#glory be to Christ in all things...... even in this pain in the neck of a conversation the idea of which brought tears to my eyes yesterday

[thebirdandhersong]

ladies and lads I would deeply appreciate prayer for a conversation I have to have in about 4 hours……. I have prepared well for it and thinking too deeply about it makes me sick to my stomach and sick at heart, but it is a conversation that must be had and I would love to approach it with wisdom and gentleness and sincerity, and not fear and anxiety and self-absorption.

[ourloveisforthelovely]

Bad Ideas Part 10

Regulus Black au

Summary:  It started as nothing now it’s something. Voldemort has been defeated but that doesn’t mean the wizarding world is still a good place to be.

Pairings: Regulus Black x Reader

Link to Part 9

Warnings: Smut

____

“With me, Y/n gets to come first. She had always come second to Harry and for once she gets to come first. That’s what makes me good for her.”

Regulus crossed his arms over his chest and glared at James as the venomous words left his mouth. He was relieved that everyone in the room looked super uncomfortable. Remus and Sirius exchanged and looked as if asking each other if they didn’t do enough to show you that you were special too…had they not shown you that you mattered just as much as Harry? Meanwhile, James and Lily looked at each other before returning to Regulus.

“What do you mean?”

James asked. Regulus' mouth dropped as he started at James as if he was the biggest idiot imaginable.

“Really? Do I really need to spell it out for you? I get it that you were dead and all most of her life but Jesus Christ do you really not get it? Oh bloody hell fine…Harry is the chosen one. Harry is the best thing ever. Harry this…Harry that…but what about Y/n? No, nothing. Nothing until I came along. Forget the fact that Y/n and Hermione are the brightest in their class, Y/n did a lot of work for The Order, or Y/n is the youngest healer at the hospital. Right, your daughter is a healer…you probably don’t know that. There is also the fact without Y/n, Harry would have probably just crawled into a little hollow log and died…but yes, let's forget about everything that Y/n has done and focus on Harry.”

Again, no one in the room said a word after Regulus’ rant. Harry awkwardly started rubbing the back of his neck.

“So, I have always cared about Y/n.”

He started but stopped when Regulus held a hand up.

“Shut up. This isn’t about you.”

Harry considered ripping Regulus a new one but decided that he was actually right. He had seen you be put on the back burner plenty of times. You always were gracious about it too and this made Harry feel even worse. Of all of the shit that the two of you had been through, you never made a fuss or complained when Harry got all of the glory. Instead, you remained in the shadows and were always your brother’s biggest supporter.

Remus took a breath before speaking. In his mind, Remus felt that he always did a good job of treating both Harry and himself equally. Remus always tried to recognize each child’s strong points and help with the parts that needed work. Remus had realized just how bright you were right away. You were, in his mind, always a gifted child. Learning and knowledge came easily to you. Remus always enjoyed how you could easily catch up with particularly difficult spells, literature, or anything else that he sent your way.

He also felt bad for Sirius because he, too, went out of his way to make sure that you felt seen and heard. The look on Sirius’ face broke Remus’ heart. Sirius had been looking down at his feet feeling like it was Walburga, not Regulus, letting him have it. The way that Regulus’ tone was deadly and icy made him feel so much smaller. Hearing Regulus say that you weren’t appreciated was particularly painful as Sirius had wanted a relationship with both of his godchildren before either of you realized who he was.

“No one is denying that Y/n isn’t exceptionally brilliant. I am very proud of the woman that she has become…”

Remus started but was silenced by Regulus.

“Don’t even, Lupin. Yeah, you try but Harry still comes first to Sirius and yourself. I’ve seen it happen so don’t try and baffle me with your bullshit.” Regulus turned his attention back to James and Lily. He wanted to chuckle at the expressions on their faces. Lily was the first to speak.

“I know that we can’t say much given the situation at hand but we love Y/n just as much as Harry. We never wanted to show any preference between the two…we definitely wouldn’t even consider it now.”

Regulus gave her a skeptical frown. While he wanted to believe Lily, Regulus would have to see proof of her words before his mind was fully changed.

“I guess we will just have to see on that one, Lily.”

Regulus replied. James took a breath. He wanted to ask Sirius and Remus if Regulus was telling the truth. Were you really the “shadow child” who was forgotten? Something told James that wasn’t particularly true…at least not all of it. James knew Remus and Sirius. There had to be some trying on their part. The expression on Sirius’ face told James that.

“You’re not the only one that cares about Y/n, Regulus.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes on James. He had a feeling that he would be disliking James a lot more than he already did. Something told him that his relationship with James, when it came to you, was going to be a rough one. If James thought for one moment that Regulus was just going to stand idly by and let you be hurt, disappointed, or made to feel less than important…James had another thing coming! Regulus would take extra care to make James’ life miserable.

“Isn’t that nice? Good luck to you, I suppose. Something tells me that you are going to need it.”

James stepped forward.

“I won’t be needing any luck, Black. I’m her father and I will be there for her. I don’t care that you are her boyfriend and I find the whole relationship creepy…you aren’t controlling her or keeping her away from us.”

Regulus chuckled.

“You do realize that I know enough dark magic to stop you. I could also just throw you out the window…”

Remus, having enough, finally stepped in.

“James, Regulus…that’s enough. Regulus, why don’t you go upstairs and check on Y/n? I think we all need a breather.”

Regulus gave James and Lily another glare before turning and leaving the room.

An uncomfortable silence fell upon the room as no one moved to speak right away. It was Sirius that spoke first. He had finally looked up from his feet. The pain and discontent were still so painfully obvious on his face.

“I always thought that we did well showing Y/n attention but maybe Regulus is right. Maybe Y/n has always felt second best and we just didn’t see it.”

James ran a hand through his hair. He immediately knew what Sirius was thinking. He was thinking about his childhood…Regulus’ childhood. Sirius had told James many times that Regulus had always been treated like second best. He was always the “second son.” He wasn’t the “heir.” Regulus was never anything valued until Sirius bailed on the Blacks.

Now here you were “the second daughter” (even if it was only by 12 minutes) possibly feeling the same way that Regulus did growing up. Something told James, however, that Sirius had learned from his childhood and tried his best to stop that from happening to you.

“I doubt it, Sirius. I know that you, of all people, would have taken extra care to make sure she was treated special. You wouldn’t have wanted her to be treated like Regulus.”

James replied, hoping to bring his best friend some comfort. Sirius sighed before going to sit down while Harry stepped up.

“Sorry to say it but I do agree with Regulus. With the exception of Remus and Sirius, Y/n has been treated like second best a lot. I hate siding with him on anything but he has been good for her. Y/n is happy with Regulus and I don’t think asking her to leave him would do anyone any good. Y/n doesn’t do a damn thing that she doesn’t want to.”

Harry could say that last sentence with 100% confidence. You were a lot of things and stubborn was one of them.

James sighed before moving to sit down beside Sirius with a groan.

“This sucks!”

(meanwhile)

Regulus stepped into his bedroom feeling somewhat better after unloading on everyone. Did he think that he was wrong with anything that he said? No, absolutely not. Regulus hated seeing the disappointment on your face whenever one of your accomplishments was downplayed while Harry was boosted up higher as “the chosen one.”

Regulus hated to say it but your childhood had so many parallels to his. You were subjected to cold guardians who honestly didn’t care, you were ignored for a sibling who could do no wrong, and you were lonely. Regulus sighed at the memory of you telling him how isolated you felt at times.

“Even when I am around my friends, sometimes I feel as though I’m in a room full of strangers who really don’t know anything about me.”

That had been the sentence that broke Regulus’ heart. That was something Regulus would have said at any point in his childhood.

Shaking his head from the negative emotions, Regulus turned his attention to where you sat on the sofa near the fireplace. He took a breath and started in your direction. As much as Regulus hated emotions and dealing with them, he knew that right now he had to. He had to pick up the pieces that were shattered all over the place.

“Are you okay?”

He asked softly before sitting down beside you. You turned in his direction and smiled slightly.

“I’m okay…a little shocked but I’m okay. I never expected my parents to turn up. Not that I am not happy or thrilled…I was just shocked to see them.”

Regulus nodded as you wrapped your hand around his and laid your head on his shoulder.

“I heard what you said to them.”

Regulus winced. He never wanted you to hear that.

“You heard that?”

You giggled before beginning to toy with the rings on his left hand.

“The whole house heard you, love. I know that you hate being compared to Sirius under any circumstance but when the two of you get mad…your voices carry.”

Regulus winced. Damn, you knew him well. There was no point in arguing on that one.

“I wasn’t aiming for you to hear any of that.”

“You weren’t wrong on any of it. I will say that Remus and Sirius have tried. Sure they have their shortcomings but they have tried to treat Harry and me the same. Thank you, by the way.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow before turning to look at you with a slightly confused expression.

“For?”

You moved to wiggle your way onto Regulus’ lap. Leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his kissing him softly before pulling away.

“For always putting me first…for making me feel like the most important thing in the world.”

Regulus wrapped his arms around your waist and carried you to the bed. Lying you down gently, Regulus took his place over you. Cupping your cheek, Regulus’ grey eyes locked on yours. Staring into Regulus’ eyes always made you feel as though he could see right into your soul.

“Because you are the most important thing in the world to me. None of this other stuff…these other people…they mean nothing compared to you. I would walk away from all of it to keep you happy.”

You couldn’t help the smile that spread to your face. While Regulus wasn’t overly a “mushy” person when it came to romance, when he put effort into it he was the perfect lover.

“You’re the most important thing in my world too. Reggie, I don’t want you to worry about anything with my parents. No matter what they could say will ever change how I feel about you.”

Regulus was beyond relieved to hear those words leave your mouth. He hadn’t really considered telling you (at least not at the moment) but parts of him were worried about James and Lily’s return. Would they try to poison you against him? Would they try to weasel their way in and say “It doesn’t matter if he still looks 18 or that he hasn’t aged due to being dead…he’s too old for you.” The better question was would you believe them?

That had been Regulus’ number 1 fear since seeing James and Lily alive. Now he heard what he needed to.

“I love you, Y/n.”

You were stunned to hear those words leave Regulus’ perfect mouth. In all of the time that the two of you had been a couple saying those three words hadn’t happened. Something told you that it would be harder for Regulus to say I love you than anything else. After growing up the way he did, talking about love had to be a difficult subject.

Now hearing “I love you” flow so perfectly from his lips, you knew that you would do whatever it took to keep those words coming.

“I love you too, Regulus.”

Regulus was beyond thrilled when you reciprocated his feelings. Call it trauma from his childhood, but Regulus was afraid that you wouldn’t say it back…that you would never love him as much as he loved you. Now that fear could be put to rest.

Leaning in for another kiss, Regulus smiled against your mouth.

“How about we make some noise to make everyone uncomfortable?”

_____

@amelie-black @justfinishthis @jessyballet @knreidy1 @georgeweasleydumbhoe @criminalyetminimal @mimisparkle12 @teletubiswszpilkach @siriuslyceleste @golddustwomann @fific7 @littleshadow17 @ell0ra-br3kk3r @livshifts @jsjcue @stelleduarte @millies0bsimp @coffeeaddictednymph @readtomeregulus @saramaple @missgorldafirst @i-love-scott-mccall @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @buttercup-beeee @f4iryluvy @panpride @daddyslittlevillain @gugggu6gvai @jag9000 @quinis @mentally-unstable-hoe @yousmellllikecaca @haroldpotterson @goldensunshineshit @aurorasnape12 @ad-astra-again @dumybitch @marichromatic @ravenhood2792 @play-morezeppelin @spideyxalmighty @lucasfilms77 @rubyroscoe1 @lostarc24 @brokencasbutt67-writer @authoressskr @moldy-old-boot @hankypranky @summer-novak @emiwrites3reads @shaylybaby2032 @li0nh34rt @tas898 @deanwherescas @untoldshortsofthefandoms @sprnaturallover @wontlookaway @shitfaceddaniel-blog @mycuddlycorner @bennyberry @bxcndd

[feedingthefaithts-more]

1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 Rejoice always, pray, continually give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.

I know this is about journaling, but as the weeks passed by, the Lord had been working on me about gratitude. He highlighted some memories to me from my past. See when God wants to correct me, direct me or simply just wants to talk to me. I just started deep cleaning so I was cleaning these memories came to me and I kept asking God why these memories. I don’t get why these. 10 minutes later I’m still asking. I’m still cleaning well then it dawned on me. I need to stop what I’m doing and think about why these memories. So the first memory was about my mother and grandmother‘s passing. While I was prepared for my grandmother‘s passing because she was in hospice, I was not prepared for my mother‘s passing. Then the other memory was the one where I lived in El Paso. I was in a very bad situation now this is about close to a year after the loss, we had well one day I decided it would just be better to end my life so I texted everyone that I needed to text and made sure my kids were going to be taken care of. No one knew no one had a clue what was going on, but as I was writing, I put that rope around my neck, and suddenly God showed me this vision of when I was a little girl around eight or nine I could see myself walking up to the altar, crying with my hands up praising him then I heard a soft voice telling me I was special and I had a purpose to go get my husband and kids.

You see I was the most broken, lost, confused, depressed, and unforgiving person at that moment my heart was hardening every single day. Then I realized I wasn’t asking the right question what I should have been asking was Father what am I not seeing and what am I lacking for these memories to come up and help me understand?

He revealed to me why he highlighted these memories to me. It was because I stopped giving things to him. My gratitude for him bringing me life in that moment I felt dead inside. My gratitude for him blessing me with a grandmother who not only taught me the word but lived by it too and a mother who no matter what always loved me and wanted the best for me. I stopped showing gratitude for the mending he did to my heart from all the hurt and pain even when I wasn't living right.

See, we can get caught up in the moments of our life and forget these moments that only changed our lives, but also brought us closer to our father.

So lets not forget those life-changing beautiful moments God saved us from or simply just embraced us with His mercy, grace and love. All the glory to our Father the Lord of Lords, the alpha and the omega I give all my praise and all the glory to you Father.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

Christ’s Trial before Pilate (Mark 15:1-15)

We speak of Christ’s trial before Pilate. But really, it is Pilate’s trial before Christ that is described in our Scripture. The narrative holds up the Roman governor in such a blaze of light, that all the world can see him. The story of this trial begins in the early morning, when Jesus was led to Pilate. During the night, the religious rulers had informally condemned Him to death but they could not carry out their own sentence without bringing their prisoner to the Roman governor. This was one of the humiliating conditions of their subjection to the Romans. Meanwhile Jesus had been kept under guard during the morning hours, and had been cruelly mocked by the soldiers.

It was during this time that Peter’s denial occurred, and the pain of the disciples’ words as they fell upon Christ’s ears was more severe than all the mockeries of the heathen soldiers.

As the first streaks of dawn appeared in the east, the members of the Sanhedrin were together again to hasten the formalities, so as to get Jesus on the cross at the earliest possible moment.

