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starxscream · 3 years ago

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Invideo: Hate

[Hazard]

Heavy footsteps echo through the quiet hallways of the run down apartment complex you called home. You passed by a couple of the other tenants, but they barely spared a glance your way- if at all. Despite being such a hulking figure, most tended to ignore you, which you never could decide if that was a good or bad thing. Well, it made work easier at the very least.

Creeaaaak.

You should really get this door fixed.

Shutting the noisy door behind you, you look around your pathetically small and empty apartment. What little amenities you had were old and rusted, barely functional yet served their purpose. You never needed much after all.

You didn’t deserve much better either.

Knowing that this is where you belonged.

You figured that out so very long ago.

Your heavy boots thud on the ground, tail dragging behind you on the floor as you take step after step to the bedroom. Your fingers peel off your gloves, work the zipper on your coat, slowly peeling away layer after layer after layer. Jagged strands of hair flew out in a mess as you pulled off your tight hood. The grime of your work sticking to only your clothes, but you were still clean.

Clean of the grime, but not of the sin.

Stripped off all the heavy adornments you wore, leaving behind only your pair of pants, you had some modesty after all, you stared down at the heap as your clawed fingers pressed on the heavy mask that you always wore.

Krrsskk…

You could hear yourself breath, filtered through the heavy piece of equipment. No one knew what you looked like thanks to it, and you never wanted them to, finding a slight comfort in anonymity. In being overlooked.

A sigh.

Most assumed you wore it because of the nature of your job. Dealing with dead bodies, chemicals, cleaning supplies, all of that would be terror on the senses; and sure, while it did make the job nicer that was not the real reason.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Clack.

Adept claws work the straps open, loosening them enough so the mask falls from your face. The “fresh” mildewy scented air of your apartment floods your nostrils, a raspy tongue sweeping across your cracked lips. Jagged fangs stuck out from your mouth, a drip of substance running down one before falling to the ground.

SsssSHHHKKK…

The wood beneath it sizzles for a moment, you turn your head to stare down at the new divot in your floor, to match all the rest.

No, it wasn’t for your safety that you wore this mask.

It was for everyone else’s.

Using the back of your scaly hand, you wipe away any remnants of venom still on your lips, setting aside the mask on your bed and picking the heap of clothes back up. Casually you make your way to your washer, stuffing the clothes inside and putting in some soap. If anything stained you would clean it out after the initial wash. After doing this for so long you knew how to get blood out of anything.

It took a couple tries, and a couple thumps, to get the washer running. A long sigh escapes your lips once it finally does.

That needs to be replaced too…

But you won’t, until it breaks entirely.

You needed to wash up, now, another part of your routine. Needing to get it over with quickly before you were called into another job. Your occupation was a sleepless one, always needing to be ready at the drop of a hat, but you were fine with that. Someone had to do it.

Yet, despite knowing that, your footsteps are still slow and dull, practically dragging yourself to the busted up bathroom in your shoddy apartment. It was much too small for someone of your size, but somehow you made the cramped space work, even if it was a little uncomfortable. As you loom in front of the stained porcelain sink, you plug the drain and fill it with water. The rushing noise from the faucet sounded more like a rattle, the faucet shaking angrily and threatening to break off of its hinges, but it was always like that. By now you had gotten used to it.

Once the sink is full, you turn off the faucet but a constant leaking plop falls every so often. Your water bill was a mess thanks to the constant leak, but the apartment was cheap enough that it wasn’t a huge deal. As run down as your ‘home’ was, you were fine with it, quirks you called it. Broken and run down just like you.

Plip

Plop

Plip

Plop

The leaky droplets continued to fall as you stood over the sink, resting your hands on either side of the porcelain. Tentatively you gaze into the dusty mirror overhanging the pool of water and are greeted with the same face you see everytime you look into the mirror.

Dark sunken eyes stare back, a deep hollow void of emptiness that looked as if they had not shone in years. Hair that was jagged and course, the strands burnt and torn away to never grow back properly. A body of hard scales and old scars that littered all around your large and hulking frame. A neck that had it worst of all, ugly deep scarring that tore away at your vocal cords, never to speak again. Claws trace at your throat for a brief moment, trying to think if you could even remember what your voice sounded like before the knife slashed into it over and over again.

You can’t.

You haven’t been able to for a long time.

You wish you could.

Though you could never bring yourself to completely hate the person who did this to you. Ordered his men to take away your voice as a punishment for failure. Knowing that you would never be good enough, yet still pushed to your limits to be nothing but the best. It was a living hell, but one that you asked for.

Hate was such a strong word anyways.

Reserved for only the worst of the worst, the unforgivable dregs of society that could never be redeemed no matter how hard they try.

Splash.

You splash water onto your face. Droplets run down your scales, dripping onto your chest.

You got what you deserved.

Splash.

You filthy.

Splash.

Good for nothing.

Splash.

LIAR.

Splash.

MURDERER.

SPLASH.

B E T R A Y E R.

C R A C K

The sink cracks and bursts into pieces thanks to your hands slamming into it over and over again. The porcelain explodes and cuts into your hands, falling into pieces onto the ground, the water splashing and hitting the ground leaving a soaked and disgusting mess on the ground. Droplets of greenish red slide from your palms, bleeding into the clear water and blending together into a disgusting murk.

You try to take a step back, but only hit the wall, sliding down until you were a slumped pile on the floor, water seeping into your pants. Ignoring the blood on your hands, it wouldn’t be the first time, you rest your face into your palms and just sit there. Head pounding, heart hurting, hatred blooming.

Hate was such a strong strong word.

Reserved only for the worst of the worst.

And the single worst person that you undoubtedly hated more than anyone else in the world…

...Was yourself.

#sugars sweet treats #cadenza #hazard #blood tw #repost cuz i deleted the old post bc i was insecure </3 #this is still one of my favs tho

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eclipsenoir · 3 years ago

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tw: death mention, religious introspection. purely for fictional indulgence. i'm personally not religious. just an angsty idiot with internet connection.

The moon sits cold and remote in a pale, unforgiving winter sky, stained alight with stars and the coming of snow.

The needling frost in the wind announces as much as it chases by, sticking painful pinpricks in his cheeks like acupuncture. But it's a far cry from the seething bonfire of agony lit in his shoulder. Even the curdled knot of regret in his abdomen outdoes the cold.

Taeil is sitting on a worn stretcher, unawares of the examinations bustling around him. Completely absent inside his own body.

Suspended in time: held hostage in a second so excruciating he would rather be dead.

Watching with vacant eyes he experiences a strange, detached projection; witnesses the accident reverting, then escalating again on the asphalt ahead. Repeating it at first only to pin a point in which he could've done different; turn his wheel the opposite direction, or step on the break a little earlier. Then it's just white noise.

Where was God in all of this?

Taeil was five years old when he'd first come to register what it meant to sit in a dusty pew with his tiny palms kissing in the name of Jesus.

In the primal mind of a small boy, being woken at dawn every Sunday morning to go have a staring contest with the statue of a bearded man he'd never met was a privilege he couldn't explain. He only knew it just was because his parents had sowed the thought in his head. Hoping it would soon yield healthy crops, if only to please themselves. And because they looked like they genuinely believed it themselves, the boy hadn't dared once to question them of it.

"I want to see God, if he's so important." Taeil had said. Innocent. Curious.

Though church itself wasn't particularly fun, it was large–beautiful. Thickset arches that rose up to a dark ceiling supported its anatomy, and scattered in between them, reticulated windows covered with dust tinted glass. The tall, bleached-white walls were a striking contrast against the black oak door that gaped wide at the frontside, heavy and studded pretty with iron. In the chancel Jesus stood, silent behind the altar and the priest. He infinitely basked with his hands leveled towards Heaven in the thin layering of colour yawning from the rich, glass window frames at his back.

None of which proved enough to inspire passion of any degree in Taeil's tiny heart. At least not for his religion.

He did love that glorious sliver of a second when passing the old footstep-worn threshold upon arrival, and it felt as though he were being swallowed whole into the pale, haunted belly of a dormant beast. Comparably, that breath-suspending instant when everyone was to stand to repeat the holy testimony of God; more than a thousand footsteps striking the floor alongside the dull thrum of voice pitches mingling, all in disordered harmony as a choir.

But otherwise, beauty wasn't enough. There were no slides and swings and building blocks–even enough kids around to play kickball with their ignorance. Most of the time, service began with his back glued to their seats and his mother's slender fingers squeezing her faith around his stubby ones. Followed by the gritty smell of bibles he disliked. Prayers. Prolonged hisses of sermons that sounded alike to fables the teachers read for him in school. Amen. Amen. Amen.

"Amen."

Then he'd wake up with the balmy scent of cigarettes and pine marrying in his hair, enveloped by what felt like the afternoon sun in his father's arms. The black oak door shrinking out of sight, Jesus' unblinking gaze locked away. Wake up, little prince, we're headed home now. I can't hold you forever.

Other times when he could endure, he would seek amusement in the priest's speech. Not the sermon, but a lisp on a grown man that, combined with his messianic passion for Christ, made him bathe those perched in the front pews in his spit every time he had to pronounce a word with 's' in it. Slippery tongue, watering the pulpit and staining feeble bible pages. After a while, five year old Taeil believed that's what the process of baptism was.

Until he were twelve, then fifteen and skeptical as his understanding of what it meant to press his palms together in the Lord's name shifted towards abandon. He vividly remembers crawling into the backseat after worship one day and thinking, fuck this.

Eighteen: the blessed crops of religion had gone unwatered long enough for death to finally lay waste of the yielded masses. He couldn't remember anymore what it was about how poorly the Jesus statue had been painted over that amused him so much, or why he still saw nothing valuable hidden in the otherwise verbose holiness that echoed in church like a thick storm.

He hadn't yet grown out of his childish lisp, though, so he was starting to sound like the greyed priest he thought was unfortunate. Took that as punishment for counting every Sunday how many times he'd seen spit snowing in the air and thought Jesus' rigid stare blinked at him sometime through the fall.

Maybe God had abandoned him the same second Taeil turned his back to the small wanting boy cradled in the pews. Wanting to see. Wanting to please. That's what he'd thought before.

"Dear God, are you still there?"

Twenty-four. An inviting, slow drag of callused fingertips from jaw to throat. The dulcet taste of bourbon on a stranger's lips. A xanax. I can't feel anything. Another.

Dirty tiles of a public bathroom floor pressed against numb knees. A violent, excruciating swell of dread gripping his heart, eclipsing even fear. Eight breaths per minute. Six. Six.

Maybe had become certainty, and Taeil finally understood so within the same heartbeat he'd realized he was going to die. Twice.

Cold plagues Taeil's lungs even from within the ambulance, and he has to swallow constantly to keep his throat from drying. A temporary sling carries his arm, Sera seated across from him with her narrowed stare following his shifting, looking as though she'll never forgive herself. No miracles line her eyes. Only fright.

Are you still there?

He sees his reflection in the glass door like a mirage in the desert. A hazy clot blurs his profile in the center, dressed by a violent peach fuzz around the edges.

It feels displaced—he feels displaced, as if hallucinating.

The wheelchair paramedics stuff him in is too small for his frame and makes him claustrophobic, when he'd never been. His legs drag and skewer uncomfortably but still they rush, voices humming far from his ears even if they aren't whispering.

Blind as he feels, Taeil still pinches his eyes shut against the glaring brightness that welcomes him a fraction of a gasped breath later. Wheeled and parked into a gaping room where no warmth exists for too-long a while, neither familiar nor the opposite of. Just a cold, brittle atmosphere saturated with the pungent smell of antiseptics and chilled blood.

An eerie disquiet he feels brushing greasy fingers at his nape roams flat among the chairs, expelled on the breaths of patients and worried family members alike. Intentionally there. Inescapable.

It holds someone on the opposite side at hostage, frozen still in a silent prayer that falls deaf on Taeil's heart. Or does it?

His mind shies away from investigating further what more there is while waiting for his unease to abate and painkillers to kick in. Eyes peeling open and slowly blinking away the blurry sheen, he stares at hands he can hardly feel—deadpan.

Distantly around him, more emergencies pour in as nurses and doctors rush about to their stations and the wailing even sedatives can't bandage. Everyone vastly different from the last person, though all equally caged in by walls as pale and oppressive as those he knew at five. Only shorter, and adorned by sparse notice papers taped back and forth, clocks that seem to tick backwards, and medical posters.

The emergency room.

"You will be tended to shortly."

After a while, Sera reappears. When had she disappeared?

Taeil sees painted toes stop in the far corner of his eye-line, before he raises it to her face–then training behind her. His mother is a beacon of light and hope at his friend's heels.

If only neither of them looked so awful in their own respective ways. Sera, battered up post accident as he were–and his mother, telling horror draining her pretty face pastel. That sick look of a woman who'd just seen worse than a ghost; who's heart was breaking to witness her child's suffering firsthand.

Shame, remorse and anguish wells up in his throat in a silent, bruising scream, clogging his throat with tears he has no energy left to shed. He wants more than anything in the world to encase her in his arms and apologize for being so careless; for valuing the life she gave him less than he should've. Playing with it more than he should've. Meeting death twice.

But he can only sit back with hands folded on bruised thighs and let her see the bald truth without his help. Can only watch the agonizing series of emotions pass on her small face as naturally a temperatures rise and fall.

She peels off the first glove from her hand and forgets immediately about the other pair. Then, in a small voice she murmurs, "My love–"

This visibly breaks him from prow to stern. With all the sound he can possibly muster without his voice cracking or heart erupting, Taeil manages–pleading, "Eomma."

And just like that, his lulled pain suddenly loses association with his bleeding forehead, and the luxated bone in his arm. His stomach clenches in a tight fist with the added effort of talking, the contraction causing a new layer of pain to flourish throughout his protesting body. He bites it down.

"I'm sorry–"

"Don't be. You'll both be okay. I'm here with you."

Around his mother's neck, Taeil sees a tangle of necklaces neatly tucked under her scrubs, where he knows a little cross hangs in between. He almost expects her to reach for it instinctively, though at length, his mother just swallows what seems to be all her lingering pain, sticky words, and sits with them both flanking her.

Partially as his mother–telling by how she slips her gentle fingers in the weakened grip he can feel mostly in his knuckles, like the young mother did with her son in church, anchoring herself there. But mostly as a professional on duty, despite looking out of place in any other space than the surgery room.

Taeil looks at her steeled face, traces thin brushstroke brows and a small, angular nose she hadn't bequeathed to him, and wonders how many cigarettes she'll smoke later at home. If she'll be able to sleep at all while at mercy of this reality.

From a hidden corner none have noticed, Jesus watches them with that faded, unblinking gaze from his stand.

In his divine eyes, Taeil was twenty years younger again; bangs a smooth cowlick over his tiny forehead, his plaid button up ironed to perfection on his back. His small mouth pressed in a fleeting line as he held in a string of giggles, and swung short legs that were too long for a five year old.

From the pulpit, the priest slipped his tongue around the letter 's' and preached about the gift of life itself, appreciation for such often overshadowed by arrogance and taken for granted. How, unfortunately, people only learned the hard way. God existed in desperate times of peril alone for the selfish, he spat.

In time present, Taeil squeezes his mother's hand and recalls none of it.

Stitches. First x-ray. Another x-ray. Another, for good measure. By the time they finish with him, it's past midnight, and Taeil is left seated with a chorus of ghosts in the now-desolate emergency room. Somehow, it had gotten much colder as it emptied. No one paces about anymore save for the grey wraiths of those who hadn't made it in this place.

His injured arm no longer looks like the bone is trying to tear itself out from under his skin anymore. It hangs now in a steady sling, uselessly laid on his chest, the other weighed in Sera's grip.

His friend sits in a glacial stillness on his side, her pretty face sagged with exhaustion, full lips a thin line. There's a bruise on her cheek that reminds him of being tenderly kissed by the universe, stars and moon and all.

She holds him so fiercely, so stubbornly and doesn't need to talk for him to understand all of what her silence whispers. Guilt was possibly the most fatal wound she'd sustained besides tiny cuts and bruises. It's all she has left now after her vanquished shock. And his hand.

In this moment he's vulnerable and she resembles an angel, moving in coercion with whatever force of nature that kept them intertwined this long. It could simply be his whelmed emotions and exhaustion adorning innocence on her face, or something else entirely, but Taeil abandons the thought before it grows legs and wanders.

