Ladies stop it before I send you to the principal"

"Yes Mrs. Daniels" Hayley and I spoke in sync.

"I can't believe Luke dated her" I whispered towards Alex glaring at the blonde bimbo.

"Jealous?"

"Why would I be? I already have him. And I could have her boyfriend too if I wanted him" I said taking down the notes on the board.

"Mrs. Daniels I can't focus on the lesson because they're distracting me with their talking" Hayley spoke pointing an accusing finger at us.

"We are not!" I shouted sitting up.

"Yes you are probably talking about who your gonna whore around with next"

"Yeah it's your boyfriend if you don't check yourself Hayley"

"Trevor would never do that!"

"I'm pretty sure he would"

"Ladies principal office right now" I scoffed standing up.

"Wait!" Luke shouted standing up. Everyone's heads whipping toward him. He made his way over to me groping my left boob.

I scowled at how hard he squeezed glaring at him.

"Dickhead" I muttered.

"Mr. Patterson! You too principals office" We looked at the other two boys expectantly. Alex immediately rolling his eyes before standing up.

"We could do this the easy way or the hard way Mrs. Daniels"

"If she goes we go"

"I cannot send you two away for absolutely no reason Reginald" Mrs. Daniels spoke challenging the boys.

I close my eyes preparing myself for what came next. Alex was quick to slap my ass while Reggie pulled me in for a sweet kiss. Immediately earning gasps from my classmates.

"Now I can do it. Office all of you! And detention today after school!"

I groaned walking out of the principals office with my bandmates.

"Detention for 3 weeks. Seriously?"

"To make it worse we have to spend 2 of those with Hayley" I spoke seeing the blonde talking with Trevor just a few feet away. Being sure to send them a harsh glare, I finally turned back to the boys.

"Hey you'll be with us everything's gonna be fine" Reggie said throwing an arm around my shoulder leading me away to our next period. That we conveniently had together.

"No it won't. I also have to chaperone the stupid homecoming with Hayley" I cried wanting nothing more than for the day to be done for.

That afternoon we spent in detention not leaving until late afternoon. Due to the fact that my detention went on longer than the boys.

I walked into the studio behind Luke not really in the mood to practice.

"What's wrong y/n/n? You seem down" Reggie asked as I plopped back onto the couch.

"I'm just tired is all. And a little stressed out"

"But we've gotta practice baby, for our next gig. Sunset Curves so gonna rock that book club" Luke said picking up his six string. I watched as Alex and Reggie sent him a glare, the boy immediately putting it back down.

"Or we could take a day off" He spoke coming to sit to my left while Reggie was on my right.

"That sounds amazing" I mumbled feeling Alex begin to massage my shoulders from behind. I craned my neck allowing him more access. Now feeling a little more relaxed than before.

"So tell us y/n/n why are you stressed out?" Luke asked as I shut my eyes.

"Well for starters I'm so gonna get my ass beat when I get home" I sighed feeling Reggie begin to rub my arm to comfort me. Something he did often with how anxious I got.

"And there's just nothing I want to do more than run your ex girlfriend over with a bulldozer" I mumbled hearing a chuckle escape their lips.

"Sounds like a plan" Alex said as Luke intertwined our fingers.

"We'll make a day out of it. Just us four and a bulldozer" He joked making me giggle. The laugh got caught in my throat as I felt a soft kiss on the side of my neck.

"Seriously guys? Not today. No way" I spoke opening my eyes.

"We just wanna help you relax"

"That's what you said last time. I couldn't walk right for 2 days" I mumbled the last part.

"We'll be gentle" Reggie spoke.

"I know you will Reg. It's them I'm worried about" I spoke earning a pointed look from Alex.

"Okay Luke"

"Am I that rough?" He asked a frown forming on his face.

"Sometimes" I admitted feeling a little bad.

"Gee I'm sorry baby" Luke spoke kissing the back of my hand.

"It's okay. I like it when I'm in the mood" I said watching as Alex walked around the couch.

"Well then boys why don't we help our girl relax for today" Alex said bending down in front of me. I bit my lip as he spread my legs open feeling a slight breeze hit my covered core.