When Jesus was taken to Pilate, He was bound. The rulers supposed that their cords would hold Him. Knowing as we do who this Prisoner was, we are sure that no chains of earth could have held him, if He had put forth His power, and therefore, that their bonds were useless. We understand also that this quiet submitting to be seized and led away was entirely voluntary. He was led as a lamb to the slaughter, not resisting, exerting no power in His own defense, though omnipotence was His because he was laying down His life for us.

But what a strange picture this is the Son of God bound, manacled as a common prisoner, and led away under arrest! What humiliation! But did they shackle the arms of His power with their chains? Did they stain the radiance of His glory with the shame they put upon His name that day? We know that while He Himself wore chains, submitting to them He is able to break our bonds and set us free.

The rulers had told Pilate, that Jesus claimed to be a king. They thus sought to secure Pilate’s consent to His execution, as one who was disloyal to Rome. “Are You the King of the Jews?” asked the governor, referring to what His accusers had charged. Jesus did not look much like a king as He stood there, His hands tied and a cord about His neck. Pilate’s question sounds like ridicule. Yet Jesus answered calmly, “Yes, it is as you say.” Where was His kingly power ? Where was His throne ? Where did His kingdom lie? These questions are not hard to answer today. Millions now bow to Him and worship Him as King of their souls. In heaven He is honored and adored as King of kings. On earth, too, His sway is felt even where He is not acknowledged. His influence has permeated all lands. Righteousness, truth, love, and grace are the characteristics of his reign, and these qualities are entering more and more into the life of all the world.

When the chief priest accused Jesus before Pilate, Jesus made no reply. Pilate could not understand His silence, and so endeavored to induce Him to speak. “Behold how many things they witness against You.” But still He was silent. “Jesus made no reply,” the record says. We cannot too often remind ourselves of the wisdom of silence under false accusation .

It is told of one in the olden times, that when most grievously and falsely accused by enemies, he refused to give even one word of denial or to offer any proof whatever of innocence, saying that God knew all about it, and that if it was God’s will that he should live under the shame, he would do it in silence, like his Master on his trial. This is what a Christian should usually do when falsely accused, perhaps not even offering explanation.

Jesus at least answered nothing but “committed Himself to Him that judges righteously” (1 Peter 2:23). That is, He left His name, His life, and the whole matter of His vindication to His Heavenly Father. There is no spot now on His name, though He died as a malefactor. So we may trust ourselves in God’s hands when we are wrongly accused, answering nothing but committing the whole matter to Him who judge us righteously.

Pilate was aware from the beginning, that the rulers really had no case against Jesus. If he had been courageous and just, he would have delivered Him out of the hands of His enemies. But he could not forget his own personal interests, and tried in various ways to circumvent the question of decision. He saw clearly the motive of the rulers. “For he knew that the chief priest had delivered him out of ENVY.” The rulers were envious of the influence of Jesus with the people. Envy has led many to a crime. It was envy that led Cain to slay his brother Abel. It was envy that caused Joseph’s brothers to hate him and to sell him as a slave, to get him out of their way. In many a school a bright scholar is disliked and even persecuted in many ways, because of the envy of his schoolmates. In business the successful man is followed by the envy and the enmity of rivals. In society a popular young person is often assailed by those who are outshone. Many a good name is blackened by envy. We should be on our guard continually against this sinful tendency in our hearts.

One of the expedients to which Pilate resorted in his effort to release Jesus indirectly, without exerting his own authority, was to get the people to choose Him as the one prisoner to be set free at that Passover. But the rulers, determined on the death of Jesus, insisted upon the release of Barabbas, a noted criminal. “Jesus or Barabbas?” was now the question. Barabbas was a robber and murderer. He had been engaged in an insurrection against the Romans, probably was chief in the band. His condemnation was just. Jesus never had done anything, but bless men and do them good. No enemy could say a word against Him. No witness had testified that ever He had done the least unkindness to any human being. Yet the people did not hesitate in their choice. They chose the guilty, blood-stained criminal for friendly recognition and freedom and sent the pure, holy, and gentle Jesus to dishonor and death! Every one of us has to make a similar choice between Jesus, the holy, blessed, living glorious One and sin. Which are we choosing?

This determined choice of Barabbas for freedom, still left Jesus on Pilate’s hands. He was disappointed. He had hoped to get clear of deciding in His case. He was compelled now to do something, either to assert his power and set Him free or yield to the people’s clamor and send Him to the cross. “What shall I do, then, with the one you call the king of the Jews ?” Pilate’s question is a question which every one of us must answer we must do something with Jesus. We take Him to our hearts, to the highest place of love and honor or we must reject Him. What shall we do with Him? Before every one of us He stands waiting at our door, and we must ask and answer this very question, “What shall I do with Jesus?” He comes to us in every gentle and gracious way to be our Savior, our Friend, our Lord, our Guide and we must either accept Him or reject Him. We may postpone our answer but delay does not rid us of the question it only pushes it forward, and when we go on a little we shall meet it again. The question must be answered either by our acceptance, or by our rejection of Christ. Not accepting, is really rejecting; and, therefore, while we think we have not answered the question, we really have answered it. We should think seriously what the rejection of Christ involves. We know what it involved for Pilate. What will it involve for us? Would we crucify Him afresh?

At length Pilate yielded to the pressure of the rulers and gave sentence that Jesus should be crucified. He did it, we are told, wishing to calm the multitude. That was Pilate’s opportunity. He was the one man in all the world, who could send Jesus to the cross. No other one could do it. It was a fatal and terrible distinction that was his, among men. Whether Jesus should have justice and be set free or should die innocently, he had to settle. The Jews could not touch Jesus without Pilate’s consent.

We know what he did with his opportunity. He had not the courage to be true, to be just to protect the innocent, to maintain right. He knew well that Jesus had done nothing worthy of punishment. He struggled feebly for a time with his conscience, and then gave way, sentencing to death as a malefactor, a man he knew to be without sin or fault! Thus he lost his opportunity to do justice and to win for himself an immortality of honor. He went through the farce of washing his hands before the rulers, saying that he was not responsible. But the stain upon his soul no water could wash off; the brand of dishonor marks his name with an immortality of shame. The lesson is for us. We have our opportunity to stand for truth and right. What shall we do with Jesus, who is called the Christ?

[spicysinnamon]

“This is not,” Constance grunts under Willy’s weight, “why I came back, you know.” 

Willy grabs Constance’s hair and yanks her head up, craning her neck so she can lock eyes with herself. Christ, she’s never wanted to break a mirror more than she has now, and Willy sees it in the way she tries to dodge her own gaze in favor of his own. He grins, sadism still plenty intact after all these years. “When have I ever given a damn what you want?” 

Never, of course, and that much should be obvious. Constance grits her teeth as Willy’s hips hit her without remorse, swallowing a moan and hoping her pride doesn’t follow suit. 

“You’re losing your edge.” Constance turns her head only for Willy to thrust her face into the mattress. She grunts softly and doesn’t try to hide the shiteating laugh singing in her throat. “Has your wife really made you this soft?” 

“You shut your fucking mouth,” Willy growls into her ear, his breath hot against her neck.

“Aw, did you fall in love?” 

A loud slap resounds through the bedroom. In the blink of an eye, Constance is on her back, cheek already glowing an enraged red where Willy’s palm made contact. There’s no protecting her ego after that; she moans without restraint, loud enough to the point where Willy claps a hand over her mouth and stares daggers at her. 

“What,” he squeezes her face, “did I just say,” his voice drops to a rough whisper, “about keeping your fucking mouth shut.” 

Ah, there’s the Willy she remembers. Older - much older, certainly - but still the heartless bitch he was decades ago. Her lips turn into a smirk against his hand, a taunting giggle following suit as Willy straddles her, weight on her wet thighs. Even though she can’t speak, her eyes speak volumes. 

You’re so fucking easy, Willy. 

“She serves a purpose,” Willy spits. “Just like you do.” Cassandra’s the shield, and Constance the sword. Knife, rather, but her sharps are completely out of view, and Willy’s not the kind of person to arm a foe. “And I’m getting the sense that you, Constance, need to be reminded of your place.” 

At his feet. On her knees. Under his body. Any of those would fly with her; in fact, she welcomes them. 

The mirror, however, is not what she wants to see.

“What’s the matter?” He taunts as she dodges her own eyes. “Can the Red Coat Killer not look herself in the eye?” Willy’s smirk drips with malice, voice perfectly tormenting. “Don’t tell me you regret what you’ve done,” he coos. “Poor pathetic little thing.” 

Constance clenches around his dick, relieved to feel the pain as he ‘accidentally on purpose’ hits her cervix. A wave of wicked pleasure swirls in her torso. One of Willy’s hands has dedicated its life to holding her head in place, tautly, finger and bone digging into her scalp and cheek, a bruise already kissing her skin. Her hips try, clumsily, to keep time. She needs this. She’s needed this. 

There’s not a chance in hell she’ll say she missed it, but she’s thought about it. Ten years left to her own devices, ten years waiting to see his name hit society in a blaze of glory. Ten years wanting to see him blossom into the godlike creature she expects him to be, all of it to come crashing down from underneath her feet. 

“I think,” Willy grins, breathing heavily as his eyes threaten to roll back in pleasure, “the only thing more embarrassing than falling in love,” a pleased grunt rips through his throat, “is regret.” 

“We have that in common,” she hisses, breath hitching as she suppresses another moan. “Now either fuck me like you mean it, or let me go. I’ll find someone who–!” Constance cries out, ecstasy rising when she sees how fucking small she looks underneath Willy. How sad and powerless she finally looks. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…hah…” 

“Look at you,” Willy teases and shoves her head down further. Demanding attention on her squirming, writhing body. The sweat on her brow, the drool at the corner of her lips, the fiery antagonistic red in her skin as her eyes weaken. “You’re such a slut for pain. How embarrassing. You can hardly keep your eyes open.” 

Constance can only moan, shamelessly, airy; needy. 

Willy brings his face down to hers, whispering into her ear. “You take my cock better than I remember.” Another thrust against her g-spot. “Cassandra would be a fucking wreck by now.” Another. A second. A third. Constance matches each with a heavy breath, a moan, a mumbled curse. “You can’t keep up with me. You’re gonna fucking break any second.” 

She tries to nod. 

“Open your fucking eyes.” Willy spits. “I want you to see how easily you fall apart.” 

“Yes sir,” she whispers in a haze of pleasure. “Oh fuck, oh god…!” Constance bites her tongue when Willy brushes a finger over her clit, his touch disturbingly light. Tauntingly so, she figures; see how easily she can crumble underneath a feather-soft touch. A veil of hedonism covers her face, expressions contorting into ugly grimaces and pleading twitches. 

“You gonna remember your fucking place?” 

“Yes sir,” she whispers. “Fuck, yes, I-I will, I, you’re, fuck…!” 

“What was it you called me all those years ago?” 

“You’re godlike, sir. More than before, just…! Fuck! Please!” 

Willy revels in the way she wriggles under his touch, drunk on the sadism when she groans, when the tears start to form in her eyes. “Hold it,” he demands. His fingers are relentless against her clit, rubbing harsh circles until she’s thrashing about and begging for release. “You’re not this fucking easy, are you?” 

“N-no, no no, no I’m, I’m not, I…” She starts to unravel in front of her reflection. The pain in her clit is impossible to ignore; he grinds and pinches and has her slack-jawed and hazy-gazed, and she fucking despises it. This isn’t her. She’s not easy. She’s not a slut. And she’s not fucking afraid of Willy Stampler. But right now? She wishes they were fucking in front of a funhouse mirror. Plausible deniability, denied. “I’m not–!” 

“You’re not what, Constance. Not easy? Not a needy slut who can’t live without my cock?” He chuckles darkly into her ear. “Not afraid of what I could do to you?” 

She’s seen his power. Ever since murdering that man, Constance has watched him through the doodler’s own eyes. Willy knew magic she’d never imagined. Killed without remorse just as she imagined, but with weaponry and tricks she didn’t expect. A hardened sense of pride. A manipulative cadence always in his voice. The air about him is enough to have everyone cower in fear. Everyone but her, she figured. 

And she was wrong. 

Willy became more than the god she expected him to be. She fears him. Can’t trust him. Walks a fine line between life and death as they work together to achieve his one and only goal. Constance lives in a state of awe and horror, and she fucking loves it. 

“Please, sir, can I, I’m–!” 

“Aw, are you close?” Willy bites at her neck, nibbles at her ear, grips her with an obscene amount of strength in just the way she likes and more than she expects– “That’s too bad.” 

With a feigned frown, Willy harshly pulls out of her. 

“Fuck!” She shouts and starts to whine, moaning in complaint. “Wh, why are you, what the fuck, Willy?!” 

Willy grabs her by the shoulders, skin damp and hot as he forces her onto her ass, his hand now at her throat. She stares at him, his reflection, the way he’s lording over her because he knows full fucking well that he’s more than she expected. 

“You said you wanted to chase after a god,” he says in a low, threatening voice. “Keep up.” 

“Yes sir,” she whispers. Constance nods and watches the way her joints seem to stiffen under his touch. The way she almost twitches away when he tortures her with an uncharacteristic kiss to the back of her head. “I understand.” 

“Have you figured out how things’re gonna work around here?” 

“I follow your instructions and offer minimal advice.” 

“And?” 

Constance breathes. Smiles. Starts to giggle. Laughs. “You’re gonna do this to me at least nine more times, aren’t you?” 

Willy smirks. “You doubted me for ten years. You have a debt to repay.” 

Of course she sees the cuff in his hand. A single brace with words she can’t quite make out, because he knows to tilt it out of sight. Show only what you can’t avoid. He’s learning. He’s learned. He’s terrifying. 

She fucking loves it. 

The metal’s welcomingly cold against her wrist. 

“You’ve seen these before?” 

“I have.” 

Willy chuckles. “Then you know the jist of it.” 

Constance falls back into his chest, rolling her eyes behind closed lids and living for the way he could choke her dead right now. “I know mine’s different.” 

“Well yeah, no shit.” Willy twists and cracks his neck, stretching casually just as any other god would. “I don’t need to ask you to stick to plans.” 

“You just need to make sure I don’t come.” 

“You already know your place,” he murmurs against the back of her head. “This is just a little reminder.” 

“Yes sir.” Constance swallows an excited smile and flops onto her side, her naked body bouncing in what she assumes to be Cassandra’s side of the bed. She hates that she loves how that feels. “Do you deny your wife as much as you do me?” 

Willy chuckles under his breath, collecting his clothes and scowling when he sees the tear Constance put in his collar. “Oh no, Cassandra comes every time.” 

“You want me to be jealous.” 

“Must be one of the few things you can feel.” Willy slips a different shirt on, eyeing the messy scattered remnants of Constance’s outfit. “The shrinks sure seem to think so.” 

Constance shakes her head and pulls a pillow over her chest. It smells nothing like Willy. Good. Cassandra can have her questions. “The same people also think I hung myself out of guilt.” 

Willy shakes his head, recalling her full letter word for word, and already feels an indignant rage rising to his chest. 

Can’t say I’m not disappointed. How embarrassing. 

Constance Sullivan 

“Anyone ever figure out who that note was for?” She asks through a lazy smirk. “Aside from you, of course.” 