Instead he turns away to face the ghosts in the room again so he wouldn't have to hear the tragic answer to the question of why Sera's parents never showed up, and meets a bible left behind on a chair. From his stand, Jesus stares.

Five year old Taeil flips aimlessly through the flimsy pages, cowlick bangs neatly arranged on his forehead. Tiny brows wrinkled in confusion. Eighteen year old Taeil is more decisive, folds his fingers under the book spread in his palms and swears that'll be his last time tracing its spine for a while.

Now twenty five and acquainted with death more than he ever was with God, Taeil wonders if the person who'd left it there tonight experienced such a moment only hours earlier, alike him who'd been there years ago.

Dear God, are you still there?

"I'm so fucking tired."

#scribed.#[ womp #why. is. it. so. long #you know how artists post art studies on sns #that's what this is #don't question me

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savedfromsalvation · 5 years ago

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Murder in the Bible

The act of murder is rampant in the Bible. In much of the Bible, especially the Old Testament, there are laws that command that people be killed for absurd reasons such as working on the Sabbath, being gay, cursing your parents, or not being a virgin on your wedding night. In addition to these crazy and immoral laws, there are plenty of examples of God’s irrationality by his direct killing of many people for reasons that defy any rational explanation such as killing children who make fun of bald people, and the killing of a man who tried to keep the ark of God from falling during transport. There are also countless examples of mass murders commanded by God, including the murder of women, infants, and children.

The following passages are a very small percentage of the total passages approving of murder in the Bible. They are divided here into three parts: 1) Capital Punishment Crimes, 2) God’s Murders for Stupid Reasons, 3) Murdering Children, and 4) Miscellaneous Murders. This list is long, but it barely scratches the surface of all the murders approved of in the Bible.

1) Capital Punishment Crimes:

Kill People Who Don’t Listen to Priests

Anyone arrogant enough to reject the verdict of the judge or of the priest who represents the LORD your God must be put to death. Such evil must be purged from Israel. (Deuteronomy 17:12 NLT)

Kill Witches

You should not let a sorceress live. (Exodus 22:17 NAB)

Kill Homosexuals

“If a man lies with a male as with a women, both of them shall be put to death for their abominable deed; they have forfeited their lives.” (Leviticus 20:13 NAB)

Kill Fortunetellers

A man or a woman who acts as a medium or fortuneteller shall be put to death by stoning; they have no one but themselves to blame for their death. (Leviticus 20:27 NAB)

Death for Hitting Dad

Whoever strikes his father or mother shall be put to death. (Exodus 21:15 NAB)

Death for Cursing Parents

1) If one curses his father or mother, his lamp will go out at the coming of darkness. (Proverbs 20:20 NAB)

2) All who curse their father or mother must be put to death. They are guilty of a capital offense. (Leviticus 20:9 NLT)

Death for Adultery

If a man commits adultery with another man’s wife, both the man and the woman must be put to death. (Leviticus 20:10 NLT)

Death for Fornication

A priest’s daughter who loses her honor by committing fornication and thereby dishonors her father also, shall be burned to death. (Leviticus 21:9 NAB)

Death to Followers of Other Religions

Whoever sacrifices to any god, except the Lord alone, shall be doomed. (Exodus 22:19 NAB)

Kill Nonbelievers

They entered into a covenant to seek the Lord, the God of their fathers, with all their heart and soul; and everyone who would not seek the Lord, the God of Israel, was to be put to death, whether small or great, whether man or woman. (2 Chronicles 15:12-13 NAB)

Kill False Prophets

If a man still prophesies, his parents, father and mother, shall say to him, “You shall not live, because you have spoken a lie in the name of the Lord.” When he prophesies, his parents, father and mother, shall thrust him through. (Zechariah 13:3 NAB)

Kill the Entire Town if One Person Worships Another God

Suppose you hear in one of the towns the LORD your God is giving you that some worthless rabble among you have led their fellow citizens astray by encouraging them to worship foreign gods. In such cases, you must examine the facts carefully. If you find it is true and can prove that such a detestable act has occurred among you, you must attack that town and completely destroy all its inhabitants, as well as all the livestock. Then you must pile all the plunder in the middle of the street and burn it. Put the entire town to the torch as a burnt offering to the LORD your God. That town must remain a ruin forever; it may never be rebuilt. Keep none of the plunder that has been set apart for destruction. Then the LORD will turn from his fierce anger and be merciful to you. He will have compassion on you and make you a great nation, just as he solemnly promised your ancestors. “The LORD your God will be merciful only if you obey him and keep all the commands I am giving you today, doing what is pleasing to him.” (Deuteronomy 13:13-19 NLT)

Kill Women Who Are Not Virgins On Their Wedding Night

But if this charge is true (that she wasn’t a virgin on her wedding night), and evidence of the girls virginity is not found, they shall bring the girl to the entrance of her fathers house and there her townsman shall stone her to death, because she committed a crime against Israel by her unchasteness in her father’s house. Thus shall you purge the evil from your midst. (Deuteronomy 22:20-21 NAB)

Kill Followers of Other Religions.

1) If your own full brother, or your son or daughter, or your beloved wife, or you intimate friend, entices you secretly to serve other gods, whom you and your fathers have not known, gods of any other nations, near at hand or far away, from one end of the earth to the other: do not yield to him or listen to him, nor look with pity upon him, to spare or shield him, but kill him. Your hand shall be the first raised to slay him; the rest of the people shall join in with you. You shall stone him to death, because he sought to lead you astray from the Lord, your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, that place of slavery. And all Israel, hearing of this, shall fear and never do such evil as this in your midst. (Deuteronomy 13:7-12 NAB)

2) Suppose a man or woman among you, in one of your towns that the LORD your God is giving you, has done evil in the sight of the LORD your God and has violated the covenant by serving other gods or by worshiping the sun, the moon, or any of the forces of heaven, which I have strictly forbidden. When you hear about it, investigate the matter thoroughly. If it is true that this detestable thing has been done in Israel, then that man or woman must be taken to the gates of the town and stoned to death. (Deuteronomy 17:2-5 NLT)

Death for Blasphemy

One day a man who had an Israelite mother and an Egyptian father got into a fight with one of the Israelite men. During the fight, this son of an Israelite woman blasphemed the LORD’s name. So the man was brought to Moses for judgment. His mother’s name was Shelomith. She was the daughter of Dibri of the tribe of Dan. They put the man in custody until the LORD’s will in the matter should become clear. Then the LORD said to Moses, “Take the blasphemer outside the camp, and tell all those who heard him to lay their hands on his head. Then let the entire community stone him to death. Say to the people of Israel: Those who blaspheme God will suffer the consequences of their guilt and be punished. Anyone who blasphemes the LORD’s name must be stoned to death by the whole community of Israel. Any Israelite or foreigner among you who blasphemes the LORD’s name will surely die. (Leviticus 24:10-16 NLT)

Kill False Prophets

1) Suppose there are prophets among you, or those who have dreams about the future, and they promise you signs or miracles, and the predicted signs or miracles take place. If the prophets then say, ‘Come, let us worship the gods of foreign nations,’ do not listen to them. The LORD your God is testing you to see if you love him with all your heart and soul. Serve only the LORD your God and fear him alone. Obey his commands, listen to his voice, and cling to him. The false prophets or dreamers who try to lead you astray must be put to death, for they encourage rebellion against the LORD your God, who brought you out of slavery in the land of Egypt. Since they try to keep you from following the LORD your God, you must execute them to remove the evil from among you. (Deuteronomy 13:1-5 NLT)

2) But any prophet who claims to give a message from another god or who falsely claims to speak for me must die.’ You may wonder, ‘How will we know whether the prophecy is from the LORD or not?’ If the prophet predicts something in the LORD’s name and it does not happen, the LORD did not give the message. That prophet has spoken on his own and need not be feared. (Deuteronomy 18:20-22 NLT)

Infidels and Gays Should Die

So God let them go ahead and do whatever shameful things their hearts desired. As a result, they did vile and degrading things with each other’s bodies. Instead of believing what they knew was the truth about God, they deliberately chose to believe lies. So they worshiped the things God made but not the Creator himself, who is to be praised forever. Amen. That is why God abandoned them to their shameful desires. Even the women turned against the natural way to have sex and instead indulged in sex with each other. And the men, instead of having normal sexual relationships with women, burned with lust for each other. Men did shameful things with other men and, as a result, suffered within themselves the penalty they so richly deserved. When they refused to acknowledge God, he abandoned them to their evil minds and let them do things that should never be done. Their lives became full of every kind of wickedness, sin, greed, hate, envy, murder, fighting, deception, malicious behavior, and gossip. They are backstabbers, haters of God, insolent, proud, and boastful. They are forever inventing new ways of sinning and are disobedient to their parents. They refuse to understand, break their promises, and are heartless and unforgiving. They are fully aware of God’s death penalty for those who do these things, yet they go right ahead and do them anyway. And, worse yet, they encourage others to do them, too. (Romans 1:24-32 NLT)

Kill Anyone who Approaches the Tabernacle

For the LORD had said to Moses, ‘Exempt the tribe of Levi from the census; do not include them when you count the rest of the Israelites. You must put the Levites in charge of the Tabernacle of the Covenant, along with its furnishings and equipment. They must carry the Tabernacle and its equipment as you travel, and they must care for it and camp around it. Whenever the Tabernacle is moved, the Levites will take it down and set it up again. Anyone else who goes too near the Tabernacle will be executed.’ (Numbers 1:48-51 NLT)

Kill People for Working on the Sabbath

The LORD then gave these further instructions to Moses: ‘Tell the people of Israel to keep my Sabbath day, for the Sabbath is a sign of the covenant between me and you forever. It helps you to remember that I am the LORD, who makes you holy. Yes, keep the Sabbath day, for it is holy. Anyone who desecrates it must die; anyone who works on that day will be cut off from the community. Work six days only, but the seventh day must be a day of total rest. I repeat: Because the LORD considers it a holy day, anyone who works on the Sabbath must be put to death.’ (Exodus 31:12-15 NLT)

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writingsofmyimagination · 6 years ago

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Conjecture |1|

Yoongi x Reader

Idol Reader Au, Enemies to Lovers AU

Summary: Your management refused to renew your contract unless you collaborated, so you ending up working with Min Yoongi. A guy you’d disliked from before both of your debuts. There is more to their past than meets the eye.

Words:2011

This will be a series so if you want to be tagged let me know :)

Warnings: None ( but look forward to a Sub and Dom Yoongi because who doesn’t)

Enjoy, let me know what you think :)

“I don’t know if you’re more excited than me about this and I’m the one who’s going to be working with her” Yoongi said amused.

“The industry has been asking for this collaboration of its two best rappers and producers for years, and it’s finally going to happen under my label, I have every right to be excited. I warn you though she’s not happy about it” Yoongi filled his glass from a large jug in the centre of the table.

“They would only renew her contract if she agreed to collaborate” Bang continued “I mean why she’s refused to work with anyone since before her official label debut is beyond me”

“I’m sure she has her reasons” Yoongi blurted out defensively.

“You’ve loved her work since the underground haven’t you?” Lee asked

“Yes and it was incredible even back then”

“No need to get defensive Yoongi” Bang said, suspicion growing through his expression. “I’m just trying to prepare you, she might not be the most amenable and agreeable person you’ve worked with. She has a reputation for being unconventional at best”

“I’m sure I can handle ‘unconventional’ for a few weeks”

//KNOCK KNOCK//

The receptionist opened the door to the conference room and ushered you inside with a polite gesture. All of the guys in the room stood up and bowed with Yoongi bowing noticeably lower than the others. You returned the gesture with a polite smile on your face. Bang came closer to you and also greeted you with a firm handshake.

“Y/N it’s so lovely to have you here, let me introduce you to everyone” He began walking you round the table “This is Lee, he’s our main concept director, Hoseok here is the studio manager and of course I hardly need to introduce you to Yoongi” A genuine bright expression diffused onto his face; he bowed once more

“I can’t tell you how excited I am for this project” you could tell he meant every last word. You had to exert slightly more effort to keep the politeness from waning in your smile.

“BigHits been asking me long enough” you kept your tone as light and relaxed as you could. The slight flinch in his expression told you he was unsure how to tread with his next words; thankfully he was saved by his manager

“Shall we get started, this won’t take long” Bang suggested. You took your seat next to Yoongi and had a glance at all the BTS album plagues lined round the pale walls surrounding you.

“The announcement of this project has already caused mass excitement so I’m sure I don’t need to emphasise the importance of care and discretion for this, Dispatch have already been seen lingering around. If it is suitable with you Y/N Yoongi has suggested very generously the idea for you to stay at his new apartment to maximise discretion and the dedicated work time”

“There’s a whole studio and we can work unbothered” Yoongi added

“Of course you will have full access to BigHit facilities, with that said there is a lot of recording taking place at the moment so you’ll have to use your time wisely” Hoseok added.

There was an expectant silence waiting for your response. You was not expecting to stay with him, this definitely soured your mood further to the jet lag draining your muscles.

“If that’s what you thinks best, it would be good to have another studio to have full access to” you replied stopping any sourness from seeping into your voice. Your peripheral vision detected miniscule movement from Yoongi, his face went from yours to down at his hands, fingers entwining together. It appears the sourness had leaked somewhat into your expression.

“Good, we want to give you freedom for this project but the concept of this track has already been decided” Bang gestured over to Lee. Heads all turned to the concept director; you took a few mouthfuls of your iced coffee hoping for any kick to keep you alert.

“So for the concept we want to use the known fact of your previous friendly rivalry as a starting point. Within the lyrics and for the video of course we want there to be an element of conflict or dislike towards each other with you singing individually” Already there you scoffed within your own thoughts. “And by the end of the song we want a sense of resolution and the pair of you vocalising together”

“Doesn’t sound like too much freedom to me” you offered shifting in your snuggly fitted shirt unbuttoning your waistcoat. You hated being in formal wear especially after a long flight; with your world tour finished all you craved was to be in your comfy trackies and oversized hoodies. The eyes around you in the room flittered anxiously.

“But the idea is pretty sweet and fans would certainly love it” you felt the angst settling in the room “I can work with it” you added beneath your non-chalant tone the concept actually heightened your interest for this whole thing.

The meeting droned on for longer than it really needed to at this stage, discussions of the music video, promotions and performances and the like were all very well but we’d yet to even write the track. You personally couldn’t work on those things until the song had legs and the feel of the beat had absorbed into your being and dictated the direction you’d want to take. A sly look to your right at Yoongi’s expression gave away that he must feel the same; you suppressed an amused grin from surfacing. Half of your brain power for the remainder of the meeting was just you scolding yourself and your mind for constantly drifting off appreciating the absolute flawless visual of Min Yoongi. He was attractive back in the day and his image more recently has always been increasingly pleasing to your eyes but up close and in a small vicinity you’d never expected your body to completely disregard your mind and react like you’d not had sex for weeks. You hadn’t. It had been months, six to be exact, your tour was unforgiving with its lack of free time.

“Okay, you two go create this masterpiece” Bang stood with everyone else following suit with their goodbyes, you exhaled, relieved for your mind to be focused back on the reality of the room. That was until everyone had left just the two of you in the room alone. You unlocked and checked your phone distracting you from the draining silence.

“My place is ready whenever you are” He offered as he stood and grabbed his phone of the table.

“I’m already packed” you kept your eyes down and scanning through your messages.

“Sweet do you want to catch a ride with me?”

“No thanks, I’m more than capable of getting myself to yours, I’ll just need your address”

“Err okay sure thing” You exchanged numbers and he sent you all the details. You had to give him some kind of credit he was definitely dealing with your bluntness well.

“See you there, I’ll message you when I park up” and with that you left and headed out to your car.

After passing through the security gates and parking up and sending a quick message you couldn’t help but appreciate the success the both of you had had looking up at the towering building; the last time you were at his place it certainly wasn’t a three million dollar apartment.

“Welcome, please come in, please see this as your home while you’re here” Yoongi beamed. His politeness grated on you, his thoughtfulness and kindness is no secret but unfortunately the last time you were in a situation with him it had left a bitter taste in your mouth which had done nothing but fester over the years.