"Well there's no need for your skirt or these" Alex spoke toying with the waistbands of both my skirt and panties.

I shimmied out of them with ease leaving me exposed to my best friends like I'd been many times before.

"She just gets prettier every time"

"And wetter"

"Mind if I taste baby?" Luke asked. I nodded my head, watching as he dipped his long fingers in between my folds. Moaning as he pulled them back up to see them glistening with my cum.

"So good" He whispered putting them in his mouth.

"Okay I want a taste now" Alex said opening my legs a little wider.

"Guys. A little help" I huffed as Luke and Reggie hooked themselves on each of my thighs to keep me still.

"Please" I begged getting more turned on by the second. The blonde didn't hesitate to latch onto my core. A loud moan escaping my lips.

"Oh fuck" I struggled to keep still as he moved his tongue skillfully through my folds. Lapping it inside and out as moans fell from my lips.

I whimpered as Reggie slowly began to rub my clit making the pleasure intensify.

"Use y-you're f-fingers" I mustered out Alex obeying my request sticking two fingers in my wet pussy. Picking up the pace. My eyes screwed shut as a familiar feeling of bliss coursed through me.

"Look at me baby" Luke muttered turning my head to look at him with his free hand. I opened my eyes looking into his blue ones covered with complete lust.

He was quick to smash his lips onto mine as the other two worked on building up my orgasm. Which wasn't far at the pace Alex was working on me.

"Holy shit!" I panted pulling away and throwing my head back at the amazing sensation of my orgasm hitting.

"You squirted princess" Alex grinned wiping away the liquids dribbling down his chin. I giggled at his swollen pink lips placing a quick peck to them.

"What now baby?" Luke asked rubbing his hand on my thigh.

I looked at the three boys before discarding any remaining clothes I had left. Watching as their eyes raked me up and down like many times before.

"Reg can you just fuck me today. I really need gentle" I begged as his cheeks turned bright red whenever I asked him to do something. Whether it was sexual or not.

"Sure beautiful" He smiled lopsidedly pushing his lips onto mine.

I sighed in content as he pushed me down on the couch. My head landing on Luke's lap giving me a little leverage.

"She's something else" Alex spoke to no one in particular.

"Your telling me" Reggie panted pulling away to undo his belt and jeans. I bit my lip looking up at the boy with the blue eyes. Who no surprise had a smirk plastered on his face.

"Condom" I heard Alex say presumably to Reggie. But I was too entrance in Luke's gaze wanting to include him. Upon hearing a ripping of a package I glance back at the boy who was hovering above me.

"I can do something for you after if you want" I bit my lip speaking towards Luke.

"It's okay baby. It's about you today" He said moving his hand down from my collarbone to my boob.

Reggie and I moaned simultaneously as he slowly entered me. Immediately stretching me out.

"So tight" He muttered beginning to move at a steady pace.

A squeal escaping my lips as Luke pinched my nipples paying close attention to each of them. He'd always been a boob guy.

I pulled Reggie down towards me our lips meeting in the middle as his speed began to increase.

Then there they were again. Fingers were now rubbing circles on my clit presumably Alex's sending my body into pure ecstasy.

I moaned loudly into Reggies mouth as I felt myself my inner walls clench around him. Earning a groan from the bassist. His thrust becoming more sloppy.

"Shit. Shit. Oh fuck" He cursed as his orgasm hit. Mine coming seconds after.

"Holy fuck Reg" I panted coming down from my high.

"That was pretty fucking hot princess" Alex spoke as Reggie got off of me to go throw away the condom.

"I try" I joked sitting up. Luke immediately removing his muscle tee and handing it to me.

"You do know this isn't gonna cover much up right?" I questioned him putting it on anyway.

"Who said we wanted you to cover up baby" He said pulling me under his arm. I sighed contently placing my hands on his bare torso.

"Anyways Reg why don't you go run her a bath inside the house" Alex suggested throwing me my panties that had been thrown onto the lazy boy.

"Got it!" Reggie said coming over and placing a chaste kiss to my lips before running out of the garage.