“Killing yourself to make a point is easily the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“Well, thanks to your doodler friend, I’m back. Both of us win.” 

They make eye contact, Willy threateningly, Constance tauntingly. The same dynamic way back when, but real. The fear is real for her. The power is real for him. He can do this. He can be the unkillable god he knows he is. 

“Don’t expect me to keep you around after this is done,” Willy sneers, but the edge is missing. 

“I fully expect you to kill me. And you’ll be happy to know,” she grins, “I’m just as excited as I am scared.” 

Willy watches her for a moment, briefly entertains the idea of her by his side, and scoffs through a smirk. 

“Good.” 

She might not feel jealousy, but she finally feels fear, and it’s fucking delicious. 

[spiritsoulandbody]

#DailyDevotion A Prayer Of Jesus In Suffering For Us

#DailyDevotion A Prayer Of Jesus In Suffering For Us Psalm 69 Save Me, O God, the waters come up to My neck. 2I'm sunk in deep mud where there's nothing to stand on. I have come into deep water where streams sweep Me away. 3I'm tired of calling, My throat is hoarse. My eyes are bleary looking for My God. We don't know when David composed this. It could be when Saul was pursuing him. It also could be when his son Absalom was rebelling against him. But as we can see in the psalm, things have gotten pretty bad for him. He has become a type for Jesus and His innocent suffering and death. Yes, here we see David prophetically praying the prayer of Jesus in the Garden and throughout His passion. The translator here makes this manifest with all the capitalized pronouns when referring to the person praying who is suffering here. Here, we hear Jesus praying in the garden of Gethsemane with sweat like drops of blood while His disciples wearily fall asleep. He knows the suffering and pain that is about to come upon Him as His Father places our sins upon Him and He makes atonement for our sins. He will experience what we deserve for our sins. 4Those who hate Me without a reason are more than the hairs on My head. Those who are out to destroy Me are mighty. They have no real reason to be My enemies. I have to pay back what I didn't rob. The Pharisees, the Scribes and the Sadducees conspire together to put an end to Jesus. Even Pilate saw they did this to Jesus because they were jealous of Him. They did not like the people looking to Him for salvation. They were worried they were going to lose their power and influence because of Jesus. Yet Jesus came to save them. He was not their enemy. Had they turned to Him, they could have been His teachers in Israel. Jesus is called upon by the Father to pay back for the sins of those who persecuted Him. He has become our sacrifice to make all things right. 5O God, You know My foolishness; My guilt isn't hidden from You. 6Don't let those who look to You for help be disgraced because of Me, O Lord, the LORD of armies. Don't let those who eagerly come to You be put to shame for My sake. O God of Israel. 7Yes, for You I took insults and blushed with shame; 8I've become a stranger to My brothers and a foreigner to My mother's sons. Paul says the foolishness of God is wiser than the wisdom of men. (1 Cor. 1) It may seem foolish for God to become Man, to suffer, the innocent for the guilty. But here Jesus is doing just that. He has taken on our guilt and made it His own. It is not hidden from God. David also speaks of his own guilt here. David and Jesus do not want those who look to the Father to be disgraced because of Him. He does not want them to be brought to shame. Of course, when we experience such things for the name of Jesus, we like Peter in his last hour do not find ourselves worthy to suffer with and for the name of Jesus. We now consider it an honor to participate in the sufferings of Jesus, to suffer with and for Him. There is a pile up of the names of God here. They are appeals to God's honor. Elohim, Adonai, YHWH Sabbaoth, and Elohi Israel are the names called upon in His time of need. The names God Himself as saving names come forth from His lips. When we use the names of God, when we address the Father through the Son, Jesus Christ, we give Him honor and glory. We see the suffering of Jesus here as He takes insults and blushes with shame for our sake and for the Father. His own family, His brothers abandon Him. His disciples are scattered. All this for our sake and for our salvation. Heavenly Father, as we pray this prayer, help us to understand and appreciate the suffering of our LORD Jesus Christ for our salvation and may it give us patience in our own suffering knowing we are participating in His suffering. In Jesus' name we pray. Amen. Read the full article

[17stepstobakerstreet]

The forest was dense, the trees tall and imposing, and in the middle of it all, John walked.

He had been walking for hours, unable to resist the pull he felt in his chest, sitting behind his ribs, insisting that he walked just one more step, then another. Deep down, he knew that he was helplessly lost, but he was not worried. He walked and walked and walked, enjoying the crunch of the leaves under his even steps, relishing in the soft sounds of the woods.

You’re lost, John, the small voice in his head whispered. How will you ever get back? John thought about it for but a second before letting go of the thought and closing his eyes.

I am back, a part of him said.

With that, he inhaled deeply, opened his eyes, and continued wandering, following the strange pull in his chest. The more he walked, the stronger the pull, the more strangely familiar the woods started feeling to him. The trees, he felt, were singing, and so too was his soul.

When John wandered upon a ring of trees deep in the forest, he could have fallen to his knees from the amount of rightness he felt tugging at his heart just standing at the edge of it. Green, winding vines strangled the trunks of gnarled trees and flowed to the ground from branches high in the air, forming a small curtain the whole way around. As if… as if the forest had something in the ring to protect.

The pulling was insistent now, almost edging on painful, and John lurched forward, stumbling through the thin veil of vines and into the circle of trees.

John had seen many sights in his life; he’s seen things that would make a grown man weep (he knows, for they made him weep), things that would make a child cry out in joy. He’s seen bad, he’s seen good, but rarely had he been graced with a sight so achingly beautiful that it made him weak in the knees.

The sight in front of him, however… Christ. There was a rational part in his brain, trying to convince him it was just a simple statue, that there was nothing special about this carved stone covered in climbing vines and sharp brambles, but the feeling in his chest tugged sharply at his heart and made that voice vanish in seconds.

It was a beautiful statue, most likely marble, of a man laying on a slightly raised pedestal, lounging as if he were a great King that deserved devotion. He was propped up on one elbow, facing John, with his other arm draped gently over his thin waist, fingertips just brushing the part of the sheet that pooled in front of him. The rest of it was resting softly over his body, placed carefully as if the artist wanted to conserve the modesty of the man.

John, as if to not disturb the man, moved forward quietly to look at his face. His head was tilted up towards the sky ever-so-slightly as if he were watching the clouds pass to waste his time away. His eyes seemed focused on something in the distance, and though they were captivating, they could not stop John’s gaze from wandering to the sharp cheekbones on the face, or the full lips with the perfect cupid’s bow carved into them. John’s gaze drifted lazily to the hair atop the man’s head and wished with all his heart that he could run his fingers through those wild curls. The artist, John decided, knew beauty, and knew it well, because they had created the perfect human.

John cursed to himself softly when he stepped back again and noticed, once again, the plants growing over the man. Vines were curled up around him, around his neck, as if they were restraining him, suffocating him. Brambles grew over his pedestal and close to the base of his body, where they would dig in if he had been flesh and bone. Now, instead of looking as if he were staring at the clouds peacefully, he looked like he was reaching his head up high to escape the plants creeping up his neck, choking him. The once-white skin was covered in a layer of dirt, which was set heavily into some of the finer details of the statue.

Making the decision to restore the statue to its former glory was the easiest thing John Watson had ever done in his life.

.

Want to read more?? Check it out on Ao3!!

[buckstaposition]

also...if you're taking prompts...how would you feel about writing even a little about marcus pike giving reader a massage and just generally being caring because you know how much I want you to write him and you also know how much I need that rn

okay, two days of ruminating and here’s what came of it. hope it lives up to expectation 🙏���:

Marcus Pike x (f!)xreader (f for mentions of wearing a bra, but that’s it), indulgent fluff, massage, cuddles, established relationship, Marcus Pike has husband material written all over him...hmm, what else? reference to not being a sprightly twenty-something anymore, but if you are presently a sprightly twenty-something you can still read this of course. in preparation for your future decrepitness or so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

words: 1101

“Uuuuuuuugh.” 

Marcus poked his head out of the kitchen, brows raised in a sympathetic frown as he took in your brow-beaten form.

“You alright, honey?” Dammit, he looked too cute in his apron over rolled-up shirt sleeves. You were in no condition to truly appreciate the sight of your gorgeous boyfriend in all his domestic glory. You threw your keys in the dish by the coat rack and dropped your bag to the ground, managing an unconvincing thumbs-up with your other hand in lieu of words.

“That bad, huh?” You just nodded, wordlessly kicking off your shoes, then dragging your tired feet over to him and collapsing against his chest with another pained groan. You took a deep, fortifying breath from where you’d tucked your face into his neck.

“You smell nice.”

“Thanks.” He awkwardly wrapped his arms around you, being mindful of not getting any of the food on his hands onto your clothes.

“You always smell so nice.” A kiss pressed to your head elicits the first true smile of the day from you. “And you’re so good to me. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

You feel the low rumble of his little laugh more than hear it. You don’t want to move, because moving hurts. Some days you really hate not being twenty anymore. Mostly days like these when you come home tired and cranky, with the dull throb of a latent pressure headache between your temples, and small dumb things like moving your head wrong or sleeping funny result in your neck muscles locking up tighter than an activated safe room. You’d hoped it would dissipate over the course of the day, you even did some stretches, but to no avail.

“I gotta finish up dinner, my love. Why don’t you take a hot shower? It might make you feel a bit better.” He started swaying a bit on the spot with you, but you can tell he’s cautiously looking over his shoulder, probably making sure that whatever he has on the stove or in the oven isn’t starting to burn or boil over or anything. You make a displeased little sound, and then a pained one when you try to lift your arms to wind then around his waist.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Marcus started bodily shuffling the two of you along the hallway until you reached the bathroom door. He made to disentangle himself and you whined, burrowing closer. “Honey…”

You whined again and he sighed fondly. “Okay then. D’you just wanna sit while I finish up dinner?”

You nodded wordlessly. Marcus turned you both around and shuffled back towards the dining nook, settling you so you had a good view of the kitchen. You were miserable with pain and fatigue, but you appreciated that he never made you feel pathetic. With a kiss to the crown of your head, he left you to attend to dinner again.

You must have zoned out for a bit, because one moment you were watching Marcus cook – chopping, breading, stirring, frying, sautéing and so on – and the next a beautifully arranged plate was placed in front of you.

“Oh my god!” You exclaim. “Marcus this smells delicious!” Your answer is that pleased yet bashful little smile as he sits and motions for you to dig in, which you gladly do. How anyone could ever let this man go is beyond you.

Dinner enlivens you a bit. Admittedly a day of run-on meetings with only small breaks in between had left you ravenous. You can almost forget your aching back and tense muscles. Even go so far as to try and help Marcus with clearing the table afterwards.

“Honey, no.” He waved you off, but it’s mostly the intense pain when you try to lift your arms that makes you sink back into your chair. Not without a frown though.

“You already cooked!” You protested.

“Honey, it’s okay, really. You can clear out the dishwasher tomorrow if it makes you feel better.” Still pouting, you acquiesce. Marcus clears the table in record time and within minutes, you’re on your large, plush sofa, leaning back against Marcus who is warm and solid and comforting behind you.

You’re just about to doze off to the Golden Girls rerun on the TV when Marcus’ hands brush against your tender neck and you hiss.

“Christ, sweetheart, you’re tense enough to snap!”

“I almost did snap at Karen from accounting.”

“Very funny. Come sit up a bit yeah? Can you take your shirt off?”

“Oh, I’m suffering and you’re trying to get some action?” You sense his playful eyeroll even if you don’t see it. Nonetheless your hands start on the small buttons of your shirt. He helped you slide it off your arms, taking care to tuck the throw blanket up higher around you then moving to unclasp your bra. Once that too is discarded, he starts slowly, smoothing his warm fingers over the indentations left behind.

“Oooooh, I feel better already.” You sigh, only half in jest, and again he huffs out a short warm laugh, then presses a small kiss behind your ear. Your bliss lasts for about another half minute; when Marcus starts to dig his thumbs into the rigid tendons at the base of your neck you nearly sob. Marcus shushes you sweetly, humming a low ‘I know sweetheart, I’m sorry’ into the shell of your ear. To his credit, he is as gentle as he can be, but your muscles are so tight and coiled he does really have to dig in. But when he follows every forceful press with a soothing pass of his broad, warm hand over your skin, you can’t really object. Nor to the undeniable effect this treatment has. Already the tension lessens both in your muscles and your head, and with every minute you slip deeper into relaxation. Your eyes fall closed and the low noise of the TV faded into a mere background hum. You think you could fall sleep like this.

“Feeling better, my love?” Marcus passed one hand around to nudge gently against your collar bones, encouraging you to lean back against his chest. The small buttons of his dress shirt poke into your bare skin, but it’s a nuisance at best and you’re so woozy with relaxation now the sensation barely registers.

“Much.” You say. “Thank you, Marcus.”

You bend your head back against his shoulder, which you can now again do effortlessly, and kiss the corner of his smiling mouth while he tucks the throw blanket around your shoulders and wraps his arms around your middle.

- - - - -

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[sunriserose1023]

Cold and Broken

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader WARNINGS: Language, injuries, hypothermia, one-sided conversations WORD COUNT: 3682 SQUARE FILLED: Huddling for warmth for @star-spangled-bingo​ and Damaged vocal cords for @badthingshappenbingo​

“Hang in there. Just a little bit more. Come on.”

You nodded, clinging to Bucky’s metal arm. You were dragging your right foot behind you, one arm clutched to what you were sure were broken ribs. You couldn’t speak, since the HYDRA operatives you’d been tracking had been enhanced—something you weren’t expecting—and one had nearly crushed your throat before Bucky got the upper hand on him. 

A muscle in his jaw twitched every time he glanced back at you, because as soon as his eyes met yours, they’d flick down to the still spreading dark purple bruises on your neck. You’d tried to pull your suit higher, but without a scarf, there wasn’t much you could do to hide. 

Speaking of a scarf, it was fucking freezing. Snow swirled all around you, the cold biting through your suit. Holding onto Bucky’s metal arm was like clinging to a block of ice, and you were honestly afraid your fingers may be stuck to it. You really wished you’d listened to Steve and gone with at least the fingerless gloves. 

The HYDRA base had some sort of technology that made your comms die almost instantly, and even escaping the base—leaving no survivors behind—hadn’t changed anything. You had faith that Steve or Nat or maybe even Clint would figure it out soon and come save you, but there was no way you were waiting around all the blood and bodies, and there was no way you and Bucky could just sit outside and wait in the blizzard you were currently trudging through. 

You swallowed and gave a hoarse whine, and Bucky glanced back at you, jaw muscle twitching before he nodded. 

“Little bit further. Can you make it?”

You nodded, wincing as a pain shot through your body. Bucky blew out a breath, pulling you closer, turning to face you.

“There should be a safe house right behind those trees. Can you make it that far?”

You looked out towards where he was talking, your face falling when you saw the distance to the trees. You took in a deep breath and winced, eyes meeting his. You were trying—really, you were—but you were exhausted. Every inch of your body hurt, and Bucky nodded. 

“It’s okay. You’ve done so good. Here.”

He turned around and you shook your head, gripping his flesh shoulder. He glanced back at you and shook his head, snow flying from his hair. 