“I’ll try, I’m not used to sharing, but thank you for your having me”

“You’re quite welcome, if I’m honest I haven’t quite got used to being on my own yet so you’re doing me a favour and helping me out” you wheeled your suitcase against the wall and removed your shoes before you ventured further into the apartment. The palatial living space was calm, neutral colours were prominent from the fleecy rug at the foot of the large corner sofa to the vertical blinds bunched together at the sides of the large rectangular window overlooking the city. The only thing that looked slightly out of sync with the room was the mahogany upright piano also facing in the direction of the window.

“Can I get you anything to drink or eat?” he asked walking to the open plan kitchen to the right and grabbed himself a bottle of water from the fridge, you let him take a few mouthfuls before replying. You tried to make out the band name on his t-shirt but his red and black chequered shirt obscured too much of the detail so naturally instead you got drawn to his collarbones and the milky skin veneered over them.

“Is it too early to ask for anything alcoholic?” you pleaded spinning yourself on one of the bar stools around the breakfast bar

“It’s just gone twelve, so I’m going to say no. What do you drink?”

“Honestly, anything”

“Well there’s some Vodka that needs finishing, with coke?”

“Perfect”.

“Let’s give you a tour” drink in hand you followed him dozily with an unapologetic buzz of excitement to see the Genius Lab. The floor was blanketed with light grey distressed wood flooring as you made your way down a short hallway, the furthest room away was a moderate yet adequately equipped gym with one wall lined entirely with a mirror and the floor space in front of it was clear; you guessed he utilised it as a dance space. Next up was your room, Wow! You thought. You’d never want to leave this room. In the centre of the back wall was a large low four poster oak bed; It looked more like the support structure of a cube. There were what looked like satins drapes draped over the top beams, the cream bedding was neatly made underneath the pale blue scatter cushions. There was a bedside dresser and on the right were two large oak doors which led to a walk in wardrobe. You couldn’t wait to stream your laptop through the considerable sized flat screen perched on the wall opposite the bed.

“Will this be okay?” Yoongi’s voice interrupted your room admiration.

“Are you kidding? the room’s beautiful” His eyes widened, this was the first time he’d actually picked up any excitement from you. His smile was content and it was in a word, adorable. He pointed to his bedroom door on the way to the studio, you’d be lying if you told yourself you wasn’t curious how his room was decorated.

“Well this definitely resembles home” Yoongi allowed you to sit in the main chair in front of the vast sea of dials, the sight of all the audio equipment and screens comforted you and soothed some of your attitude, but that could also be the vodka.

“You’ll find it hard to find anything that I don’t have that we’ll need” He was perched on the arm of the black leather sofa behind you looking proudly over the set up. Your soft smile peaked Yoongi’s curiosity.

“What?”

“Nothing, we just pretty much have the same equipment”

“Great minds” was all he responded before an awkward silence made the room almost like a vacuum.

“Anyway you must be flagging by now, we can catch up tomorrow morning and come up with some kind of plan.”

“Yeah that would be good actually, I don’t think I could even write my own name at this point”

He exhaled a small chuckle and you tracked back to the living room, grabbing your case and retiring to your room. After chucking on an oversized grey hoody and short you crawled into the bed and within minutes your exhaustion edged you into unconsciousness.

#bts #kpopwonderlandtag #kwritersworldnet #yoongi x reader #hyunglinenetwork #bts suga #min yoongi #bts imagines #bts au #bts fanfction

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lothiriel84 · 5 years ago

Text

Welcome to the Sun

There’s an open horizon before us There is a rainbow under my eyes The detector reads low radiation And you’re fearless to rise till you’re high

A The Bunker ficlet. Tom & Dave friendship, with background (referenced) David/Dave.

Out of the ten of them, Charlie was the only one who knew how to cut hair properly. When he perished in a plague victim attack, Alex had to step into his shoes, and he was fine, mostly, even though David for one resorted to shearing his own hair himself, with mixed results at best.

In the end, it was just the three of them, and they somehow settled into the established routine of Dave being the only one allowed to hold a pair of scissors that close to David’s face – something to do with Tom ‘snipping off too loudly’, among other things, as they gathered eventually – while Tom took care of Dave’s periodic haircuts. As for Tom himself, he’d long since stopped complying with the standard company-approved hair length, which meant he only required the occasional trim, and even then, he was more than happy to do by himself.

Dave’s hair was auburn and naturally wavy, which in many ways made Tom’s job harder, but he was still proud of his own handiwork. And unlike David, Dave was perfectly capable of sitting still without unnecessary complaints, and was gracious enough to thank him afterwards.

“You sure you don’t want me to return the favour?” Dave offered, even as he studied his own reflection in the mirror. “I don’t mind, honest.”

“Nah, I’m good,” he shrugged, sweeping up the hair cuttings from the floor. David was very peculiar about leaving everything clean and tidy after a haircut, even more so when he was in no way involved in the process.

“Suit yourself,” Dave acquiesced, tapping at the packet of cigarettes he always kept on his person. “Cigarette?”

“God, yes,” he accepted, eagerly. “Cheers, man.”

“Let’s get some fresh air, yeah?”

As they climbed past the Stones of the Deceased they paused, as if by common accord. “To our colleagues and friends,” Dave uttered, raising his unlit cigarette in mock salute. “May the contaminated ground of the Wasteland rest lightly upon you.”

“Amen,” Tom nodded, and followed him up the ladder. As they emerged from the rooftop hatch, they were greeted by the jarringly familiar breeze that tasted ever so slightly metallic; no welcoming hail of bullets from their friendly scavenging neighbours, no crawling monstrosity in sight for miles.

He patted his pockets for his dodgy lighter, only took four tries to light both of their cigarettes. “This is the life, man,” he laughed, stretching his limbs towards the unforgiving heat of the winter sun. “Should’ve brought a couple of beers with us.”

“There are only half a dozen left,” Dave exhaled with a puff of smoke, his head a shock of fiery curls in full sunlight. “And you know how David gets when we start drinking without him.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, going for the diplomatic approach. David was a bloody nightmare when they crossed him, which seemed to be happening more and more frequently those days.

However awful their current conditions, it was still better than total oblivion, or that’s what he used to say in the early days after the Big Headache. Now, with several decades gone by with nothing to show but a collection of new stones adorning their welcome mat, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“David and I had sex two weeks ago,” Dave dropped the bombshell out of nowhere, his tone conversational, almost unnaturally so. “We might, again, at some point. I trust that won’t to be a problem?”

At a loss as how to react to such a casual announcement, completely devoid of any meaning or context, his attention focussed on such insignificant detail as the peculiar way Dave’s fingers flexed every time he was about to flick his cigarette. “I don’t – I mean – why?”

Dave stared back at him, his stance now somewhere between defiant and defensive. “You mean, why would I sleep with him, or why would it be a problem?”

“Why are you telling me?”

A shrug. “We’re stuck down there together, the three of us, whether we like it or not. There’s hardly much room for secrets when you’ll be sharing the same living space for gods know how long.”

“Right. Got it. It’s all cool, man. Honest.”

“God,” Dave rolled his eyes, and took another drag. “You sound just like David.”

“Look, I won’t pretend I understand whatever’s going on with you and David. If you’re happy then I’m happy, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Ha,” Dave shot back, clearly unwilling to elaborate any further. “That’s a good one.”

“If you ever need to talk,” he started, somewhat uncomfortably, only to be immediately cut off by Dave.

“I’m good. But thanks, anyway.”

They went back to smoking in silence, their cigarettes smouldering as the wind picked up. “Right. That’s enough radiation exposure for one day, I think,” Dave declared at length, stubbing out the butt against one of the supports holding the solar panels in place.

Tom dithered, taking plenty of time to crush what was left of his cigarette under his foot. “What’s a little radiation sickness between friends, am I right?”

Dave actually, genuinely burst out laughing at that. “I heard it works wonders for your hair, too.”

“No way! I worked really hard on that haircut, you know,” he was quick to remonstrate, shoving at Dave’s arm in mock offence.

“It’s just that my hair’s naturally amazing, you mean,” Dave smirked, running his fingers through it so as to purposely muss it up.

“Oh, yeah. I’d totally have sex with your hair, man.”

“Piss off,” Dave laughed, again, and made to open the hatch. “I’m cutting it myself next time.”

“Yeah, sure,” he huffed, even as Dave started climbing down the ladder. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Are you two coming down for tea and biscuits, or do I need to come and fetch you myself?” they could hear David loudly grumble from the bottom of the passageway.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Dave shouted back, rolling his eyes for Tom to see, and they both disappeared inside.

#The Bunker #Bunker Tom #Bunker Dave #mentions of David/Dave #haircuts #friendship #awkward conversations #cw: smoking #I don't even know #I wrote a thing

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monotonemanday · 6 years ago

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Much More Than The Boy Next Door

Another completed commission! This one is lengthy! Jumin Han x Reader

This is for @all-my-cuffs-have-buttons Thank you again for commissioning me! It was such a pleasure!! Enjoy!

You were standing in a daze when the sudden noise of water pressure coming from the shower head, snapped you back to reality. You were replaying the last couple of minutes over and over again in your mind.

The two families had arrived on the tropical island. Yours and his. Your parents who had stayed together all of these years and his father with the current girlfriend. Both fathers had made a new investment. A fancy new resort and all of you had come to see how far along it was in the process. The whole resort had been built and all of the amenities were yours to access, but not all of it's rooms were inhabitable yet.

Previously, he said he wasn't coming. He had prior engagements. But in the last minutes before boarding the plane, he had made an appearance. Because of his decision, everyone was now at the front desk in the hotel lobby with a flustered staff apologetically informing you that they had only prepared a certain number of rooms. Another wouldn't be ready until the next day. The premise that you two would share a room was all but natural. You had been friends since you were children. The fact you were man and woman wasn't a bother. Everything was still perfectly fine riding on the elevator up to your resort suites, until your mother had to bring up your most recent break up.

She was always airing out your dirty laundry in front of others. You politely asked her to drop the subject, and she did. However, HE picked it back up.

"I'm not surprised it ended less than amicably. She never puts much care into the men she chooses."

At the same moment those words spilled from his mouth, the elevator doors had opened. You shot him an unforgiving look and stepped off the elevator. Making haste down the hallway, the rest of the family walking in the opposite direction.

"Can I take that look as a sign you are unhappy with what I said?"

"Yes!" You pushed the card key into the reader hard, the light turned green and you pushed it open. But before entering you turned to him and pushed your index finger into his chest. "You are always so rude when it comes to my love life, and frankly it's none of your business!"

"Oh, is it not?" He came a breaths away from you peering into your eyes and you felt yourself swallow hard. Not knowing what was about to happen, you felt your body growing hot. Yet much to your surprise he simply reached behind you, pushed the door open and slipped past you.

A sense of relief washed over you and you didn't understand what had you so nervous. He was your oldest friend and right now, you were mad at him! You gained your composure and tightened your fists. Turning to give him a piece of your mind...

"Hey, you get back-!" and with a thud you had run into his broad back.

Barely inside of the room he had stopped short.

"Well this could pose a problem." He didn't even seem concerned with the fact that you had just crashed into him. "They had said only one room, but they didn't mention this shortcoming."

You peered around him and noticed what he was going on about. There was only one bed in the room. And it was no King size, that was for sure. Close quarters.

"No. Absolutely not. We, something has to be done about this."

"Obviously." He sighed, setting both your bags down and taking off his suit jacket. Loosening his tie he started to walk towards the bathroom. "I need a shower. It's late already, but I will call down to the lobby once I am done."

Before you could offer any argument the bathroom door had already shut behind him. You sat on the edge of the bed trying to clear your head. Why were you so irritated with him? And why were you so nervous when he got so close earlier?

Laying your back on the bed you remembered the very first time you met, Jumin Han.

The first time you met Jumin, you were too young to remember. Only two, nearly three years old. Your mother tells the story nearly every time there is a gathering.

Your father had just accepted a top position within C&R International. Your family was invited to dinner with Chairman Han at his place of residence. They set you up on a blanket in the middle of a large sitting room with toys and blocks for you to play with. An older boy, not much older, a toddler really, was sat on a far side of the room piecing together a puzzle. Your hair was sticking straight up the top of your head in a small ponytail, eyes wide and a pacifier in your mouth.

Struggling to reach a block that you had your eye on, a small hand grabbed it and set it gently in front of you. As the parents coo’d and awed, the person that delivered you the block turned to address them. Jumin, in his sweater, khaki shorts and long socks, turned the adults and claimed,

“This baby...is quite adorable.”

And returned to his puzzle.

After that you would only see him at company parties and get-togethers. All events would play out the same way, you would greet all the other kids, run around, play, as children do, but as soon as Jumin made an entrance or you spotted him, by his side is where you would be. You would sit next to him, and be on your best behavior. Prim and proper you would be. Listening to him make observations aloud. When you were a child you thought Jumin was playing some game, trying to imitate the adults, or play make-believe. But once you were older you realized Jumin, was just being Jumin.

Soon it was more than just company gatherings. Your father had climbed particularly high in the C&R ranks and was now making his own strides. Starting his own company with the help of his now good friend Chairman Han. Eventually your family was very well off, but not near as wealthy or comfortable as the Hans. Now you were constantly at one another's childhood homes. Spending your days causing trouble for wait staff, maids, gardeners. Always dragging Jumin into your schemes when you could. Most of his time, if he wasn't with his best friend, the boy with the mint hair, he would be spending time making sure you were entertained.

You got up from the bed and moved onto laying across the arms of the large armchair in the room.

"Uuuugghh! Then why!" You were still trying to wrap your mind around why you always got so upset when he talked about your love life and why you would get this fits of nerves when he would get a little too close for comfort. A childhood friend, that's all he was. You wish you could just say that out loud and all these feelings and this confusion would pass. But you weren't so lucky. What about after childhood? What was your relationship with Jumin like? A heavy feeling settled in the pit of your stomach.

Jumin always went to prep schools and you stuck with going to public school. Not being in the same place all day didn't falter your friendship however. Nearly everyday you would meet with Jumin and his mint haired friend after school and Jumin was always there to listen to your gripes from the school day, or help you solve any problem you had.

You remembered the time you wore your hair in braids and some dreadful girls in your class snipped the end of one braid off, just to be nasty. Once you were home you were sobbing in your mothers arms, when Jumin came over like he was scheduled to. He asked your mom if he could take you out to cheer you up and of course she said yes. He had Driver Kim take the two of you to a salon. The fanciest hair salon you had ever been in. He spoke to the hair dresser and gave them a suggestion. You trusted nothing could be worse than the lopsided mop you were dealing with then, so you didn't speak up or object when the stylist got to work without consulting you. The haircut was finished and when you looked in the mirror you had never felt so beautiful. The haircut was the perfect style for you. It shaped your face and brought out all your features. You remember thinking how Jumin must have just stared at a lot of pretty girls and that's why he could pick something so suiting. But now, no. Jumin was just that attentive and could pay that much attention to detail even at such a young age. Prom, when your date decided last minute he would rather attend with someone else, Jumin was there, with Driver Kim and an exquisite stretch limo, and a trip for a new prom dress so you didn't have to wear the one you were so excited about before it was ruined for you. And he never asked for anything in return. From anyone. He did not flash his stature, his wealth. He tried his best just to be a good friend to you, and if he could somehow improve your life with something only he could, in an extravagant style, he would do it.

All the stuffy grown up parties you would have to attend throughout your school years. Him, the mint haired Jihyun Kim, and you. You were all raised to be polite, mingle, make connections, even though you weren't grown adults yet. It exhausted both you and Jihyun. You would remember dozing off in many penthouses and lounges, drained from the socializing, and somehow you two would always wake up with blankets on your back. Jumin always managed to find some, just for the two of you, and he would cover for you, dealing with the parents and finishing the work of managing the party guests.

Jumin always objected to basically every relationship you had been it starting since high school and when they would come back to bite you in the ass, he never said I told you so, or tried to bring you down. He comforted you. But just like today, the second you were free of a boyfriend, or your mother had to bring up the past, Jumin always had a comment.

You heard the water shut off and you sat up in the chair. You still didn't have your answers put that pit in your stomach was starting to rise in your chest and you could only assume what that meant.

Jumin came out of the bathroom in a very Jumin-like manner. Silk pajama bottoms that had a tie at the waist. Nothing on top, toweling off his hair.

"There is a lady present." You rolled your eyes at him.

"Ah, then you should be polite and introduce me." He dramatically scanned the room, trying to make it very obvious he saw no one but you in the room. "Where exactly is the lady?"