"I get to clean her up in the shower. Called it" Luke said as Alex wrapped his arms around my waist.

"Just as long as I get to put her to bed"

"Guys I've orgasmed twice today give me a break"

"Are you feeling more relaxed princess?"

Alex asked grinning at me.

"Much. Now if we could do that consistently for the next 2 weeks then I might be able to get through detention with Hayley without ripping her head off" I spoke earning a laugh from the two boys. Both of them knowing well that I wasn't joking.

————

Up Next: Carrie Wilson x Reader

Owen Patrick Joyner x Reader

Charlie Gillespie x Reader

Alex x Male Reader

Luke Patterson x Reader

Charlie Gillespie x Reader

————

@lolychu @headheartbellarke @bookish0918 @kcd15 @ifilwtmfc @moviesbooksandfandoms @lovesanimals @lavender-writer @kaitieskidmore1 @morganayennefertyrell @iloveteenwolf @ghostofmgg

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willowbird · 4 years

Note

Congrats!! If you want, how about the first time Ronan sleeps over at St. Agnes? Like the pining!!

Yay! I was SO EXCITED to get a Ronan/Adam ask!! I may have gone a little overboard with the pining, but I hope you still like it <3 <3 This is actually my first Pynch ficlet! I hope you like it! Lemme know if you think I should post it on AO3 ^^; Since it’s my first time actually writing them and I haven’t read the books as many times as I’ve read AFTG I hope it’s okay!

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Ronan bounced the rubber ball against the sloped ceiling from where he lay on Adam’s bed, waiting for the other boy to get out of the shower. He’d been out, just driving around with no discernable purpose or direction, when it came around that time for Parrish to get out of work so he’d swung by and picked him up. There’d been no reason to say no when Adam had asked if he wanted to come up for a while. After all, he and Adam were friends -- no matter how much they seemed to bicker -- and Ronan liked being at St. Agnes. Sometimes, it was honestly more satisfying to be there than it was to be at Monmouth. Nothing beat being at the Barnes, but still -- St. Agness had a particular energy, it always had.

After all, Ronan Lynch was no stranger to St. Agnes. The hours he’d spent in the quiet pews could stack together to build a universe apart from the rest of the world, a separate realm that even the horrors inside his own mind couldn’t touch. And yet, since Adam came to live there, the hallowed halls of that familiar place had developed a completely new,,, feeling that Ronan had no idea how to feel about.

A part of Ronan wanted to be pissed off about it.

A bigger part of Ronan was fascinated in the way that the travelers in his father’s stories had always been fascinated by the glow of will-o’-the-wisps between the branches of the deep woods and frosted bogs. The peace that the church had once given him was spiked with something else now, something that fizzed like pop-rocks under his skin, and as annoying as that was -- he really couldn’t say that he hated it.

Considering he knew that the fizz of... enchantment was most definitely caused by the boy now living in that small, slanted room above the church? No, he really couldn’t say that he hated it at all.

Not to say that Adam I’ll-be-independent-if-it-kills-me Parrish didn’t make him want to punch his fist through a fucking brick wall -- because he absolutely did. But there was also something... undeniably right about the boy taking up residence above the church. After all, the infuriating pest already lived full time inside his head, he might as well sleep in the building that housed Ronan’s soul as well. At least he was fucking consistent.

The shabby door connecting the bedroom to the tiny bathroom creaked open and Ronan caught the ball on its rebound and didn’t throw it again, instead turning his head to look as Adam entered the room.

He did not expect to see Adam walk into the bedroom in nothing but a towel and instantly looked back up at the ceiling, throwing the ball again with a bit more force than necessary. Only his quick reflexes saved him from losing a fucking eye. He tried not to think about the way the other boy’s skin had been flushed pink from the heat of the shower, his hair damp and pushed haphazardly back from his face, exposing cheekbones and eyes that...

Okay, he tried -- that didn’t mean he succeeded.