“You can’t walk that far. I can get us there quicker than you putting yourself through more pain. It won’t be pain-free, but let me carry you.”

You exhaled, staring into his blue-gray eyes, then nodded. You gasped as you climbed onto his back, doing your best to breathe through the pain, but tears were in your eyes when you were finally settled. 

“I’m sorry, kid.”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around him and tapping the side of his neck. Bucky nodded. 

“Just hang tight.”

You put your head down, face in his hair as he started walking. It jarred you at first, but you grit your teeth and soon got used to the rhythm of Bucky walking. You could feel his body heat through his suit, and you closed your eyes as your chest and stomach started to warm. 

“Y/N? Hey. Hey, don’t fall asleep. Come on, kid.”

You blinked heavy eyes open, glancing around. You lifted your face from Bucky’s dark hair, sliding off his back and landing on the front porch of a cabin. You looked up at him and he nodded, twisting the doorknob and walking inside. You waited by the door, stepping further inside when you couldn’t take the cold anymore. 

“All clear.”

You sank against the wall, rubbing shaking hands together and blowing into them, wincing when that hurt both your ribs and your throat. Bucky walked into the room and saw you, and he walked over to loop your arm around his neck, picking you up and carrying you to the sofa. He sat you down and threw the blanket on the back over your shoulders. You nodded to him and tried to smile, and he gave you a forced smile back as he knelt before you. 

“I’m going to start a fire, okay? See if I can’t get you warm.”

You poked a numb finger into his chest and he rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t worry about me.”

You poked him again and he gave a soft laugh. 

“You’re shivering so hard I’d think that couch was a vibrator if I sat beside you.”

Your eyes widened and Bucky laughed again. He patted your knee and stood up, and you tried to pull the blanket tighter around you. 

He had a fire going in no time, the logs crackling and popping as the flames burned through them. Bucky lifted the sofa and pushed it closer to the fireplace, and you held out your hands, wincing as you reached for warmth. Bucky grabbed a few more blankets and surrounded you with them, and you’d at least stopped shivering. You still felt cold, so you knew Bucky must feel the same, but he wouldn’t stop moving for you to ask. He did find a pen and a notepad, so you were at least not gesturing anymore. 

He always glanced your way whenever he made it into the room, whether to throw another log on the fire or check your blanket nest or—his best idea yet—finding a pot in the kitchen and filling it with snow, boiling it over the fire so you’d at least have something to drink. 

You held a cup of the cooled snow water in your hands, wincing every time you swallowed. Bucky walked into the room and you tapped your pen against the notepad, getting his attention. He lifted his eyebrows when he looked at you and you held up the notepad. 

Would you PLEASE sit down?

He huffed out a breath. 

“I had to check every nook and cranny around here, make sure we’re safe.”

You scribbled across the notepad. 

You did that 3 times already. Relax. 

Bucky sighed. He narrowed his eyes at you and you raised an eyebrow at him, and he finally acquiesced, walking over and sitting beside you on the sofa. He exhaled, and you reached over, patting his flesh arm. He turned and grabbed your hand, shaking his head. 

“Jesus, Y/N. You’re freezing.”

You pointedly looked at the blankets around you and nodded at the fire, but Bucky shook his head. 

“It’s not enough. You’re going to catch hypothermia. And with your ribs broken the way they are …”

He swallowed, and you raised an eyebrow. Bucky shook his head, unfastening the buckles on his suit. Both of your eyebrows jumped to your hairline when he shook off the jacket, pulling the tank over his head and standing before you in some serious shirtless glory. You blinked and he started unwrapping blankets from around you. You shook your head and he hung his, letting out a breath before lifting his head and staring into your eyes. 

“Your lips are blue. Don’t even try and start with me.”

You opened your mouth and he glared at you. You shut your mouth, unwrapping the blankets around you and giving a full-body shiver. Your eyes widened and your mouth fell open when you looked to Bucky, who was cursing under his breath, now clad in just his boxers. 

“Buck—“ “Don’t talk. Christ, you sound like you’ve gargled glass.”

You shook your head and he rolled his eyes. 

“Body heat is the quickest way to warm you up.”

You opened your mouth and he closed his eyes, shaking his head. You leaned forward and grabbed the notepad, handwriting shaky this time. 

I don’t think I can take my suit off.

Bucky’s lips moved as he read the message, and you watched him swallow before he nodded. 

“Can you stand? I’ll help you.”

You nodded, gasping and shivering when you were free from the blankets. Bucky helped you stand, made sure you were steady on your sprained ankle—at least, that’s what you hoped it was—then leaned around you, picking up the sofa and pushing it closer to the fire. 

He came back and stood before you, and you pointed to your back. He moved a bit, finding the zipper at your neckline, slowly unzipping your suit. You shivered, giving a hoarse moan when the chill in the cabin hit your now bare skin. Bucky unfastened your bra before you could say anything about it, stepping in front of you and pulling you to his chest. You gasped, moaning brokenly before burrowing closer to him. 

“Shit, baby. You should have said something. God, you’re freezing.”

You nodded, putting your face in his neck. Bucky cursed again, rubbing his flesh arm up and down your back. 

“My damn arm …”

He sighed, and you wobbled a bit, both of his arms coming around you to steady you. 

“Easy. Here, let’s sit down.”

You nodded, letting him lead you to the sofa. You sat down, hunching over towards the fire, moaning softly when that tugged at your broken ribs. Bucky fixed blankets around you, then crawled onto the sofa behind you, pulling you to his chest. You gave a low keen, and Bucky shushed you, rubbing his flesh hand up and down your arm before pulling the blankets around the two of you. 

You sat like that for a while, huddled together in the blankets by the roaring fire, Bucky’s flesh arm gently caressing you while he tried to keep his metal arm away from you. You leaned your head back against his and he turned his head, touching his forehead to your temple. You let your hand drift down to the back of his, slowly tracing letters. 

B A B Y

“‘Baby?’”

You nodded, tapping his wrist. Bucky moved his head to your ear, growling the words there, making you giggle. 

“Are you having delusions? Hearing things? You may be worse off than I thought.”

You shook your head, reaching up and scratching his stubbled chin. He sighed, shifting a bit, pulling you closer. 

“I guess I let it slip, huh?”

You nodded, shifting your position, sitting sideways in his lap, head on his shoulder. He sighed again, resting his head atop yours. 

“I just … I didn’t mean … “

He blew out a breath. 

“It took me off-guard how cold your touch was. I didn’t realize how cold you still were. The damn serum or whatever I’ve got keeps me from getting too hot or too cold, but I should have been thinking about you.”

You shook your head, clutching his flesh arm. He glanced down at you, licking his lips. 

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

You nodded, widening your eyes and shaking your head. Bucky smiled, cupping your chin in his flesh hand. 

“You don’t have to be scared. And you don’t have to stay awake for me. You’re warming up. I’ll keep watch, keep an eye out for the quinjet. Rest.”

You nodded, sitting up and moving until you were backwards in his lap, your soft breasts pressed against his chest. Bucky gave a soft groan, pulling you closer. Within seconds, you were asleep, wrapped in his warmth, and Bucky stretched out on the couch, twisting until you were laying beside him. He tucked as many blankets around you as he could, putting your back to the fire, staring at your sleeping face, the few wispy hairs that had escaped the bun on top of your head that Nat must have helped you with. 

Bucky sighed, feeling his own eyes grow heavy. He blinked and widened his eyes, staring into the fire. You snuggled closer to him, and he let his arms hold you tighter. Surely someone would notice the smoke from the chimney. If not, they’d see his multiple SOS from around the house and come find them. 

He shifted a bit on the sofa, holding you close, resting his head atop yours. He wouldn’t be any good to you exhausted. Just a few minutes of shuteye is all he’d need, and he’d be back in fighting shape. His eyes slid closed as one of the logs broke in the fireplace, sending sparks flying up the chimney and a burst of heat towards your back. 

“Shit. I found them!”

Steve dropped his shield as he ran to the couch, breath visible when he exhaled. 

“Damn it. Come on. Come on, guys.”

He unwrapped blankets from the bodies on the couch, neither of which were responding to his pleas. He untangled the last blanket to discover you on top of Bucky, both of you clad only in your underwear. Steve reached a shaky hand to press two fingers under your jaw, giving a breath of relief. He moved his hand to Bucky’s neck, giving a breathy laugh when he felt the slow throb of Bucky’s heart. 

“Goddamn it, Steve. Give us a status report!”

Steve sat back on his heels, one finger going to the piece in his ear. 

“They’re alive.”

Breaths of relief seemed to echo in his ear. He shook his head, speaking again as he tucked blankets back around the two of you, surveying your bodies as best he could 

“Y/N has severe bruising to her neck.” “How severe?” “From ear to ear, Tony. God, her throat looks horrible.”

The comms were quiet, until Tony spoke up again. 

“What about Barnes?” “No visible bruises. They’re both alive, but unresponsive.” “Probably hypothermic.” “Definitely. Looks like they had a fire going and they’re huddled together under a ton of blankets, but they’re still cold.” “Together?”

Mumbles sounded in his ear and Steve rolled his eyes. He glanced out the window and spoke again. 

“Looks like the jet could land fairly close to this cabin.” “We’re almost there, Cap. Think you can get them out yourself?”

Steve pursed his lips, then nodded. He started to try and pick you up, pulling you away from Bucky, but Bucky weakly grabbed onto you, holding you close and giving a quiet grunt. Steve let you go, watching Bucky calm a bit and smiled. 

“On second thought, I may need a little backup.”

“Y/N? Hey. Can you hear me?”

You did hear something, but it sounded like you were underwater. 

“Come on, honey. Open your eyes.”

You didn’t want to. It was nice and dark and warm where you were, and you wanted to stay there. 

Wait. 

Warm?

You groaned, feeling a gentle pressure on your hand. 

“Easy. Take it easy, Y/N. Take it slow.”

It felt like a chore, and honestly took a lot of work, but you finally opened your eyes. You turned to see Tony sitting beside your bed, a soft smile on his face. 

“There you are. Hi there.”

You blinked and he nodded. 

“How you feeling?”

You lifted a shaky hand to your throat and he nodded. 

“Yeah you, uh … You had us all worried. Your vocal cords were damaged pretty badly, but with as quiet as you’ve been … still, Dr. Cho wants you to rest your voice as much as you can.” “And that’s why I’m here.”

You turned your head to see Clint at the foot of your bed. He smiled at you, moving his hands as he signed while he spoke. 

“They knew you were pretty good at sign language, so we decided to have me translate until Cho gives you the go-ahead to talk again.”

You raised an eyebrow and Clint grinned at you. 

“Hey, I can do it. I won’t even lie and tell them you’re saying nothing but bad words.”

You smiled, turning your head and giving a deep sigh. You patted your side, noticing then how bandaged up you were. You looked back to Tony and he nodded. 

“Four, five, and six are broken on the right, eight and nine on the left.”

You looked to Clint and finger spelled F-O-O-T. He nodded. 

“Broke your right ankle.”

You let your head fall back to the pillows and he smiled. 

“Please. I’ve had worse.”

Tony didn’t need an interpreter when you held your middle finger up to Clint, the two of them laughing softly. You looked back to Clint, fingerspelling another word. He gave you a soft smile. 

“He’s alright. They had a time warming him up, but he’s doing better now.”

You furrowed your brows, hands slowly moving. Clint watched for a moment, then nodded. 

“Yeah, you both were badly hypothermic when we finally got to you. There’d been a fire, but it was long burned out.”

You shook your head and Tony patted your shoulder. 

“It took us almost two days to find you.”

You looked back to Clint, motioning again. 

“He’s okay, babe. I promise.”

You signed again and Clint’s eyebrows raised before he slowly nodded. 

“Yeah, I’ll get him.” “Barton, if you’re going to translate, you’ve got to do it both ways.” “She just said she wants to see him. I said I’d get him.”

Tony rolled his eyes and you smiled at him. You nodded and he sighed. 

“Don’t scare us like that again, got it?”

You nodded, and he leaned up, kissing your forehead before standing up and opening the door. 

“Goddamn it, Barton, I said I’m fine. Ain't nothing wrong with my legs.” “Clearly something’s wrong with your ears, though. Cho said take it easy—“ “And that means I can’t even walk?” “Stop being such a whiny baby. Nothing’s wrong with her ears.”

Clint pushed a wheelchair into your room, and you smiled at the sight of a clearly grumpy Bucky. His face softened when he saw you, leaning forward and taking your hand when Clint rolled him close to your bed.

“Hey, sunshine. How you feeling?”

You shook your head, pushing your hand away from your chest and Clint laughed. 

“Lousy, she says.”

Bucky held your eyes for a minute, then spoke. 

“Hey, Barton? Can you give us a minute?” “Oh, I’ve been hired to translate.” “I think I can handle her for a few minutes.” “But I —“ “Clint.”

Bucky glanced over his shoulder. Clint looked to you and you nodded, and he raised his eyebrows before he turned and walked out. You looked to Bucky and he sighed. He shook his head, reaching out and laying his hand on yours. 

“I’m sorry.”

You shook your head and he gave your hand a squeeze. 

“No, I … I should have taken better care of you. I fell asleep and—“

You sat up, wincing with your broken ribs, laying a finger against his lips. Bucky closed his eyes, reaching up and taking hold of your hand. You smiled, resting back against the pillows. There was a whiteboard and a marker on your bedside table, and Bucky grabbed it, handing it to you. You wrote for a moment, then turned the board around for him to read. 

You saved me. 

Bucky swallowed, shaking his head. You nodded and he blew out a breath. 

“But I should never have fallen asleep. I should have kept the fire going, made sure you were warm.”

You underlined the words, forcefully motioning the board towards him again. He hung his head and you set the board aside, scooting closer to him and reaching out to hold his face in your hands. He lifted his head and you felt him swallow before he shook his head, moving closer to you until his lips were touching yours. 

You swear your heart stopped, but your brain kicked in and you kissed him back. He broke away and settled his forehead against yours, giving a sigh. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

He laughed when you pinched his side and he nodded, never moving his head from yours. 

“I don’t know why I didn’t do it sooner. I should have, before I almost let you freeze to death.”

He yelped when you pinched him again, pulling his head back to glare at you. You smiled, lifting a hand to his cheek, rubbing your thumb over his cheekbone. He leaned into the touch and you took his metal hand, lacing your fingers with his. Bucky glanced down at your joined hands and nodded. 

“Tony said he’s going to work on some upgrades. Temperature regulation or something. Maybe some way we can cover the metal with something smoother? Or warmer? I didn’t really understand the intricacies of what he was saying.”

You nodded and rolled your eyes, and Bucky smiled. 

“Right. It’s Tony. Who can understand him? Besides Pepper?”

You mouthed “Pepper” at the same time Bucky said her name, and the two of you shared a smile before Bucky sighed. 

“I really want to kiss you again.”

You raised an eyebrow and he smiled as he ducked his head. 

“I don’t know what I’m waiting on. I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling your hand from his and settling back against your pillows. You motioned with your head and his eyes widened. 