"Just...put a shirt on please." He smirked at you and now all to confused in your head, you couldn't roll your eyes, you couldn't smirk back. You could only feel the heat covering your cheeks.

Jumin walked into the bathroom to hang up his towel, and came back out finishing pulling a plain v-neck over his head.

"It's been over 20 years, you should have told me that seeing my bare skin bothered you so much. I will have to start wearing a rash guard in the pool, the Jacuzzi, the office, the shower, when I sleep in my bed, wh-"

"I get it!" You knew he was teasing you but you weren't feeling so lighthearted. Your eyes followed him around the room and you were much more aware of how much of a...man, Jumin really was. His hair was still a little damp. You took your hair dryer out of your bag and walked it over to him. "Here." You gently pushed it against his chest. "You'll catch a cold. I'll call down to the lobby."

Jumin had turned off the hair dryer and shook his hair out, lightly tossing his head back and forth. He walked to set it next to your things and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Well what did the lobby say?"

"They said there is nothing that can be done so late, so it's a good thing this chair is very comfortable."

"Thank you for reviewing it for me." Jumin stood up for the bed and stood before you and the chair.

"What? Jumin, no. I'm already here. Take the bed."

"You have a hard time sleeping in positions like that. This is a vacation. You need to be relaxed."

"Jumin, I said it's fine. Get in the bed."

"I can't. It wouldn't be-"

"Why are you always taking care of me!" The words shot out of your mouth like a rocket and you looked at Jumin, stunned. He returned the same expression. You cleared your throat and ran to your bag, gathering your clothes to sleep in and rushing to the bathroom. You turned at the doorway and shouted "Sorry!" then slammed the door.

"What was that!" You were berating yourself in the bathroom mirror. You began changing into your pajamas. Just a simple tank top and cotton shorts. You had sharp pain in your chest. You had part of your answers. You loved Jumin. And you probably did for a long while. But something still gnawed at your heart. If he cared for you in the same way, why did he never tell you? Or stop you from dating losers? Or why isn't he more concerned with seeing you as a woman? Slowly creeping the bathroom door open you poked your head out and saw Jumin picking up your bags.

He looked back at you and asked,

"Will you be needing anything else out of these for now?"

You silently shook your head no and he proceeded to move them into the closet and out of the way.

You crept out of the bathroom, feeling nervous but walked up behind him.

"Jumin..." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He turned around and was in very close proximity. He simply turned up an eyebrow at you.

"Jumin, why do you say things like that? Things about how I don't put thought into who I am with. That I don't put care into my choices. That's hurtful and I-"

"I shouldn't have said that. Or, I shouldn't phrase it like that. I apologize. I just mean that every guy you have been with hasn't been good enough."

Any hope you had, faltered. He wasn't romantically interested. He was just protective. Staring at him, lingering for only a moment, you accepted his answer and made your way to the bed. Seeing Jumin breakaway from his spot and walk toward the chair you let out a sigh.

"Jumin...take the bed."

Jumin rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

"I did say it was a vacation but...it's...one bed."

"Is my outfit to scandalous, choir boy? Why is it such a big deal?"

A light shade of crimson flushed his cheeks and he held a fist up to his mouth, clearing his throat and letting out a slight cough.

"I guess, we...can see if it is large enough that there will be adequate space between us." Jumin turned off the lights to the room which was now only dimly lit by the table side lamp.

The two of you sat on the bed, backs against the headboard and feet outstretched, as far on the edges you could be.

"Is this alright?" You looked at him with a quizzical arch in your brow.

"Ah, yes."

"Thank goodness. Goodnight."

Shutting off the table side lamp, the room was now dark. You turned on your side, tucking your knees up closer to you and shut your eyes, but the second you heard a little movement, you were painfully aware that Jumin was laying next to you.

A few minutes of silence had passed and the two of you were made of stone. Neither of you moved a muscle. Finally you heard a slight sigh.

"Are you cold?" His baritone voice fell pleasantly on your ears and some of your tension released.

"Maybe a bit."

"How about you get under the covers, I will stay above them." He was trying his best to not be imposing in the situation but you couldn't have him freeze through the night.

"I don't mind if you share the blankets, Jumin. It would be a little rude if I just let you turn into an ice sculpture."

The two of you climbed underneath the covers and were now both laying on your backs, staring at the ceiling.

Nothing but subtle shifting was heard, and as your nerves calmed down you slowly drifted off when that deep voice serenaded your ears once more, but this time a small whisper.

"No one will ever be good enough..."

You're eyes shot open and you turned on your side, facing the raven haired man you were sharing a bed with.

"Jumin?"

"That's what I have meant all these years. It is not your taste, your decisions, or choices. I just don't think any one man will ever be good enough for you." You didn't have a response, but the quiet didn't last long. "I know that is not for me to decide. That's something you determine but...You deserve the world. Much more than they could give. More than I can give..." Jumin cleared his throat and began to sit up. Turning his table side lamp on, you watched as he began to make his way out of the bed "Perhaps I have said too much. Maybe I should go stay with my father and his-"

Before he could completely stand you had gotten to your knees behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, face pressed against his back. Sitting back down he turned to you and without a second thought you ran your hand through his bangs, brushing hair out of his face and he cupped your cheek in his hand. Staring into the charcoal dark orbs that were burning whole into your very being, they got closer and closer, you shut your eyes and suddenly it was like someone had attached jumper cables to your lips. A pleasant shock traveled through your body. His soft lips parted from yours and you gently gripped the collar of his v-neck.

"I'm sorry it took me all these years to realize, that I cared for you this deeply, Jumin. I've always thought of you as my dearest friend but really, I was just ignorant to the fact they I have been in love with you for a long time. Probably since we were teenagers."

He took your lips once more and the two of you leaned back into the bed. Sitting up against the headboard, arms wrapped around each other. His lips released yours again and he began to stroke your hair gently.

"No I am sorry. Sorry, for being a coward. I have wasted so many years hoping that you would find someone good enough for you because I felt that I never could be. But I can't ignore my feelings anymore. It's always been you, my love." Never having felt so much warmth and love for and from one specific person, the exhaustion overcame you and as you slowly drifted to sleep you felt a gentle kiss being pressed to your forehead and in the gentlest tone you heard a voice say, "I love you."

Groggily, you stirred a bit, waking up, your eyes half open, hearing a phone ringing near by. You looked down and noticed that your torso was trapped. Looking beside you, you say the most handsome man you had ever seen. A man you had known your whole life but just recently realized was the only person in the world for you. Carefully you sat up, slipping out of his embrace trying not to wake him.

You reached over to the nightstand where the hotel phone was ringing. "Hello?" You didn't mean to sound so annoyed.

"Ah yes, we're sorry for the wake up call, Miss. We just wanted to let you know that there should be another room set up with a separate bed by this afternoon."

Reaching over towards Jumin, you pushed back his raven hair once more, viewing his profile and watching a small smile tug at his lips while he slept.

"Miss?"

"Right. Sorry. You know...don't worry about the extra room. We'll manage just fine."

Slipping back under the covers you curled up as close to Jumin as possible, still trying not to wake him. You gave one last longing glance at his face. His strong jawline, pouting lips, thin sharp nose, long dark eyelashes, prominent cheek bones. All of his statuesque features. Shutting your eyes to get started on sleeping in, you heard a groggy moan, and felt a kiss on the top of your hair.

"Jumin?" You whispered and looked back at his face but he was very good at feigning consciousness. It seemed as though he was still fast asleep, and just before you thought you were joining him in the land of dreams you heard the subtlest heartwarming remark escape his lips.

"This woman...is quite adorable."

#jumin han #jumin x mc #jumin x reader #mysticmessenger #mystic messenger #fancfic #fanfiction #mysme #mysme fanfic #Jumin #mystic messenger jumin #writing #commissions #writing commissions #thank you for commissioning!

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namjoonchronicles · 6 years ago

Text

not about angels | three

↳ genre crime, thriller, angst, romance, psychological

↳ words 5.5k

↳ description --after learning that Jungkook somewhat knows the history behind the house he newly purchased, Namjoon begins to realize the weight that he shoulders all these years may be not have been entirely his to carry

↳ characters Jungkook, Seokjin, Namjoon

↳ warnings mentions of blood, domestic violence, corruption

↳ glossary *grant, legal: meaning a grant of public land, especially to an institution, organization, or to particular groups of people.

↳ namjoonchronicles’ tag list @kai-tashi @septemberalien @joon94net @yourlocalalien @snugglemejeon @yoongiseesaw @majestikblue

↳ parts one | two | three | four | five

Kim Namjoon.

Static screams in his mind. It’s hard to comprehend the lack of warmth when he was showered with it when you were around.

It’s easy to spot Namjoon. He’s the one everyone stayed away from. Through the eyes of a new inmate, Namjoon is described as, “Relentless, unforgiving, fist-first kind of guy” and apart from that, he is also “the lunatic who killed his own wife”. He has heard all kinds of versions of his alleged crime. From burying his wife in concrete, to plastering his wife’s body to the walls of the house he built; he’s heard it all. The mystery to his background adds onto the fuel. Namjoon was not imprisoned along with the other inmates. He has his own isolated cell. Rumour has it that he was given a 5 star meal despite his crime because he was the son of someone important who didn’t know what to do with their schizophrenic son. Some say he was mentally ill and wasn’t fit to be tried, that’s why there was no trial.

And to these rumours, Namjoon had said nothing. When he walks past the metal bars where the other inmates were leisuring around, always escorted by two prison wardens, they avoid staring. When he catches the new inmates’ eyes, his eyes turns dark, hooded and evil. Then he smirks. From the warden’s perspective, Namjoon was seen as charming. With his immaculate way of words, he is manipulative. He engages in a methodical approach of turning the words that came from others against themselves instead of directing them to himself.

He continues to baffle the so-called psychologist and psychiatrist with his disturbing logic.

The psychiatrist asks, “Hurting people is not normal, Namjoon.” To which he replies, “Ted Bundy wrote to Kloepfer in 1977, quote ‘I have known people who radiate...vulnerability. Their facial expression say ‘I am afraid of you’. These people invite abuse… by expecting to be hurt, do they subtly encourage it? End quote.”

Lie detectors didn’t work on him, and it was proven when he was asked if he had eaten or not; which he had calmly answered: No.

The lie detector dictates that it was true. But he did.

Thus, when he was asked if he has killed or not;

“Did you kill your wife on July 2nd, 2016?” “Yes.”

The lie detector expert says, “True.” Namjoon shot his head up and smiled eerily, “Ask me again.” “Did you kill your wife on July 2nd, 2016?” “No.”

The expert gulps nervously but Namjoon remains calm. “True.”

Mind jumbling sessions, the vast incomprehensible mind of his ushers many experts to turn away from their theories, concluding sessions with him as : inconclusive and or, undefined. They ran MRI, CT, CAT scans on him and found nothing else but extreme intelligence quotient beyond comprehension.

Namjoon is a genius.

He had spun around switching fluent foreign languages he had heard only once on the radio in the prison, mastered several other slangs, and had linguistic intelligence levels higher than the current known competitor. His actual number of estimated IQ, EQ and SQ was kept a secret. One of the reports about him, written by the nationwide acclaimed neurosurgeon concluded: incredible. That’s why he was kept in an isolated cell. Even though so, he doesn’t show any signs of aggression, or even any attempts to escape.

Namjoon is one of those ‘friends’ who seemed like they don’t belong there, but at the same time, does.

Always with books, Namjoon is a pretty easy inmate to take care of. So easy, that he was given much space when he works. Usually designing a new machine the government requires him.

His fingers are stained with oil lubricant almost always, twisting the spanner until it went past its cycles. He begins welding the metals with a welding machine, securing the bolts together. Make sure it’s stronger than his will to continue living. Given his engineering background and machinery know-hows, Namjoon has been stationed to help create metal frames and fixing any machines that goes out of service. It had been three years, so it was something routine for him.

Today however, a visit has delayed his work. The warden calls him out and told him he had a visitor. At first, he refused if it was Kim Seokjin. Or if it was another quack wanting to prove that he knows Namjoon’s brain more than the others that came before him. Namjoon isn’t in the mood. That was an amenity that Namjoon has: to turn away visitors as he’d like. He has another book to finish and he is waiting for lunch because they said it was going to be potato stew. He loves potato stew. Imagine his surprise when he heard some other name that rang no bell to him. A total stranger. He entered the room in a relaxed stride, his orange overall and striking gaze was what Jungkook caught first. He stood up at the presence of that men and stretched an arm out for a shake. Namjoon might have been an accused killer, but he is most certainly not rude. He takes the hand and gave it a firm grip.

“I’m Jeon Jungkook, I bought your house…” Jungkook introduced himself with a polite lopsided smile, unsure how to bring forth what he was planning to. Namjoon was taller, buffer, and far more experienced than he was. Judging from the age difference. Namjoon took the seat the same time he did, but unlike the psychiatrist, psychologist, quacks and lie detector experts, Jungkook was very humane-like. No disturbing smile, no creepy remarks like the warden who took him here had claimed. Namjoon was actually, in a sense of aura, quite pleasant.

Jungkook was reminded by the officer who granted Jungkook’s entrance who said, “That’s how all serial killers’ are, they’re all charming.”

“How do you find the house so far?” Namjoon engages with a gentle smile, but all he planned to do was read Jungkook from the top of his head to the tip of his toe. The only way to do that is to seem welcoming. “It’s tranquil, peaceful and…” Jungkook chooses his words carefully, provided his own linguistic skills, “outstandingly engineered.”

Namjoon’s lips parted as he smiled, reclining to his seat in a smug manner. Flattery, first impression is important. Namjoon could already see that Jungkook was curious. It seemed that he had found something that he couldn’t explain.

“Which news are you from?” Namjoon flicks his nails, with the other. “I’m sorry?” Jungkook’s face contorted in confusion. “You have a pen on your left breast pocket, your hands are far too soft for a mechanic, and you have a very small voice. You’re a writer,” Namjoon shot his eyes straight at him, drilling through the young men’s skull. Also, the fact that he had come all the way means that Jungkook had used the study room, where there was traces of blood behind the bookshelf. And the fact that he is here, suggests that Kim Seokjin has told him something. Or he has found something. Or both.

Jungkook refuses to fill into the pride that Namjoon must have felt when he guesses his job correctly. So he changed the topic by sliding his fist onto the table in front of Namjoon. When he opens them, a metallic cling resounded across the room. Namjoon’s wedding band.

“You loved your wife, you wouldn’t have killed her…” Jungkook dug into his breast pocket for a stack of polaroid. Showing Namjoon with his wife, eating ice cream, riding bicycles, pictures of her sleeping, picture of her working, with children, of him sleeping next to her that she took, at the beach, in the snow, strolling autumn park, buying white carnation bouquets. This was different. Namjoon looks away.

“If you did, why did you kill her?” Jungkook tilt his head to one side. “This visit is over,” Namjoon pushes the chair back and left.

The longer the memory resides, the more likely it becomes deceptive. This is where the line between reality and delusion begins to blur. The truth and lies becomes a concoction of Machiavellian turmoil. Namjoon starts to confuse the truth of the past and the lies he had created in his mind. Namjoon’s brain was so powerful that it could create a memory with a feeling that isn’t there. To Namjoon, it was the simplicity of ‘being in someone else’s shoe’ concept. But the scientists call it brilliant. Not only was he able to convert a scrap of the recollection into a complete lie, he was able to incorporate the emotional expense that goes in it. He can make a happy memory to be sad or tragic when it wasn’t; and make a sad remembrance to a happy one--there was no telling which part is a lie, and which isn’t.

We all lie.

But tonight he didn't want to lie. As he lay on his thin mattress and the dim light from the moon, his loyal companion, he begins talking to it. Maybe it was loneliness, maybe it was longing, maybe it was regret. But Namjoon spoke in hushes.

“Mine, forever...and always.”

2013. Summer.

He had been folding, unfolding, repeatedly the silk tie he was told to use. After two knocks, the door reveals his mother walking in with an envelope. She slide them on the bedside table, muttering, “The invitation is inside, don’t forget this…” She reminded him with nasally voice, crumpled tissue in her hand. She did a quick glance of her son’s spacious room, and had a seat on the bench by the bed, next to the large window. Unable to bear the sight of him fiddling with the tie, she raises from her seat and craned her head back. Namjoon’s eyes stuck to the left and then to the right, unable to focus.