“Sorry, it’ll just be a minute. I forgot to grab something to change into.” Adam’s voice was soft, lilted with the Henrietta accent in the way that only happened when he was either really emotional or perfectly at ease. Ronan would never tell him how much he loved hearing the edge of gravel and wild country grass around his vowels, not on pain of death, but that didn’t make it any less true.

“Take your time, Parrish. I don’t fucking care.” No one needed to know that the sigh that followed was relief at how nonchalant he had managed to make the words, instead of the dry irritation it sounded like.

Adam huffed a soft laugh and Ronan could feel the eye-roll being directed at him. He didn’t bother to hide his grin, just gave it a bit more teeth as he tossed the ball up and caught it again.

It was only another few minutes before the door creaked open again and Adam came out -- this time fully clothed. Ronan caught the ball and sat up, scooting over so that Adam could come over and sit down, which the other boy did with a flourish and a groan.

“Ugh, I just do not wanna do homework.”

“Then don’t.” Ronan shrugged and bounced the ball on the floor this time, angling it slightly so that when it rebounded it went toward Adam.

Adam caught it easily and bounced it back, timed perfectly with a familiar scoff. “Some of us care about school, you know.” Ronan waited for a beat, but when Adam didn’t follow that up with chastisement or prod for him to start caring about school, he gave a small shrug.

“Sure, but tomorrow is Saturday. It isn’t like you’ve got anything due tomorrow. You just got off work, learn how to fucking relax.” He caught the ball and held it for a moment, tilting his head back as he mimicked a thoughtful expression. “Oh, oh that’s right, you don’t know how to relax.” He gave a deep, mournful sigh and bounced the ball back at him. “Shame, for man so smart to be missing such a vital real-life skill.”

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious,” Adam sniped back, but his words were sharpened more with amusement than irritation.

“Oh, I know. I’m a regular comedy special,” Ronan agreed readily. “But that, actually, was not a joke.” He could press here. He could remind Adam that his whole world didn’t need to be as rigid as he was making it to be. He could tell him that he could afford to take a break every now and then, that he deserved to chill the fuck out. But if he did that he risked sounding too much like Gansey or repeating an argument that neither of them probably felt like jumping into tonight. So instead, he caught the ball and cocked his head, studying the other boy curiously.

Then he asked, “Where would you go? If you could go anywhere in the world with no consequences. What would you do? And not to accomplish anything great or whatever -- I’m talking just for fun.”

Adam held up his hand for the ball and Ronan tossed it to him. His eyes caught on the way he began to roll it between his palms, those long fingers curling around it, bony wrists twisting to pass it from one hand to the other. Ronan had the sudden urge to brush his lips over the prominent bump in each wrist. Not in a kiss -- but just to feel the protrusion against his mouth.

“That’s pretty broad,” Adam said with a hum, oblivious to his distraction. “There’s a lot of places I could go.”

“That’s the point. There’s no consequences, no limits. You could go anywhere.” He dragged his gaze away from those hands but this time they caught on the exposed bit of Adam’s collarbone on the way up to his face. “So pick a place, Parrish. Never known you to be so indecisive.”

Adam’s eyes dropped from where they’d been thoughtfully searching the ceiling, locking onto his as he flashed a sharp smirk. That expression cut him right between the ribs, twisted, and nestled in nice and deep for the winter -- because this, this was the Adam Parrish he couldn’t stop thinking about. Everyone seemed to underestimate him. Everyone thought he was so soft, thought he was so polite and sweet and yeah sure, he was all of those things, but that was only one part of him. It was just the surface setting to the multiverse that was Adam Parrish, and this sharp, biting, cunning side of him was closer to his core. Ronan knew he was one of the only people who knew that side was there, and was probably the only person who truly understood how much a part of him that facet was.

“All right,” he said, his voice smooth and low and Ronan had the distinct certainty that if that sound were a drink it would be a spiked mulled cider, husky and tart in a way that made your head light and your chest warm. “I’ll play. But you go first. Where would you go? Somewhere outside of the States,” he added, before Ronan could say the Barnes -- because he was apparently that predictable.