“What about when your audience comes back in?”

You grabbed the whiteboard and scribbled on it, turning it so Bucky could read. 

They found us wrapped up together in our underwear. If they’re surprised by us making out, it’s their own damn fault.

Bucky laughed when he read your message, then nodded. He climbed up onto the bed with you, laying on his side, brushing your hair away from your face. 

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.”

You shook your head and he nodded, focusing on his hand in your hair. 

“I’m probably going to be a mess sometimes. Just … don’t give up on me?”

You reached up to hold his wrist, grabbing the whiteboard again. 

I’m not going anywhere. 

Bucky smiled, nodding his head. His eyes met yours and you set the whiteboard aside, then looked into his blue-gray eyes again. You mouthed the words, careful to make no sound. 

Kiss me.

Bucky grinned, nodding as he moved closer to you, the two of you huddled together once again, this time for a different sort of warmth.

[andhumanslovedstories]

the old guard, 2k words, nicolò in the earliest days of immortality. cw for suicide attempts and self-harm. 

The promise of heaven is life unending after death. What then is life unending without dying? It is suffering eternal. To be a body in this imperfect world is to be ground by the millstone. Death is the temporary liberation from the frail and tortuous flesh. Even the bodily resurrection of the end of days promised the spirits of heaven to return to the earth only when the earth was made at last perfect again. Jesus Christ, both God and Man, was His body and inhabited His body, offered His body, endured His body, and eventually vacated His body. 

That Jesus Christ returned to His body no longer seemed, to Nicolò, miraculous. It seemed to Nicolò, who despised himself for the blasphemy and yet blasphemed regardless, intolerable cruelty torture a man to death and then refuse to let him die.

What would you call such a thing? Nicolò called it Hell. 

In his agony, he found relief by listing his sins. They slid like beads in place, the endless flaws and crimes of his mortal life; they explained his suffering. Here he acted in anger, here pride, here disobedience against his betters. He counted up lusts and vices, finding new perversions and indecencies in each memory he revisited. He flagellated, paid penance out of his accursed flesh, and watched those wounds, his offerings to God, seal up without an answer. Determining that he must not have atoned in full, he searched his life and repented new crimes. He wept for the times he lowered his eyes from God to the jawline of a handsome man. He whipped himself for the mornings of prayer when he resented leaving the warmth of his bed. The tears dried. The wounds healed. Nicolò remained. 

Even now in Hell and burning, he still could not cease his sinning, his blasphemy. He would think, God has placed me where even He cannot reach, and sink further into his heretical misery. 

It is worth auditing his accounting. Nicolò was not an impartial observer of his own life. Who is? We none of us stand outside ourselves looking in until our bodies have given up the ghost. And Nicolò’s body gave up nothing. What crimes then did Nicolò neglect? 

Do you think the crusader thought, My sins include the butchered Turks, my sword buried in corpses of its own creation? We know the disappointing answer. Nicolò was not yet what he would someday be. 

He did not yet think, My sin is this burning land, the torch set to the raided field that our enemies will know no succour. Here is a body, there and there and there as well, killed if not by my hand then by my cause, the liberation of a holy dream that I found was inhabited by men of matter. I killed a Turk as one would a rabid dog incapable of reason or love. He was a man as I am a man, and therefore surely if I am beloved by God (although I cannot, as I once did, believe that), then he must be as well. God made man in His image and then made Himself in the image of man. God is in any man and every man. I have killed this man in hate. I have killed God. 

He did not, he could not, or rather could not allow himself to think such a thing. It is no simple thing to look upon the suffering Christ and understand yourself to be the Roman soldier. And when he did, when he could, despite the impossibility of such fancies, he cursed the treachery of his weak heart. Those thoughts were not his own. They were the whispers of the demon. 

Oh yes. We come now to sleep, as Nicolò came to sleep: haltingly, reluctantly, with terror in our hearts. How cruel of his body to refuse death but to demand this nightly dying. 

The demon visited Nicolò nightly. After too many failed killings at each other’s hands, they had fled each other in waking hours only to find themselves shackled together in dreams. He was, as all temptations are, too sweet and too rich and too fine. He was a Turk with a handsome face and cold eyes and cold steel. In dreams, sometimes Nicolò watched him, and sometimes Nicolò was him, and sometimes the demon was Nicolò, and sometimes they were two women in a distant land, two women who were walking closer and closer and closer. 

“I think sometimes,” the demon said to Nicolò one night in dreams, “that those two women are the only people who can kill us. And that is why they come.” 

“You’ll die at no one’s hand but my own,” Nicolò replied. 

He flayed his back with self-flagellation and when that gained him no results, he found other ways of punishing the flesh. But these methods proved imperfect in their efficacy. How to torture without executing? One day in his zealous repentance, he sliced too deep. He knew he was dying when he suddenly felt cold underneath the noon day sun. A sin, a sin, an unforgivable sin, he thought, cut again, and let death happen. The blood left him, running out of his arm like the plagued river of Egypt, and on the other side of this horror, this punishment, Nicolò knew, there would be the long desert, yes, but there would be freedom, there would be peace. His numbed fingers dropped the knife, that key of liberation, and embraced eternity. 

When he woke, he was hot again. The sun had baked him and his skin burned. But his skin would heal. It would heal that it might burn again and again and again.

“I felt you die today,” the demon said that night in dreams. 

Nicolò’s laugh filled his mouth like sand. “But here I am.” 

The demon touched his own neck. There was no scar there--never, Nicolò thought bitterly, any scars--but there was a line in the beard like a skilled tailor’s seam, visible only with the closest observer. As though a blade had once sliced through cloth now repaired. “You have to try. It was with this dagger.” He held up the dagger. Nicolò recognized it, had been impaled and sliced by it for all the good it did. “In the fire of Hell I will be punished with this dagger for what I have used it for. And yet I did not die.” The demon looked at Nicolò, and while his steel remained cold, his eyes were not at all. “Is that suicide, Frank? If I cannot die but hoped I would? Will I burn?” 

Every man, no matter how aware of his own sins and failings and culpability for his woes, in the lowest and darkest hour of his life finds himself in Job, that blameless man tormented by God. And in Job’s misery, his friends arrive and dissect in all the ways Job deserved his agony. And Job protests, no, no, I did nothing but my children are dead, my wife is dead, my fortune is gone, my health is gone, I am defenseless before God and I do not understand why. 

Nicolò, too aware and still unaware of his failings and faults, cast himself as Job and Job’s friends: both the blameless victim and the accuser of blame. And Nicolò lamented and hated himself for lamenting, repented and believed he had nothing left to repent. And where was the whirlwind? God sweeping down to answer questions with questions? Were you there at the foundation of the earth, God asked Job. If God asked the same of Nicolò, he could not hear. What was the story of Job? What was the point? Why did Job suffer? Why had God done this to him? Why could Nicolò not submit to the mystery? 

In the face of Nicolò’s silence, the Turk turned cold again, cold as steel and more painful somehow. Perhaps Nicolò had grown too accustomed to the pain of steel. “Why do I ask you? Of course you think I will burn. You have made clear what you think I am, what you think my countrymen and my brothers in faith are. Get out of my dream, Frank. I am sorry to have felt you today in my waking hours. Give me the privacy of my sleeping ones.” 

“Elihu tells Job that God speaks in two ways,” Nicolò said. He did not know why he said it. The Turk looked as if he did not know why Nicolò had said it either. “He speaks to us in dreams when our eyes are closed and in calamities when our ears are open.” 

“What do you mean to tell me with this?” asked the Turk after a moment. His face was still cold, still sharp, and Nicolò could not look away from it, like running his thumb along the edge of a blade. 

What was intolerable about Job’s friends? Their certainty. Their certainty that they understood God and suffering and the reasons for the universe, as if there was reason understandable to mortals, as if God need explain Himself to the world He created.  

“I don’t know,” Nicolò said.

The Turk looked at him, and Nicolò looked at the Turk, in the strange world of dreams where God talked and no one understood.  

Nicolò woke. He woke and thought about the undying Turk. He woke and thought--allowed himself at last to think--of the Turks who died. Whom he killed, and wished to kill, and believed should be killed, in the name of God and glory. Those men allowed to recieve the gift that Nicolò was denied again and again, and he thought, as Job thought, as Job’s friends thought, what his crime was. If I am innocent, Lord, release me. If I am guilty, tell me my crime. The men I killed died and are dead. The men I killed alongside died and are dead. I died and am living still. The Turk is living still. What crime have we both committed that our sentence is the same?

What good have we both committed to have earned this boon? 

Nicolò had never before this moment thought that their undying lives might be a gift. 

Two days later, the Turk found him again. This time, in the waking world. Their swords remained in their sheaths. They emptied instead their boots, and sitting in silence side by side, they sat on the bank and let the river wash their feet. 

“I am tired of dreaming of you,” the Turk announced to the buzzing insects of the encroaching night. “When I followed you to slit your throat, I never dreamed of you. Nor did I dream of you when you were stalking me.” The Turk almost smiled, and Nicolò’s skin burned again, a burn that would not heal for it was no injury at all. “I knew you were near, those times. When you are near, my sleep is easy and punctuated by nothing but a blade.” 

“I am tired. I am confused. I am, I think, more wretched than I ever dreamed, and I understand nothing.” Nicolò said. “I will not kill you again.”

“Our problem is that you have not killed me yet.” 

They sat together, feet in the river. They said nothing and understood nothing. The sun went down and the moon arose, and too the stars. Job had asked God why he suffered so, and God had asked Job if he could bind the chains of the Pleiades or loosen Orion’s belt. Job could not and neither could Nicolò. Nor could the Turk, whose name was Yusuf and who smiled at last in the surprise of being asked. 

[nurseofren]

Request pls 🥺 Philip Altman waking up the reader by jerking off on top of her? Thank you 🥵🥵🥵

Warnings: PIV sex, fingerfucking, mutual masturbation, cream pie, cum eating, fluff at the end but not really. I spelled his name wrong throughout this entire thing, though I swore it had only one L. Smh endure lmao I’m not fixing it.

ST Rambles: I love this man. He is such an idiot. But a hot one. I have another request for shower sex w Philip and I’m v excited!

--

A constant pattern of sound took you from sleep, your eyes fluttering open and shutting in rejection when you glimpsed the bright green numbers on the alarm clock. It was a little past three in the morning. 

You flopped a languid hand beside you, in search of Philip. He was usually passed out cold at this time, but he was gone. 

“Philip?” Words grated against your groggy throat.

A louder noise - tense, breathy, and needy - woke you up further. Blinking hard one more time and spinning your head forward, you found your boyfriend in all his glory. No clothes. Flushed cheeks. Parted lips. Desperate eyes targeting your chest.

He was heaving over you, broad shoulders flexing fluidly in the shadowed room. Light glinted off his teeth when his lips pulled back into dark smirk, eyes staying put. A choppy collection of hair obstructed some of his forehead, sweat tinging the ends. 

A second longer and you felt the warm presence of a hand kneading your breast. You looked down and Philip pinched your nipple until your eyes snapped up to his.

“Wanna join me?” His tongue swiped out over his bottom lip as his eyes drifted down toward somewhere you hadn’t looked, though you’d suspected.

Mouth drying and cunt throbbing, you crawled up on your elbows and looked to find two massive, flexing thighs framing your legs. In their center was the flushed flesh of the enormous cock you held a claim on. Philip’s hand was furious, the hand on your chest partially keeping balance as he leaned forward and stroked himself over you. 

He’d already removed the sheets which once shielded you, the cold air barely apparent while he bathed you in his body heat. Watching him for a moment, seeing precum form and gather and glide down his shaft while he worked himself masterfully, you felt your walls flutter with need. Desire stuck hot and thick in your throat. You needed him inside you, wanted to feel his cum fill you just as much as you wanted to feel it drip out.

“Fucking Christ, Altman.” It was a moan. Yearning and whiny.

Philip’s hand landed heavy next to your head when he brought his face right to yours. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Long fingers scooped the back of your skull and pulled your head up, his lips crushing yours while waves of quick, huffed breaths washed over your cheeks. You swiveled your hips up to prompt his down, feeling his cockhead slide between your folds easily. You were wet, so ready to take him at any given moment.

“Mm, such a slut. You even want me in your sleep, don’t you?”

Teeth catching his bottom lip, you bit until he grunted. “Hm, maybe, but I at least keep it to myself.” 

A laugh chimed between the two of you. Philip guided himself over your entrance and pushed the tip just barely inside. A sharp gasp left you. You wanted him more than you’d thought.

“Rub your clit, I’m not taking my time.”

“If you can even make me cum to begin with.”

A frenzy flashed in his eyes when his hand grabbed around your throat and compressed your arteries. While he did this he slammed into you, a merciless movement so your entrance stung in pain before it could set in pleasure at his fullness.

“Oh, so is this a challenge?” 

After a few seconds he permitted your blood flow, a head rush quickly booming in your ears, body settling into his presence. He was impossibly big, every time he fucked you, you could hardly believe his size. It felt like it was choking you, and partially it was; a sputter of moans croaked onto his neck in response to his unrivaled cock. 

“No. No. No challenge.” You really just wanted him to fuck you back to sleep, wanted to revel in how he felt. “Philip, baby--” you laved up his pulse and teethed at his lobe “--fuck me breathless. Simple. That’s what I want.”

Philip could never resist when you called him pet names, or when you neared anywhere close to his ears. He was instant putty in your hands, picking a pace and building from there. First he was slow, letting you feel all of him, allowing himself to slide into your wet cunt until his balls met the heated flesh. Quickly, though, as you were both impatient, he began a steady, punishing pace.

The sound of slapping skin fell in line with his thrusts, squelches adding a sense of urgency as you swiped over your clit and aided him in constructing your orgasm. Both his forearms were at either side of your head now, his fingers knotted in your hair as he kept his lips on yours, his tongue swiping sparks over your own.

He laughed to himself while he continued pressing sloppy kisses into your lips. “You’re close.” It was a sing-song tone.

“Shut up for once in your life.” He was right, and your panted words proved that.

He shook his head against yours. Your free hand plunged red streaks down his back, biting into the flexed flesh and earning moans with each trail. There was a slight skip in his pace.

“Hm, you’re closer, though.”

“Alright, so this is a challenge.” Philip pulled completely out of you, sitting back on his knees and robbing you of warmth and fullness.

“What the fuck?” You rested back up to your elbows and stared at him while frustration bloomed below your waist.

“Keep touching your clit.” His eyes had darkened.

“And if I don’t?”

“Stop being such a brat and listen for once in your life.” He was no longer playful like before. Command obvious in his words.

Narrowed eyes peered back at each other, his brow raising as to question if you really wanted to test him. Rolling your eyes, you did as he said, pressing a pattern of swipes into the raised flesh, fire burning deep in your belly. Philip watched you pleasure yourself with hungry eyes.

Too quick for you to protest, not that you would’ve, he plunged three fingers into your core.

“Oh my God! Philip!” The sudden intrusion catapulted you towards release, leaving heat to form fast and fester as you continued over your clit.

He drew back and hooked his digits so they worked your g-spot. A stutter of whines came, your cheeks on fire and your thighs quaking.