“Don’t worry, you’ll represent your father well,” her voice soothing him. The nervous splayed over her son’s face isn’t easy to ignore. Namjoon was exceptionally cautious in terms of hiding his fears, but not when he is home, like this. Heart on his sleeves, he is almost transparent in the eyes of his mother. “You like charity events,” she added.

“Yes,” Namjoon inhaled and held his breath, “When they don’t involve money.”

“Nonsense,” his mother spat with a secretive smile, “Charity events always involve money.”

“Mom, I’ve never done bidding before…” Namjoon confessed. Only 19, what does he know? “It’s not about the bidding, my child,” she pauses, smoothing her hand over his shoulders, and handing him his suit, “It’s about showing that you bid. Didn’t Seokjin ever tell you how?” “I hadn’t spoke to him in ages,” Namjoon shrugs and looked into the mirror. The suit fit snugly and comfortably. His tall stature emphasize the amount of charisma he holds. “Why not?” his mother asked. “Seokjin...well,” he stopped, shut his eyes and fasten the tie clip onto his tie, the thought of Seokjin drinking and clubbing flashes his mind briefly, “We have different principles to live by when it comes to things not involving business.”

His mom sends him to the porch where a Black Sedan is waiting with the doors’ open. He gave his mother a half hug and unbuttoned his suit before he climbs into the car. The helper shuts the door for him and the car window draws down after his mother made gestures to speak.

“Even though he’s not here, he’d want you to do well. I’m sorry we couldn’t come with you,” his mother sighed, feeling guilty. “It’s okay, I’ll be home as soon as I can. You can depend on me,” Namjoon beams. Pushing his full rimmed glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. His mother pats his hand twice.

In the car, his knees couldn’t stop shaking. Feeling his lips dry as time passes, he grabs his lip balm and applied some. The driver threw a glance at him with a smile, but didn’t utter any words of comforts. Namjoon had an aura of leadership, where he is almost always seen as someone who could take care of themselves well. That’s why his father wanted him to pursue the family business without asking him of his dreams. He was so capable. Stands tall, with magnetizing presence, excellent mannerism and fluent in many languages. Charismatic, charming, chivalrous and purposeful. But Namjoon, on the inside is anything but.

He arrives in style, the door is opened for him, he exits the car and re-fastened his buttons back on, he realises another car stops just behind his. It was Seokjin, in his black turtleneck top and beige long coat. The medias are pooled at the foot of the event, as always. The camera flashes when Namjoon walks forward, he posed for the picture and gave a little wave where soon after, Seokjin skips to him and gave a handshake. He gave a salesman smile at the cameras while muttering at Namjoon, “You punk, you changed your number without telling me.”

“Didn’t think you’d need my number now that you have the Jung Corp. only son in your best friend list,” Namjoon smiles politely back. “If you’re jealous, you should have just said so,” Seokjin wrapped one arm around Namjoon’s shoulder and again, waved at the flashing camera.

A rush of wind suddenly tickled Namjoon’s ear. That’s when he glanced over his shoulder to see far behind the luxurious hall. Another entrance, and on that entrance, there’s a school bus pulling to a stop. Children both big and small, boys and girls, exits from them, all giggly and laughing excitedly. Their clothes far too thin for the weather, colors are faded and their shoe soles were worn out. It was easy to deduce that these children were not the kind Seokjin and Namjoon grew up with. At this spot, where he stood, facing the flashes by the thirsty media who wanted to know what his lunch was and if or not he bought a car, was so different from the kids who left the school bus felt.

We were here to do a charity event for them, but those kids walk behind because their clothes aren’t pretty enough for tomorrow’s news first page. In his thoughts.

Namjoon already hated being there. Capitalism had once again shown how ridiculously merciless it is to those who are simply aren’t enough. Namjoon looks at Seokjin posing for the camera, the clickers non-stop, applauding him for his good looks, and his social status. And here Namjoon was, incredibly seen and yet… unseen.

Dinner is a full course meal, beginning with appetizers. The higher social status you are, the further up stage your seat is. It didn’t matter what your age is, if your family is influential or massive economy provider, your status rises. Namjoon sat in between Korean Airline owner, Mr. Cho Yang Ho and socialite, Ms. Han Ji Sook, whose family owns a luxury jewellery brand. Namjoon’s family has a car business and real estates around Asia while Seokjin, seated at the neighboring table, owns a fishing company. He is going to start a delivery company soon and wanted to be on the same table as Namjoon next year, that was his goals.

Another two, sharing the table with Namjoon is Jung Corporation, Chief Financial Operator, Jung Young and wife. They are owners of mobile communication company and had just started Scholarships for students aspiring to be Programmers. Namjoon’s family isn’t a shy away from all those success. Their net worth isn’t disclosed to the public because it is too large. But the organizer, Ministry of Women, Family and Community Development must have a record on all that. On the bright side, the event is to enlightened the hardships subdued by charity homes that runs welfare, free health check ups for the homeless, orphanage and families living poverties, to request financial aids from these big companies.

However, the children who were invited and ‘celebrated’ are placed in the back of the hall and sat on the floor. There are no tables or chairs for them. Namjoon looks at the children, so well behaved, sitting quietly, waiting. Some of them are sneezing because the weather is too cold. Namjoon captures the arms of a waiter, asking if the heater can be increased a bit more. The waiter replies, “No, there’s no heater in that part of the hall…The portable one hasn’t been fixed.”

And there, the children are passing one piece of tissue each, to one another. Shrugging in place to fight the cold. The audience, continues the chatter, gleefully laughing, crossing their legs underneath the table, keeping up with their friends, not noticing the things the children’s are going through. Oblivious. Not noticing, or refuse to notice?

The emcee taps the microphone and began his welcoming speech. Cho Yangho, uninterested to know the objectives of the event, leans to Namjoon to snicker, “Just say you want our money, why make it sound nice…”

Apart from an awkward smile, Namjoon didn’t say anything else. He was already placed in such uncomfortable position where the press could start a wildfire rumor of him dating 40 year-old socialite Ms. Han Ji Sook just by sitting next to her, and the person on the left isn’t any less prejudicial. He just wants to be home, but his stomach grumbles. He glances to the back where he saw the children, and a lady was passing them blankets. The gesture oddly relieved Namjoon. Finishing the welcoming speech, the dinner begins with appetizers for the VIP attendees. Well-served, well cooked. A chef probably.

While Namjoon was eating, he heard them.

“I specifically wrote on the forms that there will be 30 children, how come there’s not enough food for them?” “Look, Miss,” the waiter sighs, “We got you 20 packs of food because if we give more, we will be out of budget for the other invitees. The 10 children can share.”

Namjoon fidgets his eyes to the direction where the conversation took place. But he wasn't able to see the woman that told the waiter about the food that wasn't enough. As he was scooping another spoonful of soup, he glanced at the children and saw that they were eating food taken out from a nearby restaurant. A fast food restaurant. Only fried rice and bottled water.

At that moment he felt guilty. Namjoon was unable to explain the guilt that he felt as he sat so comfortably on the chair while the children from the Orphanage were on the floor. And the only reason why they are placed there is because they had no parents, no social status, and no money. His table, filled with the rich, left their food unfinished and taken away while the children ensured not even one grain of rice left. Namjoon himself couldn’t find his appetite to eat anymore. Not when he is witnessing unfairness took place. Without his parents around, he found himself even more aware of his surroundings. The things that he grew up to see and the consequences of the lands they took. Money is power.

Then, a female voice came from the stage. It’s the same lady who handed them blankets. Beginning by introducing yourself, you smiled pleasantly at the audience. Your eyes were glimmering with tears but you blinked them away. It wasn’t hard for Namjoon to tell.

“I help run an orphanage in the neighborhood I lived in. I was taken away from my home at the death of my grandmother and placed in the orphanage I came from. In this house, I studied, ate and eventually got accepted to college. This year is my first year… you must be wondering why I would tell you this… We came here to live, these children we care for are, like it or not, part of our future. There are potentials, skills and talents that are not yet polished due to their shortcomings, and situations. Charity events such as these has high hopes to continue the ongoing of financial expenses that these houses handles every month. Some of them don’t go to school because we couldn’t afford school fees. We haven’t even spoken about food coupons, transportation, let alone talk about uniforms.”

“Where are these kids from?” Cho Yangho raises his voice, interrupting your speech.

“Excuse me sir?” you asked.

“You heard me. Where are they from?” He cockily smiled.

“Baby boxes, neglected children from parents who relies on medications, children whose parents are in high school, children who gets left behind because their family couldn’t care for them, physically, financially and sometimes, mentally.” Each word she stressed with a delicate power resembling a spark that could consume the hall if it wanted to

“Trash...Their parents are trash,” Cho Yangho spat, chuckling.

You feel your cheeks heating up, not from embarrassment but from anger. Whispering, you spoke through the microphone, “Get the kids out of the hall, right now please…” your helper was hesitant, but he did as told. One by one, the kids left the hall. At the sight of the last child leaving, a toddler barely two, you cleared your throat. Namjoon felt tense all of a sudden.

You looked so brave. Something, he could never be.

Balling fist and glaring eyes, you maintained a smile when he glances back to the stage where you stand.

You inhaled, “And like trash they sit on the floor,” the microphone is turned off because they wanted the millionaire to save face, so you stepped down from the podium and used only your voice to resonate through the hall,

“And like trash, they sit on the floor, eating from the floor, shivering in the cold of their cleanest clothes they could find. Like trash, they waddled inside this forsaken hall filled with the so-called ‘Nation’s Finest’, asking, no. Begging for security that they are not looked past of. I came here, entrusting the ministry to stop raising the rent for the house they owned just because they’re saving nobodies. Yes, we are trash. We are trash to breath, to live, to simply have become human. The world you created has made it impossible for these children to live. And if their petite bodies lay on the street when the government took control, their blood will be on your hands… Sir.”

Don’t call him sir. He doesn’t deserve that.

“You sure have a lot to say for someone who is asking for financial aids. I shall remember your name,” Cho Yangho said from his seat and two guards grabbed you by the arm and you were told to leave the stage. Namjoon witnessed you ridding yourself of the harsh grasp and growled, “I can walk.”

The emcee resumes the event with a small performance by the local trot singers. Namjoon threw his napkin on the table and excused himself to leave the hall for a bit.

“Charity event? More like ‘let’s cuss at poor people’ event. Treated like animals,” you grumbled. It didn’t sound clear at first, but slowly, the fast steps approaching from behind made you turn around. It was the young man from the table Yangho was on. You didn’t want to have a conversation after that outburst, not at all. You begin to move away after glancing saltily at him.

“Tell him, he can sue me tomorrow,” you dashed and that’s when Namjoon realised you thought he was in the team of crazy balding owner of Korean Airlines. He sidestepped and got in front of you with ease, provided his long legs.

“...I’m Kim Namjoon, Gangneung Motors & Real Estates,” he set out his hand for a handshake as a habit but you left it hanging and instead, gave a passive-aggressive reply, “Congratulations.” And a fake smile. Moving on. “I saw what they did to you and the children,” Namjoon sputters quickly to gain your attention. But you seem to be in a hurry. “Sir, Mr. Kim…” you collected your thoughts and smacked your lips out of annoyance, “It’s a very cold night and the children have thin clothes on, I need to bring them home as quickly as I can before one of them fall sick. Will you please…”

Namjoon appears to let you go but he asked, “Which orphanage are you from?” He’d do anything to talk to you.

His question made you halt at the door of the bus, and you responded by pointing your chin at the body of the bus where it states, passing, “Didn’t they teach you how to read in rich boys’ school?”

“Take a good look at it, the bus is going to be sold no later than next Friday.” You hummed and walked in, avoiding your helpers eyes. He caught you by the coat and you had no choice but to take the seat next to him. “You know we needed the money,” Jimin huffed.

“Can’t you put your righteousness away for one night?” He whines in a husky voice, keeping his sounds low because the children were beginning to fall asleep. “They called us trash, Jimin... “ you ran your fingers through your hair, looking over your shoulders at the kids, “They don’t deserve that. They didn’t ask for this life.” Jimin took your hand and squeezed it, looking ahead to the destination.

“I sold my car to pay the bills this month. What are you going to sell?” he lands his head on your shoulder. “I’ll see what I can find,” you grinned tiredly.

Washed over tiredness, Jimin begins to drift away to his much needed sleep. But before he was gone completely, he asked, “Who was that guy just now, asking about our home?” You couldn’t answer Jimin, because you yourself didn’t know.

He is still standing there where you left him be. He hopes that the cold night can kill him and therefore he doesn’t need to re-enter that hell of a event, knowing Seokjin will be curious as to why he needed to run after the girl. He types in Naver, the web search engine, with his nimble thumbs, “Camelia Orphanage.”

Present day.

Namjoon startles awake. Sweat beading on his forehead, heart and lungs going separate ways. His warden knocks on his cell asking, “Namjoon, is everything okay?”

He nods. “Always the same dream, over and over again.”

The glass shatters upon contact on the floor. His hand grips into a neck of a woman while her hands fumbles for release. The sound of her restricted airways was the only thing he could hear. She falls to the floor and coughing, touching her neck, he went to her and delivered a slap with the back of his hands. With the broken glass, he strikes the side of her head.

And Namjoon jolts awake.

He massages his temples with one hand, eating his happy pills and went for a morning exercise. Today, instead of doing three rounds on the field, Namjoon is in his cell, given a pen and a paper. He is writing a letter, addressed to: Jeon Jungkook.

It begins with:

“You were right. I loved her. In fact, I love her, still. Before I even saw her face, I heard her words. She has a lovely, sophisticated and well-mannered voice. And there’s so many things words can say about a person. They tell us what hearts they have. She, she has a kind one. When I first laid my eyes on her, it’s like the sun came out. She was on that stage alone, standing on that podium, bravely, determined. Unlike me. That’s what I thought, how she was unlike me. She was all I wanted. I wanted to give her everything, but I didn’t know how. Funny how we are taught everything, but to love.

It was difficult at first, I researched the Orphanage she ran. I provided food they needed, financial aids, whatever they might need with the money my dad gave me for allowance. I didn’t need the half a million won in my bank. My cheques reached her closer than I ever was, but my heart was hers. Until one day, the bank said the account I transferred money to, was closed. I went to visit her college on my semester break and watched her work as a waitress, mascot, passing out flyers, as a cashier all the while studying, herself. An evening after so many evenings before, I finally muster up courage to meet her. I didn’t know how to introduce myself.

When I saw her serving grilled fish, wearing that dirty apron, wearing that tacky cap and in the same shoes she was wearing on that day I first saw her, I choked on my words, staring, eyes focusing on her. What was I doing? I’m a rich man in love with a waitress. Then the lights in that tiny canopy stall by the streets turns off. Light from the emergency rod lit up and I saw her. I saw her smiling. Smiling in the middle of mishap, assuring everyone around her that everything is alright, like she is used to this. And it struck something in me. The strength she has. To make most of what she has within her hold.

Again, I walked in that shabby pop up stall that stench of oily cheap beef, into a crowd who knew each other like families. In my expensive suit, I couldn’t fit in but my desire was strong. She looked at me, in the gaze so clear that I could see myself, familiarity sinks in, and she calls my name. My full name. I couldn’t express how happy I was to know she remembered me. There was no time for all the romantic stuff I planned, and the confession was rushed and in haste. I remember her smirking at me, I was scared for the life of me. And she asked me, to prove it. Prove that I love her. Not by my money, not by my status, but as me. As Kim Namjoon. And it silenced me, because I don’t know who that was.

Jungkook, I can call you that, right? To many, the ideas of love at first sight is often romanticized in movies. But my love to her had to be earned. And I have never earned anything in my life, on my own. So I took on part times jobs with her. Around her, always close to her. Those were our dates. Meeting during lunch hours, running into each other on the streets. Cycling on Han River, eating shared ice creams, fighting over skewers, running to the nearest bus stop in the heavy rain. You were right. I loved her. I love her.

I married her. Despite the protests from my parents. I married the love of my life, along with her sorrows, her despair, her pain and soul. I married her, with a promise… to love her, until she wants me to stop.

That day, I stopped. I think I did.”