Ronan rolled his eyes, but shrugged and slipped off the bed, laying on the floor beside the bed and pillowing his hands under his head as he thought. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Adam stretch out on the bed on his stomach, hugging a pillow and using it to prop his head up a bit as he looked down at Ronan. The feel of Adam’s full and undivided attention on him did things to his pulse he didn’t want to think about.

“Probably Ireland,” he finally said after a long moment of thought that was torn up and distributed between flickers of distraction caused by Adam’s silhouette in his peripheral, from the way his damp hair was falling into his eyes now that it was beginning to dry all the way to the slump of his broad shoulders and the sharp jut of his elbows against the cushions. There just really wasn’t any part of Adam Parrish that Ronan didn’t want to look at.

A soft huff of laughter had Ronan turning his head to look at him straight on and the amusement on the other boy’s face told him that he was being predictable again. Ronan frowned -- he didn’t like being predictable.

“Don’t give me that look. Tell me why, Ronan Lynch.” There was a teasing note in Adam’s voice, and if it were anyone else that would have brought Ronan’s back up -- would have made him snap his teeth and snarl. Coming from Adam, he had to give himself a moment so he didn’t trip over his own foolish tongue.

Somehow he managed to avoid that humiliation. Instead, he told Adam about Ireland through his father’s eyes. He told himself he didn’t care about the softening of Adam’s smile, that it did absolutely nothing to him to watch the other boy close his eyes and rest his cheek on the pillow, leaving himself vulnerable as he dipped into his own thoughts. Rather, he focused on the stories he was telling Adam, reliving them as he did his best impression of his father’s cadence and storyteller’s hum. He told him stories about the fair folk, the fey and the night creatures. He told him about the magic of each valley and river and dale. He shared his favorite tales about cheeky brownies and powerful, dangerous sidhe that became captivated by the bright, fleeting magic of a human’s ability to create.

Adam listened to each one, and that smile...? It never faded, not even once.

“It’s your turn,” Ronan finally said, when his heart was full and his lungs tight -- torn between the memories caused by those stories and these newer, more electric feelings caused by the proximity of Adam Parrish’s smile.

“Mm, I think... I think that if I were to go anywhere in the world I’d want to see high mountains. High mountains and dark woods. Deep lakes. Flowers that seem to have their own language between the brightness of their colors and the way they sway toward and away from each other in a wind that affects them and them alone. Butterflies that cast shadows like birds of prey...” As he spoke his words drew further and further apart, his tone drifting as fatigue from the long day dragged him down toward sleep.

Ronan held his breath, almost wanting to prod him for more -- because it was rare to hear Adam talk... well, like a dreamer. Adam was a boy who kept himself grounded so deeply in reality it was sometimes painful for Ronan to be around him. This secret side of him, this side of dreams and hope and wonder... it was a vulnerable side that he knew Adam wouldn’t be indulging in if he weren’t perfectly comfortable and probably way more tired than he’d originally thought he was. It was a side of him that Ronan had always known existed (you couldn’t chase a dead Welsh king without being at least part whimsy, no matter how charismatic Gansey was) but one that Adam kept very close to the chest.

“Mm... Ronan?” Adam’s voice was soft and sleep-slurred, his eyelashes shielding the color of his eyes, he was barely able to keep them open.

“Yeah?” Ronan’s voice was rough, even to his own ears, but Adam didn’t seem to notice.

“Do you think a place like that actually exists?” The question was light, but there was a raw, sweet shard of hope beneath the words that cut Ronan in a tender space below his throat.

“Yes,” Ronan promised with certainty, not even needing to think about it -- not even needing to question it. “I know it does.”

Adam’s eyes dropped all the way closed and he smiled, sighing in relief. That sigh transitioned directly into the deep, slow breaths of sleep.

Ronan knew that he should get up. Sleeping on the floor would give him one hell of a backache, and Adam hadn’t said he could stay over. He should get up and stretch, then drive back to Monmouth, where he should crawl into his own bed for the night -- or maybe stay up longer and bother Gansey, because fuck knew that guy didn’t understand the concept of a regulated sleeping schedule.