“So, I can’t make you cum, hm?” He kept stoking himself, a fast hand gripping around his aching cock. His whole chest had turned red, his cheeks obvious even in the darkness. 

“I nev- never said that,” a grimace formed as you felt the first flickers of an orgasmic flood coming, “Philip, please!”

A drop of sweat formed and fell from the tip of his nose and onto your inner thigh. The tiny sensation felt enormous in the presence of an impending climax. Keeping focus on the fist over his cock, translating its speed into the finger tips over your clit, you felt a crest of bliss glitter over your skull.

As a moan pushed past gritted teeth, you looked into his eyes to find he was already searching your own, his face tight in its own contortion of potentiating pleasure.

“Cum. Now.” 

Spit sprayed past his teeth and onto your exposed skin, your body obeying without objection. You jumped willfully into release, letting your pussy clench around his fingers, thanking the heavens he kept them there, swiping over your clit even while you were in the throes of and basking in pleasure.

Philip grunted, hand still bludgeoning his erection until you felt the familiar hot, sticky presence of his cum collect and drip down your folds.

You felt a quick pressure over your entrance, the feeling drawing a mewl in your state of recovery. Philip had a point to prove, and you knew which one it was, already having your mouth open to receive his seed.

He pressed heavy fingers onto your tongue, your lips forming a seal around the salt-covered flesh and sucking him clean, laving between them and biting at his knuckles when you were done. Dazed eyes looked up at him, a sated hand catching onto his wrist and pressing the palm of his hand onto your chest.

He swam in your gaze a little longer, eyes peering down your sweat-lit body and then to the alarm clock. His eye twitched before he settled in next to you, nuzzling into your neck and pulling your waist into his hips.

He hummed, pressing gentle pecks along back of your neck, a hand settling between your breasts and gripping onto the one nearest to him. You lined your fingers up with his grip, swiping your thumb over his own.

“I win,” he breathed.

You bit back a smile, basking in his warmth and twisting your hips into his, knowing exactly what you were doing.

I win, you thought. I always win when I’m with you.

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.21

Two Confused Men, Two and Half Culprits

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)  x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader     Word count: 3780

Summary: Jarvis is the half culprit. I wonder who the two confused men could be…. Hint: for once, it’s not Sam and Dean.

Warnings: swearing, brief angst, nightmare (about drowning), brief mention of blood, guilt trip, attempt at humour

Story masterlist ༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺ 

You woke up, suffocating weight preventing your chest from expanding. You remembered dreaming about water, the light at the surface gradually receding from your grasp. All you could see now was darkness, the pressure against your lungs and the burn in them remaining.

Your throat closed up in panic as you fought to suck some oxygen into your airways.

Vainly.

You trashed around, elbowing the warm mass behind you that seemed to be pulling you under – only for the grip on you to grow stronger, your ribcage feeling like collapsing any minute.

You struck harder and the vice-like grip on you loosened with a huffed protest. You instantly rolled away—how were you rolling away in the water? What was that sound?

You blinked away the tears that prickled in the corners of your eyes with your previous effort and chased each inhale, your heart hammering in your chest wildly.

Your vision clearing, eyes adjusting to the dark, you came face to face with a perplexed and very much half-asleep Steve.

Oh thank god, you were okay. No water. No drowning. Just Steve’s strength and nightmares combining and resulting in the least pleasant outcome.

His pupils were dilated in horror and he shot up into a sitting position, blinking away his own daze. With a hand still on your chest, you closed your eyes and forced yourself to dial down your fight-or-flight instincts.

You were safe. Steve was safe, with you, definitely not a danger to you. You still flinched when he rasped out the apologetic words, heavy with guilt and concern.

“Oh my god-- are you okay? Doll? Can you breathe?! Does it hurt? I’m sorry. Oh god, I am so, so sorry-”

You raised your hand in his general direction, gesturing for him to give you a sec.

Rationally, you knew you were fine and you needed to chill the fuck out, but it was a bit harder to actually do so.

Steve let you take your time, ominous silence falling on the bedroom. You forced more air to your lungs, the burn slowly dissolving. You focused on the pleasant soreness instead, the result of your first night together after a long time-- what time it was now anyway?

You snapped your eyes open, finding Steve’s motionless form in the shadows, still sitting on the bed. Only this time, his face was buried in his palms, his fingers tangled in his loose golden strands in a brutal manner, and when you looked at him – truly looked – you detected the slightest tremble of his body.

Any pain caused by his crushing embrace vaporized at instant, the urge to comfort him taking over; big time.  

You carefully reached out to him, your fingers curling around his wrist and gently pulling it away – or attempting to. He didn’t move an inch.

“Steve?” you called out softly, surprised by how hoarse your voice sounded and flinched. Steve did as well and you cleared your throat – uselessly, because the problem was somewhere lower. “Steve, are you alright?”

His hands twitched on his face, but he didn’t withdraw them.

“Steve, are you back with me?” you whispered urgently and the only answer you got was a frustrated muffled groan. Your lips curled up in a tight smile, sympathetic. “I’m okay. Are you?”

“Please stop asking me that,” he breathed out, his palms uncovering his mouth only for the words being comprehensible.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll stop,” you promised and wiggled your way closer to him. “Can I touch you further though?”

His ribcage expanded generously with his sharp inhale, but he didn’t respond.

“…please?” you added, pressing further.

“Doll…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking simultaneously with your heart swelling in your chest.

“I know.“ At that, he finally allowed you to lower his hand, the other following its suit. Wet eyelashes created a tiny tornado with their furious blinking when his eyes found your face and saw an encouraging soft smile. “Can I hug you now?”

He opened his mouth slowly only for it to fall shut with no sound coming out. He gave a cautious nod and that was all you needed to wrap your smaller form around the big sad bundle of a supersoldier. You basically climbed into his lap, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, planting a kiss on the top of his head before laying your cheek on it.

Huh, that was nice. No wonder he did the same to you as often as he did.

“It’s okay, Steve. We’re okay,” you whispered to his hair, kissing it again. “I love you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“…that’s not what a girl wants to hear when she confesses her love to a guy,” you joked hesitantly, but you could feel his lips curling up in a smile as he breathed in against your skin deeply.

“I love you too,” he cooed, his arms finally sneaking around you and cautiously holding you as close as possible.

“Uh-uh.”

“Exactly what a guy wants to hear when he confesses his love to a girl,” he threw back at you in a hushed voice.

You chuckled breathlessly, swallowing the whine of pain at motion of your chest, and caressed his shoulders without even a thought of letting go.

“Will you be able to fall asleep again?”

“Will you? How are your ribs? Is your breathing okay? I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart. I’ll just lie on the couch-“

“Don’t you dare-“

“Don’t argue with me. I literally just tried to crush your lungs,” he growled, regret radiating off him in waves the size of a tsunami.

“Not intentionally!” you spat back, somehow maintaining gentle tone at the same time. “…right?”

“Of course not! It wasn’t- I would never-- but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen again,” he bargained in the end, sorrowful pools of blue and green shining even in the shadows of your room.

What he said was undoubtedly true. But the picture of having him lying several feet from your reach now (with his mind full of awful scenarios keeping him awake for sure), was unimaginable. Just terrible. Heartless. Not to mention you just got him back!

The solution seemed easy enough, though it was less comfortable; still better than the other option he had offered.

“Then put on your big boy pants and be the little spoon,” you challenged, earning a bewildered look with his eyebrows near his hairline.

“…for real?”

“Yep.”

He observed you for several moments that felt like eternity, while he considered his options. Then he sighed and you knew you won.

“…okay.”

“That’s what I thought,” you smiled at him a lop-sided smile, pulling him down to the mattress again; and he let you.

It was a little ridiculous and definitely strange to switch positions resulting in your arm enwrapping Steve’s thin muscular waist and being glued to his back – not to mention your other arm, where the hell did he usually put the other arm when spooning you? –, but in a way, you enjoyed it, more so when after a moment, his hand covered yours, careful not to apply too much pressure.

It was still the first night after you regained your memories; there was no way you even considered anything that involved Steve not being pressed to you without an inch remaining between your bodies an option.

You scooted even closer to him; you fell back into a more peaceful sleep in no time.

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Steve was very mature about the whole thing – so much that he decided (just like you did) – that you wouldn’t address the matter again. You spent the better part of waking up process making out like your life depended on it and then you might have winced the tiniest bit when Steve brushed your tender ribs, which ended up with him leaving to take a shower.

But not in the ‘oh god, I’m sorry, let me drown in a bathtub’ kind of leave, more like ‘maybe we could at least wait for the evening before we jump each other’s bones again’ kind of leave and it overall felt… rather alright.

With Steve occupied, you moved onto the funnier matters – like going through his closet to find a suitable outfit for your morning shenanigans, while Jarvis kindly replayed a conversation that felt like an ancient history to you.

You found yourself humming under your breath, wondering how good of an opening Tony could give you, when your eyes fell on something that took your breath away; just enough of it to leave some to yell for your soulmate.

“Steve! Steve, come here please!”

There was a crash in the bathroom, rapid pats of his wet feet and he flung out of the door in impressive speed with only a towel around his waist.

“What?! What is it?” he blurted out while he rapidly scanned the room for any danger and you almost felt bad for making him panic.

Almost. Because boy, this was awesome. You held out the t-shirt of your choice to him, amazed nearly beyond words.

“How did I not know you had this?”

Steve blinked furiously, his stance easing when he realized it was a false alarm.

“Christ, doll,” he huffed a relieved breath and sheepishly scratched he back of his neck upon seeing the famous shield on the clothing. “Eh… pretty sure it was a gag gift from Clint…”

“That’s so friggin’ perfect. Can I borrow it?”

His lips spread in a content smile as he walked to you, one hand landing on your shoulder, his lips incidentally catching your temple. “It’s all yours, doll.”

You debated washing your hair when Steve let you use the shower afterwards, but a little devil on your shoulder told you that ruffled hair and overall sleepy lookTM would work much better for you. You smiled at the reflexion with satisfaction, re-entering Steve’s bedroom, giddy.

“So, what do you think?” you asked him cheerily, spreading your arms and turning a full circle to show off your outfit in all its glory.

Steve looked up from where he was making the bed and froze. For a second, his skin paled to a very dangerous shade of white, his gaze glued to the brand on your torso. It gave you a pause; an amused grin you expected, a heated glare caused by you wearing his insignia maybe, but not the look of utter horror.

As fast as he turned to a statue, he recovered, plastering a smile on his face again – but it didn’t reach his eyes, a shadow of something that twisted your gut uncomfortably remaining.

“Looks good on you,” he stated approvingly and averted your gaze to pat at the mattress pointedly. “Honestly, it kinda makes me want to pull you right back to bed and have my way with you in it only.”

“Hold that thought, Captain, and maybe next time leave a different kind of your brand,” you suggested and added a wink, which seemed to finally erase whatever ugly thought had attacked him earlier from his head. “We have a billionaire to mess with.”

“Every time…” he echoed his words form last night, chasing blood to your cheeks and causing a giggle to spill from your lips.

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Steve fell into his role as easily as you did; he led you to the kitchen, your shuffling feet giving an impression of you being only half-awake and hesitant about walking the right direction.

Much to your luck, all the occupants of the Tower were already in the kitchen as Jarvis had informed you prior to entering the room. You smiled at each of them sheepishly, letting Steve gingerly seat you on one of the bar stools – not before you had enough time to show off your supposed pyjama.

Your plan was working perfectly as upon your bashful ‘Good morning, everyone,’ each of the poor Avengers got caught in a different intensity of staring. Natasha was tactful enough to revert her gaze shortly after noticing your choice of clothing, only smirking a bit, while Bruce took a little longer. Clint had been in the middle of stirring his cereal with milk, now paused mid-motion, recovering after about ten seconds. Tony was blatantly gawking at you, the pot of coffee in his hand dangerously atilt.

As if you couldn’t see their reaction, you smiled at Steve shyly. “I don’t want to impose, Steve. I can make my own breakfast…”

He only replied with a sweet smile. “You wanted to try eggs and bacon, right?”

“If it’s not too much trouble… but I really-“

“Nat. Let me take care of you,” he pleaded lowly and wow, the gentle but conflicted look he gave you was an Oscar-nominee-worthy thing.

“Thank you, Steven. You’re very kind to me,” you thanked him genuinely, meaning every word. It earned you a wince from five different people (including Steve, who hadn’t seen that one coming) as you used his full name and it took a lot of your strength not to burst out laughing.

Natasha cleared her throat. “So… how are you holding up? Did you sleep well?”

“Very much. Thank you, Ms. Romanoff… uh, you?”

“Natasha is fine, Nat. And yeah.”

Wow. Not even the great spy was onto you apparently – or she was, seeing right through your little stunt and deciding not to ruin your fun, being that much of a good actress.

Not certain about how exactly to proceed from now on, your gaze travelled around the bar, eyes landing on Tony.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but Clint, as if sensing the nature of his prepared exclaim, shut him up with a glare. You, on the other hand, were an incarnation of innocence on the outside, dying of laughter on the inside already.

“What is it, Mr. Stark? I can see you want to say something,” you nudged him gently and fiddled with your fingers nervously as Steve cracked the eggs in a bowl and started stirring.

“Nope. Not really,” the billionaire cleared his throat awkwardly, something so uncharacteristic of him. “And I told you. It’s Tony.”

“Right. Tony. Sorry.” You would swear Steve’s shoulders shook a little as he put the pan on the stove. You worried your teeth over your lower lip, eyeing your outfit. “It’s the clothes, isn’t it? You want to say I look right at home in it, don’t you? And I am branded on top of that…. It’s okay. I can see you’re barely holding the comment back.”

Tony finally put away the pot, his hands seeming rather frantic as he reached for sugar. “Well, I mean,… eh-“

“It’s a sign of a… successful night, right?”

“I didn’t mean to imply, uhm…“ he started, quickly lowering the cup so he could raise his hands defensively, but you interrupted him, mentally biting your cheek as you charmed your best innocent puppy eyes at him.

“-that last night I got thoroughly fucked?”

Exactly four people choked on their own spit; Steve had been expecting it, though the tips of his ears still turned a pretty shade of red and he stopped cooking, removing the pan before he could burn something. Still, at least he could tell which pipe was for breathing unlike the rest of the Avengers.

Natasha was the first to recover, soon followed by Bruce – they both had somewhat knowing glint in their eye now, figuring out what was this about, or at least partly. Smiles were tugging at their lips.

Tony’s face was definitely the most hilarious one. His eyes were bulged, wheels in his hear whirling rapidly, his mouth opened ajar even though he eventually stopped coughing.

Natasha was kind enough to hit Clint’s back, because he was still unable to breathe in.

You smiled sweetly at both the billionaire and the archer who was now taking a sip of water to sooth his sore throat. It was the perfect moment to casually drop the other bomb on them.

“…’cause I was, just FYI.”

The water sprouted out via Clint’s nose and Tony stumbled towards the counter and he gripped to steady himself; he seemed ready to pass out, gaping like a fish out of water, a perplexed crinkle between his eyebrows.