Namjoon, in that letter continues to tell Jungkook word by word how he fell for his wife slowly, almost effortlessly. How refreshing she was to him. Compared to everything he had been raised with. He never had to worry about the future because he has his parents, knowing her, has made him realised how flawed the system was. Not only was he ready to devote himself to her, he was learning. As enthusiastic he was to understand the things he couldn’t, his parents didn't share the same excitement towards you. They were weary of letting someone ordinary into their spectacular family. The top 1% don’t simply allow any commoners in, especially without business benefits. They had plans for Namjoon already.

But quite literally, the future seems bleak because Namjoon is helplessly in love. With his brilliance, he was able to be a part of the construction and under discreet orders, had commanded a third house on that street to be erected on his behalf. Namjoon held the original blueprints to the construction while the developers held the ones he traded with. You knew nothing about it. He said he bought the place. It had only walls and floorings. Both of you built it, from the ground up. The house was yours and his. Sitting on the floor with warm mugs of coffee, the only mattress in the centre of the room, Namjoon remembered how cozy it felt. He shared dreams of the future with you. Held you tight and gently. The smell of brewed coffee filled the air. And he was home.

“I had a bad feeling about this,” was what she said. The day the letters from the government came, that the orphanage was being demolished and the children were being adopted one by one. You held him tightly in a hug that was meant to sooth you. Resting his cheek on the side of your head, Namjoon consoled, “I’m sure it’s just your mistrusting nature talking. The kids will be okay.”

All Namjoon’s defenses become construed because one day, the bad feel came true. A boy, around 13, ran to your house barefooted. His lips bloodied, face swollen and bruised, clothes torn—neglected. You turned the main door knob in a hurry and sped to the street, holding this boy before he falls to his knees. Weak, and unable.

You stared at Namjoon as he stood at the balcony. In those eyes, were hatred, distrusting and disappointment. Because even though you’re his wife, you don’t belong in this community.

Another question lingers into Namjoon’s mind, Who was that boy running from?

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shashankspace · 6 years ago

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A Saga

Part – 7: The Unsent Message.

“Fortunately and unfortunately, yes!” affirmed Vyshak, “Human-wise, it is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Prime Minister”

Mr. Aalam nodded in disregard and continued, “I will jump straight to point, shall I?” as he received nods from other dignitaries on the table. The emptiness of the room and the distance between table and two had already created a rift in Dom’s views on verdict.

“Captain Dom, The council would like to know the order procedure received for the failed pre-emptive strike?” The woman burst right into questioning. The name plate read ‘Air Marshal Deepa Sethuraman’;

Captain Dom looked shocked. He knew had followed the proper orders.

“Apologies Madam, but the Compusisis gave a direct order to us.” He claimed. Compusisis was an inside government invention to give direct orders notifying the respective authority. Much to technology advancement, the computers were a major part of the ‘The Recoup age’. They were designed in early 2049 when USA decided to bomb China to end its population, apparently. On China’s response, the UN, existing then had denied trade status. The USA and UN were effecting the whole operation and it was executed; parts of India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and other neighboring countries took a hit. In reply, India was quick to devise a quick-response, self-motivating computer OS that relayed orders to respective forces based on the nature of attack. The terrorists were on a rise; the funding came from various countries; and innocent people were continuously being killed. The traumatic population then threw over the individual government; ending regimes of all kinds of governments. Left only with one option of leading together, they decided to form two governments each separate from other. China, India and Japan who lead the east did not want include the west into the picture. The trades were divided. The currencies were unitized; no form of reach between the west and east existed anymore; not even through cells or net. China, head of the security froze accounts and apprehended those who tried contact with the other half. The disliking was so solid. The west drained in their own resources; recovered with artificiality; the human resources became scarcer; people died of diseases; the ‘Confederation of states, United west’ briefly CSUW tried contacting the FUSE for basic amenities; some of them even agreeing to live as refugees; but the FUSE was reluctant. With Justice headed by India, there was no sorry acceptance by any of the countries in the east. Australia harbored the wisest and unforgiving populace in the east. The FUSE was honestly trying to bring balance back to the world while CSUW was still trying to get back on its feet. The densest forest range, Amazon had seen itself on verge of extinction; thanks to UN which interfered and stopped the menace. The population of the world was indeed increasing with India crossing China in great numbers. But the past governments of the Vedic country had adequately solved the crisis, until the nuke hit on China. Pakistan, Afghanistan and many more had been wiped out completely. They were all refugees. Some of the nations like Israel were still undecided. But on a well-formed talk among all the nations they were considered ‘Independent Union’ until they formed their thoughts to join a side. Nobody could touch them. Nothing came out of the borders of such countries, they had to use their own resources, and trade was prohibited. There was nothing they could buy or borrow from the remaining world. Owing to depletion and dearth some of the countries signed a memorandum to join the FUSE. CSUW was all left with prayers; Iceland was the only place on their map that could afford resources because of the brilliant engineering they adopted in early 2000’s. Africa was at the helm of FUSE, and Russia, the fiercest in the world continued to build defense top-notches. Deepa Sethuraman, the second head of the defense team, clicked her pen on the table and started,

“And why didn’t we get an account of that?” questioned AM Deepa. It had to convey; questions swarmed in Dom’s head.

#writing #mywriting #imagination #aliens #scifiseries #science #scififantasy #writeblr #blogs #blogger #writers on tumblr #writers #writersonig

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megabadbunny · 7 years ago

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Minuet, Part VI

“Why’d you kiss me, if it was wrong?” Rose asks. The Doctor bristles. “Why did you push me away, if it wasn’t?”

***

(ten/rose angsty post-gitf au/fixit; here there be smuts (but sfw version can be found on ff.net)

(full-size image)

Minuet, Part VI

Rose is pulled from her sleep, rather violently, by the sound of hammering on her door. “Rose,” hisses a voice on the other side. “Rose, it’s Mickey. Open up. Please?” Groaning in response, Rose yanks her pillow over her aching head. When did Mickey’s whispers get so loud? “Rose?” says Mickey’s voice, louder. Swearing under her breath, Rose slides out of bed, squinting against the lightning blaring overhead and steadying herself with a hand to the wall as she slouches her way over to the door--it’s an actual door, thankfully, not that magical hole-in-the-wall thing, which is a blessing, because Rose has no idea how that knock thing works, and she’s fairly certain her brain can’t handle anything more complicated than a doorknob right now. She pushes the door open to find Mickey standing in the hallway, clad in satiny jimjams and a plush robe; yet another set of amenities provided by Uruud or one of the other Votaries, Rose thinks. “Can I help you?” she grumbles. “I wanted to check in. What’s going on with you right now?” Rose sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. It doesn’t help the pain (in fact, it might make it worse), but it at least helps allay the sensation that her head is going to inflate and float away like some kind of wine-filled balloon. “It’s...nothing,” she says after a moment. “It’s stupid. I’m just being stupid.” “Rose,” Mickey says, admonishing. “Mickey,” she replies flatly. Mickey crosses his arms. “Okay. Fine. We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want--” “Great,” says Rose, pushing the door closed. “Wait! Rose!” Groaning in frustration, Rose pulls the door back open to find Mickey looking stricken. “Why are you really here?” she asks. “Just spit it out.” “Oh my god, he won’t stop talking, okay?” Mickey blurts out. “It’s driving me up the bleeding wall. No, scratch that--it’s driving me all the way off the planet, out of the galaxy, into a neighboring universe. He just won’t. Stop. Talking!” Rose squints in confusion. “Who?” “The Doctor,” Mickey replies, exasperated. “Who else? Ever since we got back to the room, he’s going a million miles an hour, Allstorm this and barometric pressure that and something about Therran politics and just all this stupid nuttery nonsense and he won’t bloody shut up.” His mouth quirks downward in a lip-quivering pout. “I just want to sleep, Rose.”

Leaning against the doorjamb for support, Rose feels the smallest inkling of pity welling up somewhere where her stomach used to be; she would have warned Mickey that might happen, had it occurred to her, but she’d grown so accustomed to the Doctor’s rambling during overnight stays in strangers’ homes and sleepy movies in the TARDIS library and occasional stints in otherworldly prisons that his late-night lectures often served as a handy sleep aid. Or at least, they did before. Rose has no idea how she’d react to it now, after half a year’s-worth of falling asleep each night completely and utterly alone.

“Look, can I just stay in here tonight?” Mickey asks, fidgeting uncomfortably in his slippers. “Please?” Yawning, Rose nods, stepping aside to make room. “Thank you,” Mickey gushes, stopping to peck a quick kiss on her cheek before he darts inside, making a beeline straight for the bed. Rose closes the door and follows after much more slowly, her feet dragging over the floor, her entire body moving as if it were filled with lead, heavy and cumbersome and reluctant to fight against gravity’s insatiable pull. Hauling herself back into bed, Rose wants nothing more than to sleep the night away and pretend this godforsaken mess of a day never happened. But instead she lies awake next to Mickey for what feels like hours, her thoughts plodding on sluggishly in an endless parade as her stomach twists in knots.