Instead, Ronan watched Adam until his own eyes just couldn’t stay open any longer. Then, from the floor of St. Agnes, beside the boy who called to him like a fire-sprite, Ronan dreamed. He dreamed of dark woods and flowers that seemed to have their own language, between their bright colors and the way they swayed in their own self-contained breezes. He dreamed of butterflies that cast shadows like birds of prey. He dreamed of safe places even in the dark woods -- and when Ronan dreamed... well, when Ronan dreamed, reality itself seemed to listen.

#asks #anon #trc #pynch #pynch fic #fanfic #adam parrish #ronan lynch #pining #trc fanfic #adam parrish x ronan lynch #sleepovers!#my writing #100 followers #the raven cycle

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missmitchieg · 3 years

Text

Alex, Not Alexis

When Alex Mercer was born, his doctor called him a baby girl. His parents dressed him up in a pretty pink onesie with white stripes and took him home. They named him Alexis Abigail Mercer. They liked to call him Lexi for short.

At a year and a half old, Alex was sat in the living room watching Sesame Street while his mother, Rebecca cooked dinner and his father, George sat reading the newspaper. He smiled and giggled when Suzanne Farrell appeared in her pretty pink tutu and danced around like a ballerina. He clapped as she twirled and stood in fifth position, and Rebecca decided then that her little "Alexis" was going to take ballet lessons when "she" turned two.

At two years and a month, Alex was put into his first ballet lesson, clad in a pretty pink tutu, just like Suzanne. He was taught how to stand in position, how to move his arms and hands so he could dance, just like her. He smiled proudly at himself as he twirled in his little tutu, his proud mother watching with happy tears in her eyes.

When Alex started school a few years later, he was nervous to be in a new environment. He's always been a little anxious about trying new things and about being away from mommy and daddy. The little boys and girls at school already seeming cliqued up and excluding him did not calm him down.

For a few years, he would come home from school upset and crying because the other kids laughed at him for panicking, needing his Epi-pen, or whatever bad thing happened that set him off like a boy pulling his pigtails. When he didn't, he would tell his mom he was sick, because he did sort of feel sick, and ask for chicken soup and a mom-approved show on the TV.

But when he felt alright, he would just go and suffer the consequences. Until one day in third grade when he met this boy named Luke Patterson. Luke was nice to him and would yell at bullies for being mean because "She's not doing anything bad! Just leave her alone!" and run to tell a teacher to get them in trouble.

"Thank you, Luke, for making them go away." Alex would tell him and push his bangs out of his face, behind his ears. He was sort of starting to hate his long bangs and long hair. But he loved his pink clothes.

"No problem!" Luke would respond and grab his hand, and they would take off together in search of crickets and grasshoppers to chase.

They stayed best friends all though out the rest of their elementary years, and into middle school. His parents loved Luke for Alex. A little boy who shared their sweet "Alexis'" faith and was nice to "her"? He seemed absolutely perfect. Until they got to know him.

See, Luke was sort of a stubborn, rebellious boy who liked rock bands and electric guitar. It only got worse when the pair met Bobby Wilson in the seventh grade and introduced them to Reggie Peters, who wore leather jackets and Bobby only encouraged Reggie, Luke and Alex sneaking out to see bands they liked, and who called their sweet baby Alex. Little did they know it was because Alex had asked the three of them to call him that.

Alex laughed as he stood in the arcade with Bobby, Reggie and Luke, beating Reggie at Street Fighter for the third time that day. Their arcade trips had soon become a regular thing, and they had learned to ignore the strange looks they got from the fact of the four of them being three boys in rebellious rocker boy garb and a girl in a baby pink hoodie, grey baggy shorts, hair shoved under a black snapback, and Nike sneakers.

"Way to go, Alexis!" Reggie cheered him on, fist in the air in celebration at his best friend winning yet again.

Alex blinked and felt his smile falter just a little, giving Reggie a fist bump. "Thanks, buddy."

Reggie took notice of her smile shrinking, though, and frowned a little, tilting his head. "Hey, you ok? Something bothering you?"