He looked so comical that you broke down. You burst out laughing, clutching the bar so you wouldn’t crash on the floor to roll in laughter.

You could see precisely when he got the light bulb moment, an accusing finger pointing at you, then at the very red but chuckling Steve, who was making his way to you, and then back at you.

“You-! You-… did you-?! When- what—you!”

His stutter sent you into another fit of roaring laughter. Steve’s arms appeared, sneaking around your waist, pulling you to his shaking chest as he stood behind your stool. In attempt to stop laughing, you turned your head to him to catch his lips in a kiss.

“Thanks, Stevie,” you murmured against his mouth, giggling and kissing him again. His embrace tightened.

“When did you get your memories back?” Bruce queried, a wide smile, rather rare for him, on his face.

Steve’s chin rested on your shoulder as you replied.

“Yesterday.”

“Was it the woman?”

“Yes, we believe so,” Steve confirmed, nuzzling your neck as if the others weren’t truly in the room. Was he afraid them might want to steal now when they knew as well? Please. It wasn’t like you were that popular.

“It just took some time to clear that out with Steve and with myself,” you explained, this time a bit ashamed for real. Steve’s fingers caressed your stomach soothingly over the material of the infamous t-shirt.

Natasha was definitely beaming though. “Understandable. I’m happy for you. Especially for making fun of those two, extra points, you guys.”

“Thanks. It felt amazing. Oh Tony, if you could see your face,” you chuckled again, melting into Steve’s frame when Tony glared at you. “I hope Jarvis caught it.”

“I did. Would you like to see it again now?” the AI offered readily.

“That was mean!” Tony accused you. “And seriously, Jarvis, we will have a conversation about your loyalty.”

“It was funny,” you opposed him, hoping he wasn’t truly offended. He wouldn’t, right?

“Yeah, alright, it was funny. Welcome back, sass queen.”

“Thank you. It’s good to be back.”

“So… do we get a hug or is it like Cap’s hands only?” Clint asked with a teasing smile tugging at his lips, apparently not having any hard feelings despite you causing him to nearly choke to death.

Touched, you hopped off your stool and Steve hesitantly released you.

“I’d love to hug you,“ you admitted honestly, not quite expecting the offer. The more surprising it was, the more it warmed your heart. Who would have thought?

Clearly, accepting the invitation was a mistake.

As Steve let you go, they all went for it at once, starting with Tony and Clint, Natasha joining about two seconds before the most reluctant Bruce did. It was lungs-squeezing, bone-crushing and absolutely delightful.

“Dammit, guys,” you sobbed, indescribably moved by the force they embraced you with. Tears gathered in your eyes, threatening to spill soon. You would never imagine such a warm welcome from Steve’s friends.

“Hulk happy,” a roar by your ear made you jump and you caught a glimpse of green on Bruce’s neck; it was enough for the levee to break. You started crying like a little girl.

“Oh, девушка…” Natasha’s soft voice reached your ears and you sobbed again, vainly trying to keep more tears at bay.

“Stop making her cry…” Steve muttered, but didn’t sound irritated at all. If anything, he had a fond smile on his face when you got a glimpse of it between the bundle of bodies. ‘I love you and they do too,’ he mouthed at you then, his eyes glistening with tears as well.

You squeezed your eyes shut and attempted to tighten your grip on four people at once. You weren’t sure about the result, but no one complained.

“Yeah, let’s not shed more tears than necessary. Actually, I think this calls for a party,” Clint exclaimed as he patted your back and released you.

Others reluctantly followed his suit – they had to, because letting out only one person from the bundle of limbs and bodies would be difficult. The moment you were left cold again, Steve snatched you back to his arms at instant, which earned him an amused grin from Natasha.

“Barton. I didn’t believe that the day would come, but you actually became wise,” Tony pronounced dramatically. “Big party?”

“Nah, just family,” the archer opposed jovially and you sunk into Steve’s embrace in hopes not to release fresh tears at being considered family. You would have to somehow deal with your family by blood eventually too, but you selfishly didn’t want to think about it just yet. One step at time.

“I’d say I take it back, but surprisingly enough, I agree.”

“Oh, the end of the world is here…” Bruce lamented since the two clowns agreed on something and you chuckled, enjoying their banter probably more than you should.

“Alright. We might want to ring Drapes from Asgard. He does love his revels,” Tony pointed out and exactly five people agreed.

“No shit.”

You, as the sixth, wavered. Not because you wouldn’t want to see the God of Thunder again; it was just that you didn’t think he owned a cell phone. Oh, and he was also off to another planet, you assumed.

“…how exactly do you call Thor? Is there service on Asgard? That would be crazy, right?”

“I heard crazier,” Clint scoffed, pointing at you and not bothering with being subtle.

“That’s fair.”

“Thor told us to call out for Heimdall if we needed him,” Steve explained to you and while you had no idea who Heimdall was, you shrugged it off. You didn’t want to deal with that right now.

You were back, you had your soulmate, you had friends that, unknowingly to you until now, considered you a family and you wanted to just be and be happy.

“I’ll do that…” Tony’s hand shot up as if he was a first-grader offering to clean the blackboard and you sent a silent wish for Thor to survive whatever Stark planned on doing.

“Good luck. Now… I believed I promised you breakfast, doll,” Steve whispered to your ear, nuzzling in your neck again.

It was very hard not to melt at spot. “I meant it, Steve. I can make my own breakfast.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly wine and dine you before we had our… successful night, so if you let me do this at least…” he teased on the lowest volume possible and you slapped his bicep before he released you to make good on his promise,  the radiant smile on his face lighting up the whole room.

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Part 22

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So... I had a lot of fun writing that. I hope you had fun reading :-*

[pamphletstoinspire]

Good Friday - April 2, 2021

Good Friday (also called “Great Friday” or “Holy Friday”) is the most somber day of the entire year. A silence pervades, socializing is kept to a minimum, things are done quietly; it is a day of mourning; it is a funeral. The Temple of the Body of Christ is destroyed, capping the the penitential seasons begun on Septuagesima Sunday and becoming more intense throughout Lent. Traditional Catholics wear black, cover their mirrors, extinguish candles and any lamps burning before icons, keep amusements and distractions down, and go about the day in great solemnity.

by Fr. Francis Xavier Weninger, 1876

“Now there stood by the cross, Mary His mother.”–John xix, 25.

Yesterday, beloved in Christ, the example of Judas the traitor was held up to us as a terrible warning upon which every sinner might meditate, and, perhaps, realize the consequences of such total atrocity and utter hardness of heart. That warning might be, for many, the very last grace vouchsafed by God! Oh, may it not be in vain! What reason has not the sinner to strike his breast, and cry out: “O God, be merciful to me, for my sins have been as great, perhaps, as those of Judas, and more frequent!” Yes, sinners, it is even so; for Judas, wretch though he was, did not try to pervert his fellow-laborers, the Apostles; while you, how many innocent souls have you not led astray, both by word and example? How many souls, most dear and precious to the Heart of Jesus, have you not turned away from Him?” Woe to him by whom scandals come. It were better for that man that a millstone be hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths of the sea.” And yet, my brethren, if, among my hearers there are any who have been guilty of grievous sin, I would say to them, do not despair. Even though each passing year has witnessed the commission of crimes, each one more terrible than the last; nay, even if you have lived as an incarnate devil, do not despair. Look upon Mary beneath the cross. Call upon her; she will take you under her maternal protection; lead you to her divine Son, who can refuse her nothing; and obtain for you the grace of a true conversion; for is she not the one chosen by God, and destined to be the Mother of mercy, the refuge of sinners?

As the subject of our present meditation, my dear brethren, let us consider the wonderful power contained in the words uttered by Jesus on the cross, those seven last words which inspired the sweet heart of the Virgin Mother with an ardent wish to save and rescue sinners. O Mary, Mother of mercy, show thyself a merciful mother, especially towards those erring children, who have come here tonight, their hearts heavy with the burden of sin! I speak in the holy name of Jesus, for the greater honor and glory of God!

As it seemed good to the Lord to place a helpmate by the side of the earthly Adam, so we behold at the side of Jesus, the heavenly Adam, Mary, the Eve of the New Law; that, as by the fall of the first Adam and Eve the whole human race was plunged into an abyss of woe, so through the second–Jesus and Mary–rescued man was led to hope for heaven. It is true that, in the abstract, it was the merits of Christ alone which effected our redemption, yet, that its fruits might be imparted to man individually, Jesus was pleased to place by his side a mother–Mary–for the consolation and assistance of the human race.

Jesus merited; Mary distributes those merits. Therefore, God filled her heart with the most fervent affection for us, who have been born in sin, ensnared by numberless temptations, walking in the path to heaven, it may be, but in constant danger of going astray, and persecuted by the enemies of our salvation who rejoice when we make but one false step, hoping thereby that we will become their prey forever. Mary’s heart is filled with the most unspeakable compassion for us ; and no mother, of her own natural inclination, so fondly loves a child, so tenderly cares for its welfare, so untiringly watches over it in every danger, as does Mary in regard to the children of men; especially if they have had the happiness of receiving baptism as members of the Holy Catholic Church. “Come ye all to me, and be filled with my fruits.” Thus does Holy Church cry out to those who zealously walk under her protection and patronage in the way of perfection, the path which leads to the joys of heaven.

But with far more earnestness and devotion does this exclamation come forth from the mother of love and mercy to every soul that has fallen into sin. “Come back,” this tender mother cries: “forsake your sinful lives, and live for God.” The reason why the Saviour placed His mother beneath the cross is given by St. Bonaventure, in the following touching words: “Divine mercy was pleased to place beneath the world’s redeeming wood, a creature who would be wholly merciful, and her name is Mary.” Jesus did so that no sinner need ever despair, that no soul need be lost. St. Bernard says: “You dare not go to Christ because you have crucified Him, and, besides, He will one day be your Judge; but look at Mary, hasten to her; she is all mercy. In her, so tender, kind, and loving, there is nothing at which you could take alarm. She is a mother who will lead you to her Son; who will reconcile you through that precious blood He shed upon the cross, to His eternal Father.” Mary herself gave the same assurance to St. Bridget in a vision: “There is no sinner so great,” she said, “who, when he calls upon me and comes to me, will be cast off, and refused forgiveness.” During the earthly life of the Blessed Virgin, her heart burned with the desire to lead souls to Christ.

Oh, with what joy did she behold them return to the path of virtue after they had strayed therefrom, and to a life of sanctity after they had abandoned their evil ways! But, beloved in Christ, how immeasurably was this desire increased when she stood so near her dying Son, and heard the words uttered by His parched and livid lips:

“Father, forgive them; they know not what they do,” were the first precious words which welled up from the agonizing heart. The mother listened, and resolved to make it her dearest care to lead the sinner back to God, that the blood of Jesus might not be shed in vain. “O my Jesus!” was the prayer she put forth to her crucified Son, “I know well that for love of souls Thou didst choose this painfnl death, to deliver them from the curse of sin; therefore, I unite my petition to Thine, and cry with Thee: Heavenly Father, forgive! Receive my only-begotten Son; I offer Him to Thee with all His merits, together with my own, which I have gained by Thy divine grace, or may merit until the end of my life. Have mercy, I beseech Thee, upon the sinful children of men!”

“Amen I say unto thee; this day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.”

Mary listened, and still her desire for the salvation of souls increased; for her compassionate heart shuddered at the terrible torments into which those who were lost would be plunged. And in proportion to the number saved by the life, death, and passion of Christ, will the glory and beatitude of the Sacred Heart be increased in heaven.

“Woman, behold thy son; son, behold thy mother.”

How precious are the words which fall from the dying lips of a beloved friend! How much dearer are they when it is an only son. Mary listened, and the wish of her heart grew still more intense, as the Saviour spoke, to save every soul. By these words He solemnly declared before heaven and earth that to Mary He bequeathed the children of Adam, that she might, through her intercession, aid in their salvation with the love, tenderness, and magnanimity which has marked her love for Him. And can we doubt that the sorrowful mother promised to do so? And the blood, which gushed from the five sacred wounds, fell upon her there, thus sealing the solemn promise she made to Christ.

“My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken Me?”

Mary understood the meaning of this complaint. Christ suffered, as it were, the punishment of separation from God, incurred on account of sin; but what more than all afflicted His heart, was the knowledge, that in spite of that blood He so freely shed for man amid temptations, trials, afflictions, and intense pain, for so many it would be shed in vain.

“I thirst!” It was not sufficient for the Saviour to deliver us from the curse of sin, but He would fain induce us to imitate His example, though life itself might be the penalty. Mary heard and understood the plaintive cry, and her wish grew stronger still to win souls for heaven, and console the Sacred Heart.

“It is consummated!” The work of redemption is finished, and Jesus leaves this world with the words: “Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.” “Behold the completion of the work for which Thou didst send me here.”

This perseverance unto the end is the perfect fulfillment of the divine will; but it is a grace which, in reality, not one of the saints in heaven who reached that happy home thereby merited of himself; but as Holy Scripture tells us, and the holy fathers unanimously assert, a solid and tender devotion to Mary is a certain sign of election. “Whosoever finds Me finds life, and draws salvation from the Lord,” says the Holy Ghost, through the Church, in reference to the ever blessed Virgin Mary.

“Father, into Thy hands I commend My Spirit.” With the most implicit confidence may her devoted clients, as this world recedes from their dying eyes, breathe forth the prayer which the Saviour uttered on the cross.

When St. John of God was dying, suddenly there appeared to him the pure and loving Mother of Jesus at the very moment that he had ceased to hope for that favor. But Mary, who had promised to be there, sweetly said to this faithful servant: “My dear son I never forsake my children in this solemn hour.” O sinners, do not lose courage, hasten to Mary, call upon her, seek her assistance, and she will help you to make a good confession! Draw from her bleeding heart those seven swords of grief which your sins have thrust therein,–the sword of delay in conversion, of impenitence, of scandal, of indifference in matters of religion, of disdain towards the Church and her ministers. Judas forgot to call upon her. O sinners, for Christ’s dear sake forget not so sure a refuge, who is ready to help, who longs to save your souls!

O Mary, with St. John we sink down at thy feet, even as if, with Him, thy adopted Son, we were now on Calvary, and cry out from the very depths of our contrite hearts: “O Mother of mercy, be merciful unto us, by the memory of those sorrows which thou didst endure upon the sacred mount. Obtain for us the grace of true contrition of heart, a life free from sin, and a happy death through Jesus Christ, our crucified Lord and Redeemer.–Amen!

“And when Jesus saw His Mother and the disciple whom He loved, He said: Behold thy Mother,”–St. John xix, 26.

Yesterday we considered St. John, the disciple of love; and his beautiful example pointed out to us, in the clearest manner, the conditions necessary for approaching the Table of the Lord, so as to partake of the heavenly food in a worthy manner; and, after its reception, to unite ourselves so intimately with Christ that our reception of the Holy Communion may be indeed like that of St. John, and produce in our souls the same effects of sanctifying love. Today the scene is changed.