The Doctor looks more confused than anything when he answers the door. “Mickey’s snoring,” Rose grumbles by way of explanation, pushing past the Doctor before he has a chance to reply. The Doctor doesn’t move from his post by the door, doesn’t even turn to look at Rose as she kicks off her slippers, gathers the skirts of her gown, and yanks open the canopy-curtain, collapsing into the bed. She pulls the duvet over her head, tunneling deep into the bedclothes like a rabbit in a burrow, and waits. Any minute now, the Doctor will acknowledge her presence, with babble or chatter or a protest, but only silence meets her ears. Silence, and then the quiet whine of the door closing, and the soft padding of the Doctor’s shoes over the floor. Rose expects the bed to dip with his weight, and frowns when she hears something that sounds suspiciously like a chair dragging over the tiles instead. She peeks out from under the bedclothes just long enough to see the Doctor depositing himself at the bedside table, raking a hand through his hair. That churning-feeling rises up in Rose’s stomach again. She tells herself it’s just the alcohol. She hates how much this bothers her, how much she just wants him to pull her into his arms even after what a horrible arse he’s been, hates how much she wishes he would hold her tight and promise that everything’s all right. She hates it. “You don’t, erm,” she tries to say, mentally kicking herself even as the words leave her mouth. “You don’t have to stay over there all night, you know. It’s your bed after all.” Silence again. Rose squirms in the bedclothes. Not because she feels guilty and uncomfortable; no, it’s because the bedclothes are a little scratchy, that’s all. The fancy, expensive, definitely-made-out-of-some-kind-of-silk bedclothes. (Mickey said the Doctor wouldn’t shut up--why isn’t he blabbering now?) “Just...you’re not gonna get any rest like that, is all I’m saying,” Rose tries again, her voice muffled by the mattress. “C’mon. Bed’s big enough for two.” The air is quiet and still, and moments pass in endless agony. But just when Rose thinks the Doctor might sit by the desk all night after all, she hears the soft rustle of moving cloth, feels the mattress pull to accommodate another occupant. She peeks out from under the duvet again to see the Doctor lying atop the bedclothes, staring at the canopy ceiling, hands folded over his stomach and feet crossed at the ankles. He hasn’t even taken off his plimsolls, the barmy alien. The bad feeling in Rose’s stomach loosens a little, but only a little. “You’re not going to bed like that, are you?” “Like what?” “All, y’know. Still dressed and everything. Can’t be comfy.” “That hangover you’re nursing can’t be comfy either.” Rose’s cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Shut up,” she mumbles, though with a mouthful of bedsheet, it emerges a bit more like Sherderrmpf. The Doctor shifts next to her, and a hand creeps into her field of vision, unfolding to reveal two tablets. “Take them now, before the full effects set in,” the Doctor says softly. “Should clear you up in a jiffy.” Reluctantly, Rose slips the tablets out of his hand. “You’ll need a glass of water.” “I know,” she grumbles as she slides out of bed. “Drink the whole glass.” “I know,” Rose repeats, grumpily, even as she follows his orders and drags her half-lifeless corpse over to the en suite so she can fill a glass with water. Tablets, mouth, swallow, water, she drains the glass and refills it and drains it again, and already she’s starting to feel better despite herself, damn him. After a moment, she chances a look back at the Doctor, whose thousand-yard-stare bores into the canopy up above, his face alternately painted white by the lightning leaking through the curtains and plunged back into darkness seconds later. Rose wonders at his strange silence, what she can do to disrupt it. As disconcerting as his extreme chatter was earlier in the day, Rose would trade anything for it right now. She doesn’t like it when the Doctor is quiet. It’s weird. Rose avoids her side of the bed on her return trip, heading straight for the Doctor instead, or rather, for his shoes. She ignores the way his eyebrow arches in question when she sits down at the foot of the bed and pulls the laces free from one plimsoll. “You can’t sleep like this,” she chides gently. “To be fair, it’s doubtful I’ll sleep at all.” Rose finishes unlacing one shoe and sets to work on the other. “I know.” She tugs both shoes off and scoots up the bed, unbuttoning the Doctor’s top jacket-button. He doesn’t try to stop her, not when she slips the next button free, not even when she moves down further, but with his hands still folded over his stomach, he doesn’t exactly try to help her, either. (Rose can feel the weight of his gaze on her face, though, heavy and questioning.) Probably she should pull away, give him space, allow him room, if he wants it, but her hands linger near his, fingers ghosting over the landscape of his knuckles. “Just seems like you could use a proper rest, is all,” she mumbles. “I’m not tired,” the Doctor says quietly. “When’s the last time you slept?” “I’m all right, Rose.” “Yeah, that’s what you say when you’re anything but all right.” With a heavy sigh, the Doctor sits up, dislodging Rose’s hands as he swings his legs round, hanging over the side of the bed, feet ready and prepped to stand. To run, Rose thinks, and panic rises in her chest, squeezing her heart until it hurts, bursting at the seams like a stress toy clenched in an angry and unforgiving fist. “Doctor,” she tries to say, but it’s too late; he’s pushing up from the bed and re-buttoning his jacket and he’ll slip his shoes on next just before he slips out of the room, and she’s just going to be left here alone with nothing but her own thoughts and aching heart and fluttering stomach for company. Rose doesn’t know if she can take another night of that--last evening was more than enough, thanks. So she rises with the Doctor and, pulling him down by the jacket-lapels, presses a kiss to his mouth. He freezes beneath her touch. Rose’s lungs contract painfully in her chest and she pulls away, panic pulsing higher and higher and louder and oh, god, oh, fuck, oh, no, no, no-- “Rose, I thought it was clear that my actions the other night were a mistake,” says the Doctor, his voice surprisingly quiet for all that its edges are sharp. Her cheeks flush hotly in the half-dark. “You didn’t say it was a mistake. You said you were sorry.” “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” “No,” replies Rose stubbornly. “It’s not.” The Doctor shoves his hands into his pockets, but he doesn’t move to leave, so Rose considers that a small victory. She’ll take them where she can get them, right now. “Why’d you kiss me, if it was wrong?” Rose asks. The Doctor bristles. “Why did you push me away, if it wasn’t?” “I don’t know. I guess I was just surprised, or confused, or taken off-guard, or…” Mouth pursed tight, the Doctor watches her, unconvinced. “Look, what do you want me to say?” Rose asks, crossing her arms defensively. “You want me to say it was because of what happened in France? Fine. It was because of France. Want me to say I was jealous? Fine. I was jealous. Happy?” “Jealous? Jealous of whom?” the Doctor asks, bewildered. The question hits Rose like a physical blow; she has to step back to absorb it. “Jealous of…?” she stutters, and when the Doctor doesn’t elaborate, she throws her hands up in the air, at a complete loss. “Who do you think?” The Doctor just shakes his head, eyes wide, and Rose drags both palms over her face in exasperation, heedless of any makeup she might be smearing. “God,” she groans, “it’s just so easy sometimes to forget what a bloody alien you are.” Buzzing with barely-tamed impatience, the Doctor watches her, waiting. Lightning arcs above them, painting the Doctor’s face in a flash of white, and his eyebrow arches expectantly, as if to say, Are you going to go on, or aren’t you? Drinking in a deep breath, Rose steels herself. “You were just gonna disappear,” she says. “Just running off after the next shiny thing, like always. You were gonna leave me behind, right after you promised you wouldn’t.” “Rose, I never--” “Never what? Never popped in and out of all those time windows like it was nothing, or flirted and carried on, or made a right arse out of yourself at some bourgeois party while Mickey and I were almost cut up for scrap parts? No kissing, no dancing, no I just snogged Madame de Pompadour?” The Doctor’s expression cools. “You do realize that I don’t require anyone’s permission to do those things. Or anyone’s approval, for that matter.” With a heavy sigh, weighed down by the plummeting twin masses of resignation and defeat, Rose bends over to scoop her slippers off the floor. Coming in here was a mistake; she knows that now. “Yeah,” she says, her voice flat as she slips the shoes back on. “I’m sure you’re right. You always are.” “Oh, come on--” “No, I get it. You’re the Doctor, you’re your own man, you don’t answer to anyone, ain’t nobody gonna tie you down. If you’re looking for a higher authority, there isn’t one. Isn’t that right?” “Rose,” the Doctor says warningly, but she plows on. “Just, if you never want to be held accountable to anyone, not ever--that’s fine, I guess, but then what’s the point of having friends?” Rose pleads. “Or are we even really your friends at all--are we more sort of empty shells that you can pour information into, or just fresh pairs of eyes to make the universe seem new and bright again, or just things that make noise and distract you from feeling quite so miserable and guilty and lonely anymore?” “Rose, that’s enough.” “Is it, though? Cos I’m happy to go on about how stupid and clueless we all are, all us silly humans struggling to keep up with you hopping from world to world and one obsession to the next. After all, there’s none in the group that’s stupider than me, since apparently I haven’t got even the faintest clue about how other people feel about me or how I’m supposed to react to their ridiculous mood swings and shifting tempers and ever-changing invisible boundaries—” “Quite frankly, you’ve got no room to talk—” “—and I can’t even tell whether I’ve got the right to be jealous or not. C’mon, let’s chat about it, I’ve got all night!” “Fine,” the Doctor snaps. “Yes, you are stupid. Very much so.” Rose’s mouth falls open in shock, only to twist back shut. Telltale pressure builds up in her sinuses, insistent and near-overwhelming, and she blinks furiously to dam the flow before any leaks spring forth. She hasn’t cried in nearly half a year; she’s not about to let it happen now. She’ll be damned before she lets the Doctor see her so vulnerable. “Guess I sort of walked into that one,” she mutters to herself. “You’re an incredibly stupid, reckless, selfish, short-sighted human child who can’t see past the here and the now,” the Doctor spits out. “Did you even think about what could have happened when you jumped through that mirror? Did it ever cross your mind, the damage you could have caused? Do you ever stop, even for a single second, to consider the consequences of your actions, how you might alter things irreparably, how you--” “Jesus, I get it, all right? We already talked about this, I was never gonna let anything happen to Reinette or the timelines or--” “I’m not talking about Reinette!” the Doctor shouts, throwing his hands up in the air. “When did I ever bring up Reinette? I’m talking about you, I’m talking about me!” Inhaling sharply, Rose hesitates. She opens her mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. She closes it again. She waits. The Doctor shoves both hands in his pockets, looking resolutely at anything in the room besides her. “What would have happened if I hadn’t found that last connection?” he asks, perhaps more of himself than anyone. “Or if I’d found it even a few moments later? You were already stuck there for months, months, and your stupid human life is already so short as it is. If you’d been stranded there for years, decades--what if you’d gotten sick, what if you’d gotten hurt?” Rose hasn’t got a reply for that. They’re all things she had wondered herself, back in France, and just hoped every day she wouldn’t ever have to find out. “I was so--I panicked, Rose, I panicked and it rendered me utterly useless,” the Doctor continues. “That could have cost you everything. What if I had found the connection too late, what if I’d never found it at all?” “You would have found another way,” Rose insists. “That’s what you do.” “I don’t always, though,” the Doctor laughs weakly. “Not every time. And I worry you don’t understand that. You look at me like I can do anything. I can’t, Rose. Your unwavering faith--I don’t deserve it. And I’m not saying that for the sake of receiving reassurance,” he snaps when Rose tries to interject. “I don’t want that. I don’t need it. Heaven knows I haven’t earned it. My behavior has been nothing short of abominable, if not downright monstrous; don’t think I’m not aware.” He pushes one hand through his hair, sighing heavily. “The truth is, I can’t always engineer a happy ending. Sometimes there simply isn’t one to be had. You’ve seen it, time and time again; no matter how hard I try, nearly each time we intervene to help someone, there’s someone else who doesn’t make it. We may save the day for most, but in the end, there are still lives lost. Someone I couldn’t help, someone I couldn’t save. What happens when that someone is you?” “That’ll never happen,” Rose says stubbornly. “It will, though.” His eyes cinch shut, as if the conversation costs him, like his body is paying the bill with hurt. “We’ve already come so close. You just rush in, headfirst, no looking back, no thinking, no stopping to consider what might be. You just in front of a car to save your father, break through a time window to save a stranger, absorb the Vortex to save me--” The Doctor swallows. “It’s just a matter of time. You’ll do something, or I’ll misjudge something, or I’ll panic, or there’ll be an accident, or you’ll grow tired of all of this, and--and then you’ll be gone. And I’m not ready for that yet. I’m just not.” His shoulders sag in defeat. “And I’m not sure I ever will be.” Rose’s hand twitches, the impulse to soothe him with touch so deeply ingrained that her body starts to move of its own accord, drawn to him like her hands are programmed to comfort, her arms to embrace. But she stops herself. Some strange cocktail of emotions is brewing and surging in her veins and she just needs a moment to sort it out properly, so the whole thing doesn’t boil over into one big bubbling sticky mess. So she doesn’t drown. (She can’t believe that the Doctor would ever feel so much, all because of her. All for her.) “Well,” she says, hesitantly. “Stop insulting me and maybe I’ll stick around longer.” “I don’t think it qualifies as insulting so much as accurate. Your actions really are astonishingly ill-advised, sometimes. Shockingly so.” “Right,” says Rose, anger rising to the surface once again. “So I’m reckless. Great. And selfish. Fine. And yeah, stupid, too. Why keep me around, then? What’s the point? If I’m so foolish, why don’t you just get rid of me?” “If you’re not foolish,” the Doctor snaps, “then why do you love me?” A lump lodges in Rose’s throat. “I don’t,” she lies. The Doctor’s gaze meets hers and god, does he look tired. His expression is so sad, so unbearably pathetic in the watercolor-grey splashes of light, that something wells up in her, a blind driving need to wipe that stupid, awful look off his face. (Is he upset because he believes her--or because he doesn’t?) Rose pushes him by the shoulders, a sharp jab that knocks him back a step. “I don’t,” she insists. Chest heaving with exertion, she pushes the Doctor again for good measure when he doesn’t reply--why won’t he just say something, do something, anything, goddammit--and another sharp shove sets him back until his legs hit the bed. “I don’t love you,” Rose says, bitter hot tears swelling fatly in the corners of her eyes. “I don’t, I don’t, I swear I don’t--” “Good,” replies the Doctor, his voice short. “Me neither.” “Good,” Rose echoes, and please, please don’t let him see the moisture glittering on her lashes. “Then none of this means anything.” Yanking him down by the jacket, she captures his lips in a punishing kiss. This time, the Doctor doesn’t freeze, isn’t a cold marble statue unwilling and unable to respond; no, this time one hand flies up immediately to her face, gripping her firmly by the chin while his other hand clenches her by the hip, pulling her tight against him. Rose’s fingers slide up to tangle in his hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp; he bites her lower lip in response, his tongue slipping past her lips when she gasps in shock. His tongue brushes slickly over hers and Rose groans despite herself, the sound humming from her mouth into his. Dizziness fizzes up in Rose’s head, a direct counterpoint to the swooping sensation descending low in her belly, and this time, she knows it’s got nothing to do with the alcohol. Her hands shift to the Doctor’s tie, loosening it up enough to bare his throat to her teeth. His breath hitches when her lips brush against his Adam’s apple; his grip on her tightens when she bites down. His skin flushes brilliantly against her mouth, delightfully hot and pulse point pumping-pumping-pumping, and Rose gives the spot a good suck, privately reveling in how the Doctor swears under his breath. All those layers, all that haughty superior species thinking-instead-of-doing nonsense, all those snide remarks about the base instincts of human nature, and yet here he is, trembling at her touch and clutching her close just like any human bloke might. “Leaving your mark?” he asks breathlessly. “Yeah,” she says, pushing him until his knees buckle and he lands on the bed. “Wanna ruin you like you ruined me.” With a growl, the Doctor forces Rose down into his lap. A needy whimper arises in Rose’s throat as the Doctor pulls her in for another harsh kiss, his hand sliding beneath her skirt, skin-on-skin at last. He dispenses with any sense of buildup and slides a thumb beneath the neckline of her gown, teasing her breast as his other hand slips between her legs to stroke her through her knickers. Thighs clenching, Rose gasps as pleasure sparks through her, setting her nerve endings on fire and pooling slickly between her legs. She knows the Doctor is watching her, filing away expressions and scents and sounds so he can chart a map for himself, telling him where to stroke next, where best to lick and kiss. But she’s not a brave new world for him to explore; there’s no promise of anything forbidden or new, no sense of wide-eyed wonder. Instead there’s just heat, and pressure, and need. And right now she needs to see him lose control. Her fingers slip down to his waistband, pulling his shirttails free and flicking open his trouser-clasp so she can lower the zipper. He’s already half-hard when her fingers reach his cock, and he shudders as she strokes, teasing him with swipes of her thumb. He swells beneath her hand and she thinks she should lick her fingers, grip him with something warm and wet. Then she has a better idea. Pushing the Doctor until his back hits the mattress, Rose offers him one more kiss, hard and punctuated with teeth, before she grabs him by the wrists, pulling his hands out from beneath her skirt. She aches at the loss of his touch but she ignores the throb between her legs as she sinks to the floor. “Rose--” the Doctor starts to say, but she’s already leaning forward to take him in her mouth. Back arching off the bed, the Doctor gasps, straining against Rose’s grips on his wrists as her lips close around him. His thighs tense beneath her and she knows he’s fighting not to thrust, not to choke her. She rewards him with a swirl of her tongue and a hard suck. Releasing one wrist, Rose wraps a hand around his cock, ringing the base where her mouth can’t reach, pumping in counterpoint with the motion of her head and lips, and the Doctor pants heavily above her, stomach muscles constricting with effort. Humming around him, Rose takes him in further still, and the Doctor groans, head thrown back against the mattress, throat exposed to the night air. Rose rubs her thighs together for any sense of friction she can get. The sights and sounds of the Doctor, helpless and panting and strained because of her, makes her ridiculously wet, makes her entire body cry out for his touch. He chokes out her name, arm twisting in her grip so his hand can grab hers. The other hand tangles in her hair, the pressure undemanding, his thumb idly stroking her cheek. Rose wonders if he’s even aware of the gesture, decides she doesn’t care. She swallows around him, sliding her mouth up and down along his cock until he cries out, every muscle in his body seizing up beneath her. His cock pulses hotly in her mouth and she eases him through it, stroking and swallowing until he stills. Discreetly wiping her lips, Rose stands on shaky legs, watching the Doctor as he fights to regain control. His chest heaves with labored breaths--did he forget to engage his bypass, she wonders?--and his eyes are glassy, unfocused. Inwardly, Rose rewards herself with a small but satisfied smile; she did this. She made him come apart, spiral unbound, surrender to just a shred of humanlike vulnerability. Just for once, she was the one in control. Yet, after the heavy rasp of his breathing dies down, when he sits up on the bed and runs a shaking hand through his hair, Rose find she can’t quite meet his eyes. She’s not sure why. (He won’t look at her either.) Somewhere in the back of Rose’s mind, a small voice pipes up that this is it, this is the moment to throw herself into the Doctor’s arms, press a real honest-to-goodness kiss to his lips and tell him everything that’s been simmering between her lungs for the last half-year (longer, if she’s being totally honest). And if she really thinks about it, the voice goes on, doesn’t she think if she opens up to the Doctor first, wouldn’t that make it easier for him to respond in kind, to chisel even just the tiniest crack in his walls to let her in? She feels in her gut that that’s true. He may never leap into things the way a human partner might, but if she jumps in first, Rose knows, there’s a healthy chance he’ll at least wade in after her. And even if he doesn’t respond quite the way she hopes, at least then it would all be said, spoken into tangibility out in the open. At least he would know. But something slithers in and strangles the little voice before it can give shape to its words, and suddenly Rose is afraid. (Who is she kidding? She’ll be lucky if he ever looks at her again, after tonight.) Wordlessly, head thudding dully, Rose crosses to the other side of the bed, ignoring how her body still cries out for attention. She crawls beneath the duvet, her back to the Doctor. She tries not to hold her breath. Minutes tick by. The silence is deafening. Finally, the silence is cracked apart by the Doctor, clearing his throat before he leaves to duck into the ensuite. The sound of water splashing on skin greets Rose’s ears, and she realizes he’s washing up--washing her off, of course, why wouldn’t he?--and suddenly all of the air leaves her lungs, her throat seizing up after. The Doctor is better than all of this, higher than all this stupid petty human hormone-ridden muck, and she just dragged him down into the dirt with her, didn’t she? Surely that must be what’s going through his head right now; surely he’s disgusted with her. Shame boils up deep inside. What’s wrong with her? When the Doctor emerges from the ensuite and does not return to the bed, but rather heads straight for the bedroom door without so much as a Good night, Rose’s worst fears are confirmed. The door clicks shut behind him and for some reason that click of utter finality brings the panic flooding in. Oh god, she’s ruined everything, hasn’t she? What the fuck is wrong with her? Suddenly sleep is the furthest thing from Rose’s mind, a surge of fight-or-flight adrenaline rushing through her veins. She can’t stay in here. The bed is too small. The room is a cage. Her heart hammers frantically in her chest and she throws off the duvet, it’s strangling her, she’s got to escape, she’s got to run--maybe it’s not too late to apologize, or maybe if she’s lucky she can find a black hole to throw herself in-- Rose yanks open the bedroom door to find the Doctor standing in the doorway, fist posed as if he was about to knock. They both blink at each other in surprise. Rose’s breath catches. Is he…? Could he be…? “Sorry,” says the Doctor, his hand slowly falling. “Erm, I just realized--Shoes.” Frowning, Rose shakes her head. “Shoes?” Avoiding her gaze, the Doctor scratches the back of his neck. “I might’ve forgot to put my shoes back on.” Of course. He wouldn’t--it wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Feeling very stupid, Rose nods, rapidly blinking back tears. She steps aside so he can enter, her mouth twisting with the effort not to cry. If he registers the look on her face, or notices the stiffness in her shoulders, the clenching of her hands, the Doctor doesn’t show it. He crosses the room in several long strides, grabbing his trainers and returning to the door without a single glance in her direction. Stepping into the corridor, his head jerks her way, lips parting like he may say something; if so, he must think better of it, because he just issues a curt nod and starts to walk away. Rose’s pulse thunders painfully in her ears and before she knows it her feet are carrying her after him. “Erm, Doctor…?” He stops and turns, expression carefully neutral. “Hm?” Oh god, what now? She feels dreadfully stupid. “I just sort of realized,” Rose stammers. “I mean, it’s silly, I know, but--” She gulps, audibly. “It’s just, we, erm. Haven’t really had a proper hug since I got back, have we? You know?” He watches her silently, waiting, his expression inscrutable. “And I don’t know about you,” Rose continues, shaking, “but, erm. I could really use one?” For a few horrible seconds, Rose is certain he’ll slap the olive branch out of her hands, or just leave it hanging there while he turns and runs, abandoning the poor thing to wither and rot. But in the blink of an eye he’s dropping his shoes to the floor with a loud smack that echoes in the hallway and another blink later and he’s wrapping his arms around her, binding her in an embrace snug enough to crush the air out of her lungs. Stunned, it takes her half a moment to respond with a hug of her own, but once she does, his arms tighten even further, a steel trap with no intention of ever letting go. Rose isn’t sure why that’s the thing that breaks the walls to let the tears flow free, but damn if she isn’t choking back sobs now. “The sex wasn’t that bad, was it?” the Doctor asks wryly. She can’t muster the energy for a laugh, so Rose just shakes her head instead, burying her face against his chest. He smells--god, he just smells so good, she’d almost forgotten, and he feels so wonderful, like wiry muscles and a slim frame, like comfort, like home. Her tears slowly soak his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind, or maybe even notice. “I didn’t--” Rose tries to say, and chokes on the words. “I never meant--” “I know, Rose,” he says quietly. “Me neither. I’m sorry.” She hears him swallow, the noise thick. “I’m so sorry.” Sniffling, Rose nods against his chest. “Thank you,” she whispers. Fists clenching in the back of his jacket, Rose’s fingers seize up painfully tight. “I missed you,” she admits, willing herself not to shake. “God, I missed you so much.” The Doctor doesn’t reply, but Rose feels his chest deflate beneath her cheek, as if he’s letting out something that was trapped inside. He presses his lips and nose into her hair, breathing her in. His hold on her relaxes in increments as his thumbs draw lazy little circles on the small of her back, and Rose feels her muscles slowly loosening, the last of her tears subsiding with a hiccup. Something uncoils in her ribs, unclenching for the first time in hours--really, the first time in months--and she nuzzles against the Doctor, eyes shuttering in relief. (It’s really quite a nice hug. Nothing in the universe like it, and she would know.) “C’mon,” the Doctor says gently, pulling away after a few moments have passed. “Let’s get you some rest.” Rose threads her fingers through his, offering him a faint grin. “You, erm. You gonna stay with me?” “If you’d like,” he replies, his voice soft. Rose pushes up on her toes to plant another kiss on his mouth, a shy thing, this time, pressed to the corner as lightning pulses gently overhead, and the Doctor’s lips twitch in a small smile, after. “Yeah,” Rose says. “I’d like.”