"What? No, I'm fine. Just-" Alex stopped to take a deep breath, shoving the anxiety building up in his stomach down. He knew his friends would be fine with such a small change, so why did the idea of asking this of them make him want to throw up the pizza they just ate? "I- Can you guys stop calling me Alexis? I don't like that name. I want to be called Alex." He admitted and bit his lip, bouncing on his heels.

"Oh, sure." Reggie shrugged like it was nothing.

"No problem, Alex." Luke agreed with a smile.

"Alex it is." Bobby nodded. "But is Lexi still ok?"

Alex considered it for a second and nodded with a smile. "Lexi is still ok, but thanks for asking first."

"Hey, we just want you to be comfortable, Alex." Bobby smiled and Alex chuckled, bumping shoulders with him. "Thanks, boys."

"Anything for you, Lexi." Reggie promised. "Besides, it would be weird of me to call you a name you don't like when I ask everyone to call me Reggie instead of Reginald. Just feels wrong." He said, scrunching up his face when he spoke his full name.

"Or Bobby instead of Robert." Bobby cringed.

"Or Luke instead of... Um, Lucy." Luke admitted and bit his lip, watching his best friend's reactions carefully.

"Luke fits you better." Alex told him, silently promising to keep his real name a secret from the rest of the world for all eternity, and he saw appreciation in Luke's eyes at that. So his best friend was both Christian and transgender (and maybe so was he). It didn't have to be a big deal. Luke was still Luke, and he would always be just Luke to Alex. He smiled, silently pointing his thumb at the game machine.

"I like Luke!" Reggie grinned, giving him a comforting pat on the back.

"Yeah, man. It sounds cool. Sounds like a rock star name." Bobby commented and Luke chuckled as he put another coin in the slot to play (and lose) again.

So it was settled. His boys called him Alex and Lexi and he called his boys Luke, Reggie and Bobby. It worked for them. It felt right.

He knew he couldn't just ask his parents to stop calling him the name they picked out that they loved so much, so he just didn't. And he definitely wasn't planning on ever telling them that he was pretty sure he was a boy like his best friends, not a girl like they had previously thought, because he'd heard the awful way his very conservative, very religious parents had talked about "disgusting queers and their sick desire to poison the youth and watch the world go up in flames".

So yeah, he was very much content with keeping it a secret until he turned eighteen and moved out so he could do whatever he wanted to, like cut his hair and legally change his name and get a whole new wardrobe that he didn't have to hide in the back of his closet behind pretty church dresses and ballet class tutus. Like his cool hoodies and pants and sneakers. He still loved the color pink. It was still his favorite. He was just a boy that liked pink. Not a girl. It didn't have to be a big deal.

And he did keep that secret, very well. For a while. Some punk kid at school told his parents and they told Alex's parents, who promptly threw a massive tantrum about having a daughter, not a son, and how they did not raise "Alexis" to be like this. How they were not going to raise a "queer" and Alex needed up to clean up "her" act or "she" could find another place to live because "she" could not stay there if "she" was going to be like that.

"And what if I like the way I am, dad? What if I like that I think I'm a boy, and like that I think I might like Luke?" Alex finally snapped and crossed his arms, and both of his parents were shocked into silence.

"Really, Alex?" Luke asked softly, uncharacteristically quiet for once. He looked up at Alex from the couch where the pair were previously finishing Math homework together, his eyes wide and hopeful.

Alex softened and gave Luke a little smile, nodding slightly. "Yeah, Luke."

"And Luke, how do you feel about our Alexis?" George sneered at Luke and sent him a bitter glare, almost daring the boy to challenge him, and Luke, well, he never said no to a dare or a challenge.

Luke pursed his lips at George and gave him a sickly sweet smile. "Well, I dunno who Alexis is, sir, but I do know that Alex is one of the coolest, smartest, most talented and amazing boys I've ever met." He answered, putting an emphasis on "Alex" and "boys" just to piss George off.

"Luke." Rebecca spoke up, fists clenched and eyes trained on Luke. "Say that again." She ordered slowly, as if asking him to speak again would change the words that came out of his mouth.