***

Next Part

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ramon-balaguer · 3 years ago

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I’ve always had money, Not boosting, just my reality. I was born into it, generated my own wealth and appreciate it but I don’t love it or anything else above GOD, family, Country(s), Ministry and Businesses.

You may have read or heard it said that “Money is the answer to EVERYTHING” in Ecclesiastes 10:19 but you have to read at least the two previous passages of scripture to understand the context and experientially and Biblically we all know Money is in fact Not the answer to everything and if poorly used or misused it will lead to greater problems, especially to those with expensive habits and living above their means. All that being said, money is useful and needed for just about everything but we must be good stewards of it in our wages, profits, investing, savings, tithing, offering, giving, gifting, loaning, borrowing, purchases, etc… So yeah, don’t get it twisted as some folks would have you to believe. There’s really Only One Answer to EVERYTHING and that’s GOD Who Created EVERYTHING❗️

We have all also heard folks say, “the Bible says money is the root of all evil.” But that’s not what the Bible actually says. Paul wrote to Timothy about money and said:

“The LOVE of money is the root of all evil…” 1 Tim 6:10

Paul teaches that the LOVE of money [or anything else that you place or exalts itself (yes, you yourself too) above GOD] is the root of all EVIL. In addition to money, it could be the love of status, jobs, possessions, family, hobbies, recreational activities, prideful or conceited (extreme self love or feeling of superiority) and much more…that can be the “root of all evil. It is anything that we love and put above our love for God, that can become an idol in our lives.

So why does Paul say “the LOVE of money is the root of all evil?” Because it is covetousness of something worldly. And that covetousness becomes a desire that controls us, demands our devotion, and, as Paul wrote to Timothy it causes some to “err from the Faith” and have “many sorrows.” (1 Tim 6:10).

Paul’s admonition to Timothy was that children of God should “…flee from the coveteousness of worldly things, and desire to follow after righteousness, godliness, faith, love, patience, meekness” (1 Tim 6:11). We are to “Fight the Good Fight of Faith, lay hold on Eternal Life” (1 Tim 6:12) and “covet earnestly the best gifts” (1 Cor 12:31), which are gifts from GOD.

Such focus, dedication, and devotion are mandatory for Christians if they are to live in the Spirit and honor God. We are to:

* put nothing above Jesus

* keep our hearts devoted to Jesus

* renew our minds in the Word of God

* live in the power of the Holy Spirit

* and find rest, assurance, and security in Christ alone.

As Christians, our wealth is not found in money. Our hope and joy do not come from worldly possessions. Rather, our hope, joy, and wealth come from our positional standing in Christ. We are redeemed and regenerated, and we stand as a child of God and a joint heir with Christ.

This short parable illustrates our immeasurable wealth.

A Parable of the Poor Christian and the Tax Collector:

One day, a tax assessor came to a poor Christian to determine his property and assess the taxes due to be collected. He asked the Christian, “What property do you possess to properly assess your taxes?” The Christian replied, “I am a very wealthy man Sir, with possessions of great value.”

“What are they? Please list them for me,” responded the tax assessor. And the Christian began to list all of his valuable possessions:

* First, I have everlasting life. (John 3:16).

* Second, I have a mansion in heaven. (John 14:2)

* Third, I have peace that passes all understanding. (Philippians 4:7)

* Fourth, I have joy unspeakable. (1 Peter 1:8)

* Fifth, I have love that never fails. (1 Cor.13:8)

* Sixth, I have a faithful, virtuous wife. (Proverbs 31:10)

* Seventh, I have healthy, happy, obedient children. (Exodus 20:12)

* Eighth, I have true and loyal friends. (Proverbs 18:24)

* Ninth, I have songs in the night. (Psalm 42:8)

* Tenth, I have a crown of life. (James 1:12)

“I have many more possessions,” said the Christian. “Should I continue?”

The tax assessor closed his book, and declared, “Truly you are a very blessed rich man. But your property is not subject to taxation.” Hallelujah and Amen‼️ 🙌🏼 🙌🏼 🙌🏼

<*}}}>< 🤔🙏🏼🌎 #REBTD 😇

A few years ago, I found myself in a pickle with the IRS and my creditors in the millions but my Bankruptcy lawyer and friend told he couldn’t help or rather he would only be able delay the inevitable after listing a balance sheet of all I possessed, all my profit and all I owe…and didn’t want to take my monies on top of all I would be legally liable for and telling me they’re coming after me and when they do it will be relentless and unforgiving.

In the end i did end up losing properties in DC, Florida, Hawaii, Mississippi, South Carolina, and Virginia. Still I remained Faithful, Prayerful and Hopeful and about a year or less later I received an Unrequested, Unmerited, Undeserved and UnExpected letter reading PAID in FULL. My entire debt, all amounts due, all accumulated interest and finance fees, and all legal fees paid off. At first I thought it was some mistake, error, or fake junk. But I contacted the financial institution and they couldn’t even find my account or record, finally the secretary of the CEO contacted me and said EVERYTHING is settled and completely legal, but couldn’t explain why or how except it was not an error, I OWE NOTHING‼️ 🙌🏼 🙌🏼 🙌🏼

I don’t have a pic of that letter handy but I did post it after using it in one of my sermons a few years back on how GOD will Bless you Unexpectedly and differently than how you think He might answer or even how you asked Him to answer your prayer. I Never Doubted GOD, I just didn’t know how or when. He Is my Great GOD❗️🙌🏼 🙌🏼 🙌🏼 Amen 🥰🙏🏼🌎 #REBTD 😇

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dfroza · 4 years ago

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To be falsely accused.

even our Creator knows what this is like while standing in the face of men who accused Him of wrongdoing according to their own rules.

Today’s reading from the Scriptures begins with the 3rd chapter in the book of Mark:

On the Sabbath, Jesus had come into a synagogue where He saw a man with a withered hand.

The Pharisees held their breath: would Jesus cure this man on the Sabbath, right there in front of everyone? If so, they could charge Him with breaking the Sabbath law. Jesus knew their hearts. He called to the man with the withered hand.

Jesus: Come to Me.

Then He turned to the Pharisees with a question.

Jesus: Do our laws tell us to do good or evil on the Sabbath? To save life, or to snuff it out?

They remained silent.

Jesus was furious as He looked out over the crowd, and He was grieved by their hard hearts.

Jesus (to the man with the withered hand): So be it. Stretch out your hand.

The man stretched forth his hand; and as he did, it was completely healed. The Pharisees went directly from the synagogue to consult with the supporters of Herod, the Romans’ puppet ruler, about how they could get rid of this dangerous dreamer.

Meanwhile Jesus and His followers traveled to the shore of the Sea of Galilee; as always, a huge crowd from Galilee and Judea gathered. People had come from miles to see this man they were hearing so much about. They came from the big cities, including Jerusalem of Judea, Tyre and Sidon of Phoenicia, and from the region of Idumea, south of Judea. Since Jesus had healed so many, the sick and the infirm pushed forward constantly to touch Him, to be healed, and to ask His blessing. The crowd pressed so closely around Jesus that He asked His disciples to get a boat He could board if the crush became too great.

Most wanted to be near Him, except for those possessed by unclean spirits. Those people fell down before Him.

Unclean Spirits: You are the Son of God.

But He ordered them not to reveal His true identity.

Jesus called together a select group of His followers and led them up onto a mountain. There He commissioned them the twelve. [Later He calls them His emissaries.] He wanted them to be with Him. He sent them out to spread the good news and to cast out evil spirits [and heal diseases]. Here are the names of the original twelve: Simon (whom Jesus called Peter, meaning “the rock”), James and John (the sons of Zebedee, whom Jesus called “the Sons of Thunder”), Andrew, Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew (the tax collector, also called Levi), Thomas, James (the son of Alphaeus), Thaddaeus, Simon of Canaan (who was also called “the Zealot”), and Judas Iscariot (who one day would betray Jesus to the authorities in Jerusalem so God’s purpose could be fulfilled).

Jesus and His disciples went into a house to eat, but so many people pressed in to see Jesus that they could not be served. When Jesus’ family heard about this craziness, they went to drag Him out of that place.

Jesus’ Family (to one another): Jesus has lost His mind.

The scribes, for their part, came down from Jerusalem and spread the slander that Jesus was in league with the devil.

Scribes: That’s how He casts out demons. He’s casting them out by the power of Beelzebul—the ancient Philistine god—the prince of demons.

When Jesus heard this, He tried to reason with them using parables.

Jesus: Listen. How can Satan drive out Satan? A kingdom that makes war against itself will collapse. A household divided against itself cannot stand. If Satan opposes himself, he cannot stand and is finished.

If you want to break into the house of a strong man and plunder it, you have to bind him first. Then you can do whatever you want with his possessions. Listen, the truth is that people can be forgiven of almost anything. God has been known to forgive many things, even blasphemy. But speaking evil of the Spirit of God is an unforgivable sin that will follow you into eternity.

He said this because the scribes were telling people that Jesus got His power from dark forces instead of from God.

When Jesus’ mother and brothers arrived, they couldn’t break through the crowd, so they sent word in to Jesus that He should come out to them. The crowd was pressed in tight around Him when He received the message, “Your mother and brothers [and sisters] are waiting outside for You.”

Jesus looked around.

Jesus (answering them): Who are My mother and brothers?

He called into the silence. No one spoke.

At last His gaze swept across those gathered close, and Jesus smiled.

Jesus: You, here, are My mother and My brothers! Whoever does the will of God is My true family.

The Book of Mark, Chapter 3 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 5th chapter of the book of Esther where Esther approaches King Ahasuerus with favor, and we read of the evil plot of Haman toward Mordecai:

When the third day arrived, Esther put on her royal robes and stood in the inner court of the palace across from the king’s rooms. The king was sitting on his throne facing the palace entrance. He was pleased when he noticed Queen Esther waiting in the court. He extended his gold scepter with his hand, inviting her in. Esther walked toward him, and when she was close enough, she reached out and touched the king’s scepter.

King Ahasuerus: What is it, Queen Esther? What is your request? I’ll give you anything—even half of my kingdom—all you need to do is ask.

Queen Esther: If it would please you, my king, I’d like for you and Haman to come today to a banquet I have made in your honor.

King Ahasuerus (looking at his servants): Go and find Haman this instant, so we can do as Esther desires.

So the king and Haman came to Esther’s banquet. As Haman, the king, and Esther were enjoying the wine at the end of her banquet, the king pressed the question.

King Ahasuerus: Now, my queen, what is your request? I promise that half of my kingdom is not too much to ask! Don’t be afraid to ask for whatever you want.

Queen Esther: I do want something. My request is: If I have found favor before you, and if you truly desire to grant my request, would you and Haman join me again tomorrow for another banquet I will prepare? Then I will answer your question.

Haman left dinner in high spirits, almost gleeful, but his joy was short lived. As he walked through the king’s gate, he passed by Mordecai. It angered Haman to see the Jew unwilling to stand and, worse still, seemingly unafraid. But he resisted showing his anger right then and there. Instead, he went home and spent time with friends and Zeresh, his wife. Haman spent the evening bragging to them about being rich and having lots of sons in his family. He even boasted about his relationship with the king, talking to his guests about his promotion above all of his fellow nobles and the officials of the king.

Haman: And that’s not all! Queen Esther invited me today to dine with her and the king. Just the three of us! And guess what? She’s invited me again tomorrow. What do you think about that? But I must be honest; seeing that Jew, Mordecai, as I pass through the gate makes it difficult to celebrate any of my good fortune.

Then his wife Zeresh and all of his friends came up with an idea.

Zeresh and His Friends: You should make a wood pole 75 feet high! Tomorrow morning, have the king sentence Mordecai to be executed on it. Then you’ll be able to have a good time at the banquet with the king.

Haman thought the idea was brilliant. So he had the pole made.

The Book of Esther, Chapter 5 (The Voice)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for friday, April 2 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons about a True search for significance:

You may feel anxious about knowing God, about how to relate to him or how to understand or interpret the Scriptures, though the heart can only know the essential meaning of God in the state of its need, as its ultimate concern, and therefore unless you cry out “from the depths” of your being, you are merely intellectualizing or playing games... After all, the inner heart asks "How can I find God?" "How can I relate to God?" "How can I find hope and life?" but the answers to such questions are found by personal encounter with the reality of the Spirit of God, not by theological rationalizations. It is one thing to say "Lord" or "Master" but quite another to say "my Lord," or "my Master..." The Torah teaches that name of God refers to that which God alone is, namely, the "I am that I am"(אהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה) which is unknowable apart from the miracle of disclosure within the heart. That is why we find so many different names and titles for God in Scripture, for these are disclosures to the heart in a time of its need. For instance, to know God's name as "Savior" (מוֹשִׁיעַ) means experiencing deliverance from your struggles, pains, and fears by the agency of God’s victory, comfort, and consolation as given in Yeshua. However, unlike the experience of worldly education wherein you might acquire skills to accomplish certain tasks, spiritual education leads to a “dark clouds of unknowing” where you must regularly confess your weakness and your need for divine connection. God's name is therefore bound up with the basic quest within your heart for meaning, healing, and the desire of unconditional love. Knowing the name of God is an ongoing process as you struggle to accept and trust your life to be a blessing, and as you are enabled by the Holy Spirit to say "yes" and "amen" to life despite your failures, pains, fears, sorrows, and even your unanswered questions... It means opening your heart to life and believing that you are beloved, that you are accepted, that you will be okay, and that God is holding you in his everlasting arms. Amen, friend, may you know the meaning of that Name! [Hebrew for Christians]

4.1.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

April 2, 2021

When Messiah Came

“Know therefore and understand, that from the going forth of the commandment to restore and to build Jerusalem unto the Messiah the Prince shall be seven weeks, and threescore and two weeks: the street shall be built again, and the wall, even in troublous times.” (Daniel 9:25)

This remarkable prophecy, given through the angel Gabriel to Daniel the prophet, actually predicted the date of the coming of Christ nearly 500 years in advance. From the announcement to the coming of “Messiah the Prince,” there would be 69 “weeks” (literally “sevens,” meaning in this context “seven-year periods”). That is, Messiah would come as the Prince 483 years after the commandment was given to rebuild Jerusalem. There is some uncertainty about the exact date of the decree, as well as the exact length of these prophetic years, but in each calculation the termination date is at least near or, in some cases, exactly the time when Christ entered Jerusalem to be acknowledged as its promised King.

However, Gabriel’s prophecy went on to say: “And after [the] threescore and two weeks shall Messiah be cut off” (Daniel 9:26). That is, although He would come as promised, instead of being gladly crowned as King, He would be slain. Since the 483-year period terminated long ago, it is clear that Messiah must already have come and then been put to death at that time.

The terms of this remarkable prophecy have been precisely fulfilled in Jesus Christ alone, and no one coming later could have done so. It is no wonder that He wept over Jerusalem, pronouncing her coming judgment, “because thou knewest not the time of thy visitation” (Luke 19:44).

We, like He, should weep and pray for Israel. Yet, in God’s omniscient planning, “through their fall salvation is come unto the Gentiles” (Romans 11:11), and in this we can rejoice. HMM

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