Luke scoffed, standing from the cough and dropping his text book to the floor. "I said, ma'am, that Alex is one of the cool, smartest, most talented and amazing boys I've ever met, and I like him, too." He smiled and took Alex's hand in his, giving it a comforting squeeze and smiling when Alex squeezed him right back.

"Get out of this house! Both of you!" George commanded, pointing toward the door.

"Bye!" Alex waved and walked out with Luke, as if this was something perfectly normal and fine, getting on his bicycle. "Let's head to Bobby's. Reggie's already there with him."

So now Alex was taking up residence in the Wilson garage. He guessed he really should've known they would find out some way or another. He wasn't openly telling people he was a boy named Alex, but he also was necessarily acting like the little ballerina princess people used to know as Alexis. No, now he was just that "girl" that always hid "her" hair under hats before just cutting it all off, and that "girl" that played the drums and hanged out in the arcade or played basketball with a bunch of guys.

Reggie came soon after, when his parents' fighting had just become too much for him to handle. Alex always felt bad and wished there was some way he could snap his fingers and magically have everything be fixed, but there was nothing he could do to help anyone. That didn't help his anxiety, either. The only thing that helped, was drumming. So he drummed, a lot.

The boys ended up forming a band that they called Sunset Curve. (Reggie came up with it. Reggie also designed their logo. Both things he was very proud of. And the boys loved it.) It took them a few years, Luke and Alex deciding they were better as friends, Luke moving into the garage, and some gigs at book clubs, but they were starting to get big. Big enough to play The Orpheum.

And then three of them ate some bad hot dogs.

Alex guessed the afterlife wasn't so terrible. Sure, he was dead and he couldn't eat pizza or Bobby's mom's famous meals anymore, but dying brought him and Luke and Reggie to Julie. With Julie came Ray, and Carlos, and Flynn. And sure, he couldn't actually talk to Ray or Carlos, but he could talk to Flynn with Julie's whiteboard or Julie relaying messages to them, so he had that.

And then came Willie.

Sweet, funny, handsome Willie that was nice to him, and answered his questions, and used the name Alex had asked him to. Sweet, funny, handsome Willie that showed him how to move objects by focusing his energy into his hands, and gave him a new coping mechanism for his anxiety. Sweet, funny, handsome Willie that liked to cause trouble with cops, and went by "they" and "them", which Alex would always respect, because he knew what it was like to be misgendered and he was never going to do that to his sweet Willie.

There was just one little thing bothering him on one random Saturday. He hadn't yet told Willie that he himself was trans. He was going to! He wasn't going to keep that a secret from someone sort of like him. He just hadn't gotten around to it yet, but now he would.

"Hey, Wills." He piped up as they were sat in a museum, shouting a little and talking through his stressor of the week.

"Yeah, Hot Dog?" Willie smiled, running their finger through Alex's soft blond locks.

"I'm trans. I'm a trans boy." Alex told him after a moment of hesitation, leaning into Willie's gentle hand.

Willie raised their eyebrows and their smile widened, scooting closer to Alex. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Ok."

"Willie?"

"Hmm?"

Alex blushed and chewed on his lip, taking a deep breath and looking Willie in the eye. "I really like you. A lot."

Willie gasped softly and felt their jaw drop as they looked at Alex, a soft smile forming on their face. "I like you, too, Lexi."

Alex smiled at the way the affectionate nickname sounded on Willie's lips, raising a hand to tuck Willie's hair behind their ear. "Then, can I kiss you?"

Willie let out a giggle and nodded, leaning in slowly. "Yes."

Alex leaned in the rest of the way and pressed his lips against Willie's, his hand grasping Willie's neck gently. He pulled away slowly after a while and bit his lip, still unable to hide the smile on his face. "That felt really good."

"Yeah." Willie agreed.

"Can I do it again?"

"God, yes." Willie nodded immediately. "Yes please, Lexi."

Alex giggled then and kissed Willie again, softer and slower this time.

So, yeah. Maybe the afterlife wasn't perfect, but it came pretty damn close if you asked Alex, so he wasn't going to complain.

#julie and the phantoms #alex mercer #luke patterson #reggie peters #willie #jatp fanfic

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