Let us glance at him as he stands beneath the cross, beside Mary, the Mother of fair love, and learn no less expressly the conditions upon which we, ransomed sons of men, through the passion and death of Christ, may reap the fruits of the Redemption in their fullness for time and eternity. Today also his characteristic feature, as disciple of love, exemplifies these conditions. And why? Because the more sincere our love for Jesus, the more perfectly will our hearts be prepared to appropriate these fruits; and, from the wounds of our crucified Saviour to receive, without intermission, new distributions of grace.

O Mary, who, under the cross, didst adopt St. John as thy son, adopt us today in like manner as thy children, and obtain for us that love for Jesus which filled his fervent heart! I speak in the most holy name of Jesus, for the greater honor and glory of God!

If yesterday we beheld in spirit St. John at the Holy Table resting upon the Sacred Heart of Jesus, we learned also how fully he merited, above all the other Apostles, the title, “disciple of love.” And, on this day, so sad, so full of mournful memories, and yet replete with consolation too, we perceive that again he is favored, above all the other Apostles, in being allowed to stand by the Mother of Jesus beneath the cross. Oh, that we all would avail ourselves of the privilege, of being near Jesus–present in the Blessed Sacrament–by visiting and receiving the Son of God!

The fervent love which inflamed the heart of St. John shows us at once what will render our intercourse with Jesus like unto his. And now the love, which burned so brightly amid the spiritual joys of that holy eventide, retains its ardor toward the crucified One in all the desolation of this bitter hour. It glowed in the faithful heart of St. John on Calvary, and exercised a sublime influence upon the holiness of his after life.

To understand better what kind of affections they were which rendered St. John so dear and precious to his suffering Saviour, let us glance first at Mary– the, Mother of Sorrows, the Queen of Martyrs, and the type of all that is holy and beautiful in love–and think of the sentiments which filled her maternal heart as she endured each separate pain inflicted on her beloved Son, for it found its echo there. And these affections were mirrored in the dear disciple’s faithful heart, causing Jesus to give, before He left this world, His loving Mother an affectionate son. And what were the feelings of this blessed Mother in that solemn hour, when she beheld the consummation of what had begun some three and thirty years before? Compassion, adoration, thanksgiving, and perfect resignation to the most holy will of God.

Ah, yes! compassion. The sight of a poor body covered with wounds, bruised, and bleeding, always awakens it, especially if the sufferer be the innocent victim of malice; and this feeling is intensified if he be connected with us by the ties of love or blood. Imagine, then, the feelings of a loving mother when her darling child lies wounded or dying in her arms!

During one of my missions the following painful illustration of this came under my personal observation: Two children–two innocent little children– were at play in the yard near by their dwelling, where an elder brother was splitting wood. Unfortunately, the stroke of the axe fell on the hand of the little golden-haired boy of five–the youngest of the three. The hand was almost completely severed from the wrist, and was kept thereon only by a slender piece of skin. Horrified, the brothers carried the little one to his mother, who gave one look and fell fainting on the floor. Judge, then, of the grief of the Blessed Virgin, who possessed the feelings of a loving mother in the highest degree.

And yet, with the sharp sword of sorrow piercing her heart, she stood calmly by, and thought of the priceless value of those sufferings which Jesus underwent. She, who bore so large a part in the redemption of man–Queen of Apostles, and seat of divine wisdom–adored the decree of God, which was completed through the passion and death of Christ, that through the sufferings of a God mankind should be redeemed.

Mary’s heart was full of adoration combined with gratitude for her own election as Mother of the Redeemer. Gratitude that she was permitted to stand by the cross and nearest to Him. She thanked God that she was permitted to unite her sufferings with those of her divine Son; and that unto her was given to be mediatrix between Him and the human race. She bowed in meek submission, saying, as first she did in Nazareth: “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done unto me according to Thy word.” Thus prayed the Mother of God, even while the shadow of the cross was darkening her future life, and the sword of grief, which Simeon promised, pierced through her very heart.

And in all this St. John, the beloved disciple, was her counterpart. He felt the most tender pity when looking up at the dying Saviour, now truly the Man of Sorrows. What a change in Him since the evening of the Last Supper, that Holy Repast, the intense joy of which could never be forgotten, and which proved the sweetest solace in the anguish of the present hour! There the Son of God appeared the most beautiful among the children of men; now, the glory was dimmed, and there was no comeliness in Him. St. John was also deeply grateful for having been chosen by Christ to walk by His side through life, to stand by Him in death. He, too, made the sacrifice of his own will, as the Blessed Mother did. Compassion, adoration, gratitude, and submission!

We, too, can participate in these affections; and we must do so, if we would share to the full extent in the merits of Jesus’s death. But will it suffice to stop at mere feeling? So far from it, that to think so would be one of the greatest illusions, and must be severely guarded against; for St. John tells us that we must love, not in words alone, but in deeds. That our love for the crucified One may prove itself as true, sacrificing, and faithful as that of St. John, let us keep ever in view the words spoken by Him upon the cross, which, falling upon the ear of affection strained to catch even the faintest whisper of his beloved Lord, illumined the soul of St. John for the rest of his life, and guided him in the way of salvation with their beautiful light.

Let us apply them to ourselves, and imagine that Jesus addresses us thus: “Souls redeemed by Me at the cost of such bitter anguish, if you love Me, sin no more; but profit by these my sufferings, and aim for the joys of heaven.” Ah, yes! my dearest brethren! when pleasure’s seducing cup is held to your lips, and you can not quaff therefrom without committing sin, pause then, and think of the weary years of pain which Jesus spent on earth! Think of that life of toil and trial crowned in the latter years by suffering and anguish such as the mind could never conceive, and an ignominious death, and all for you! Think of this, friends, and dash the poisoned cup away!

Yes, it was sin which crucified your Saviour; and St. John grieved over the slightest shadow of evil which might have fallen on his soul; but we may well believe that, after he listened to the words: “Father, forgive,” his beautiful soul was never stained with the smallest fault.

“Amen, I say to thee; this day thou shalt be with Me in paradise.” To St. John was granted the wonderful privilege of beholding the glories of heaven while yet on earth. Detach your hearts from the empty treasures of this world; for, if you would arise with Christ, seek first the things which are of Christ.

“Woman, behold thy son.” “Son, behold thy Mother.” St. John heard the words; he glanced at Mary, drew nearer, and threw himself at her feet beneath the cross. Then he embraced his adopted Mother with all the fervor of filial love. My dear brethren, show your love to Jesus by a tender devotion and love to Mary. Love her with a truly filial love; for Christ, according to St. Bridget and other spiritual writers, has given, in the person of St. John, the entire human race to Mary as her children.

“My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken Me?” Man’s life is a warfare; and, at times, it seems indeed as if we were entirely forsaken. Let us, then, like St. John, be ready to suffer every thing, and to give up our very lives rather than commit one single venial sin. Look, with the beloved disciple, at Jesus, the crucified One, and you will conquer and overcome.

“I thirst.” St. John listened. Jesus thirsts after souls, and this favored Apostle understood the mournful cry. And do you not think that he promised the Lord, as a true disciple, to spread His kingdom, and to labor for the salvation of souls, the value of which he saw more clearly in that solemn hour when he witnessed the incalculable cost of their redemption? Try, beloved in Christ Jesus, to imitate him in his zeal for the rescue of human souls.

“It is consummated.” Fidelity to the very end is the most convincing proof of true love, which “many waters can not quench,” as Holy Scripture affirms. Be faithful, then, O Christians, whose salvation has been purchased at such a price; and, for love of Him whose sufferings we commemorate tonight, falter not, but persevere until the last. And then when that awful day will dawn, which hath for you no night, or that evening twilight fall, of which you will never see the morn, with perfect hope you can sigh: “Come, my Jesus, come,” and yield up your spirit in the affections of your faithful love to Him with the longing desire of St. John, and the holy confidence of St. Francis Xavier. Ah, yes! then you may well cry out: “I have loved and trusted in Thee, O my God, and will therefore never be confounded. I die in Thy blessed arms, O Jesus, my Crucified Love.”–Amen!

“O death, where is thy sting?”–1 Cor. xv, 55.

If I, dearly beloved in Christ Jesus, have meditated with you upon the manifold miseries which drape our lives with the sable hue of gloom, I have also reminded you how Christ, the luminous Sun of justice, shines even amid this mournful night and brightens it with the most consoling rays of hope. There is, however, a still greater likeness between a dark and starless night and the condition of the departing soul. Oh, how terrible is the darkness which overshadows it at the approach of that moment which is to witness the separation of the soul from that body to which it has been so long and so intimately united–when it must depart alone, and, uncheered by the companionship of even one earthly friend, enter on a path all new and strange, “the house of its eternity!” The sight leaves the dim and fading eyes, and night comes for that dying man, although the sun’s bright glow may fill the room. But, alas! the shadows fall deeper still when despair sets in, and envelop the departing soul in a night of desolation and woe.

Yes, even to God’s saints has it been given to walk through the dark valley of bitter agony before they could enter the joys of heaven. The great St. Hilary trembled when his death hour approached, thinking of the words of St. Paul: “It is terrible to fall into the hands of the living God;” but, taking courage, he exclaimed: “What! You have served God for seventy years, and now are afraid to appear before Him. Fear not, my soul, but go forth to meet your God; ” and so he departed, full of holy hope.

Would you also, my brethren, be blessed with the sweet confidence of St. Hilary at the hour of death? It is in your power–for what animates the dying Christian who has faithfully served his Lord, is a glance at the crucifix which is placed in his hands; for Christ is the Sun which brightens the dark hour of death.

O Mary, Mother of a happy passage, as the twilight of life gathers over our souls, assist us by thy prayers, that our eyes may unclose upon the eternal day! I speak in the most holy name of Jesus, for the greater honor and glory of God!

As we read in the lives of the holy fathers in the desert, who lived in their little cells in Egypt, it came to pass that an Abbot of great renown lay on his dying bed. His spiritual children, who loved and revered him for his wonderful sanctity, gathered from far and near to witness that edifying death and pray for the departing soul. The face of the dying man was illumined with divine love as he uttered distinctly the words: “Behold, the choir of patriarchs approaches to meet me.” The hermits, in awe, remained silent, and ventured not to speak; when, after a short pause, there fell upon the listening group an exultant cry: “Behold, the venerable prophets are coming to meet me.”–After a brief silence his countenance became still more brilliant as, lifting up his voice, he exclaimed: “The apostles of Christ are here, and wish to bear me away to heaven.”–Another interval of silence; the lips of the venerable servant of God moved again; and on being asked with whom he was conversing, he replied: “The angels are here, and wish me to go with them, that they may introduce me to the joys of heaven; but I ask them to leave me here still longer, that I may perform more penance for my sins.” One of the fathers then said: “Venerable Abbot, you do not need to do longer penance.”–And behold, his face shone as if he were in an ecstasy of delight, and he cried: “Jesus my Saviour cometh!” and with these words the lovely dawn of a happy eternity broke upon his soul, as it went forth to dwell forever with God.

My dearest Christians, a similar halo of consolation may one day irradiate your dying bed, if you be but faithful, when Christ the Lord, not only in vision, but with body and soul, divinity and humanity, comes to your hearts. The priest will administer to you the Sacred Host as viaticum before you go to receive the reward of a well-spent life.

This blessed assurance which I give you, however, from this holy place, can not be offered to every dying person, but only to such as have believed and hoped and loved during life, and who have observed all the commandments of God and of His Church. Even they, as I said before, may in their last agony, by the permission of God, feel a great interior desolation for their greater purification, that they may enter at once into everlasting bliss.

We have considered the trials which, from the cradle to the grave, are the lot of man, in my discourse of yesterday, and beheld the five rays which come from the sorrowful heart of the agonizing Jesus, to encourage us amid these trials and troubles, and also in the many and violent temptations which will encompass the soul.

In the terrors of death’s dark night, my dear brethren, there will be seven consoling rays in the seven words which Jesus spoke upon the cross, and of those I will speak tonight.

“Father, forgive.” This is the first ray which illumines the night of death for the faithful child of the Church. It is a most sweet solace for those who have never offended God by mortal sin–who have ever cherished unspotted the white robe of their baptismal innocence. Alas! they are but few. We know that the angelic youth St. Aloysius received the tidings of his approaching death with the greatest joy, for he immediately entoned the Te Deum.

But few who pass the morning of life, not to speak of those who have borne the burdens of years, leave this world with their baptismal innocence unstained. I look around this sacred edifice and see before me a goodly multitude who have come hither to commemorate the Saviour’s death, and perhaps–alas! I fear is more than a perhaps–many of them have so deeply offended the crucified Saviour that conscience torments them and gives them no rest; and they say: “What will become of us if, in our dying moments, Satan holds up the long list of our offenses in all their enormity?” Do not despair: confess those sins with fervent sorrow; the blood of Jesus will wash the guilt away; else, why did He cry to the eternal God: “Father, forgive”?

It may be that, although you have sinned, you have already repented and sought reconciliation with God by a good confession. If so, how sweet those words for you: “Father, forgive”! And Who uttered them? The same Christ Who said to His Apostles and their successors in the holy ministry to the end of time: “Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven them; and whose sins you shall retain, they are retained;”–the same Jesus Who, to strengthen you at the hour of death, instituted the sacrament of Extreme Unction, which washes away the least trace and stain of sin from the soul, and even the relics of sin. It is the same Saviour Who will forgive your sins at any time while the breath still lingers in your body, even at the very final moment, through the infinite merits of His passion and death. Yes, my brethren, He will do this if you but turn your dying eyes upon Him with a confiding and repentant heart; for a single drop of His precious blood, of which the value is infinite, would be sufficient to redeem a thousand worlds.

Why, then, O Christians–why should you despond? Christ is praying for you to the Father. He, the Lamb of God, Who taketh away the sins of the world, has He forgotten you? Detach your hearts from earthly goods and pleasures, for, believe me, what darkens the dying moments of so many Christians is an undue attachment to them. If a person, during the course of a long life, has set his heart upon the riches of this world and labored to amass its treasures, how grieved will he not be, at the hour of death, to feel that they are slowly but surely slipping from his grasp! Oh, then, “die daily” to the world! Seek first the Kingdom of heaven, and you may indeed cry out: “O death, where is thy sting?”

“This day thou shalt be with me in Paradise.” These consoling words were spoken by Christ upon the cross. Oh, what a flood of light they pour upon the obscure night of the departing soul! The thought–“I leave the delights and treasures of the world; but what are they in comparison to those which await me in heaven?”– inspires the heart with the wish to possess the goods of the Lord in the country of the living, and to enjoy that bliss of which St. Paul affirms: “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered the heart of man what God has prepared for those who love Him.”

What throws a shadow of gloom over the dying hour is the grief the sufferer feels at leaving behind the friends he sees weeping around his bed. This is a feeling from which even pious souls are not exempt. But, Christians, be consoled; Jesus from the cross cried out: “Woman, behold thy son! Son, behold thy Mother!” If you have honored Mary, like a good child, and followed her holy example, then will she assist you in your last moments, even though father, mother, sisters, and brothers should forsake you.

Oh, what a luminous ray of celestial light is contained in the thought: “The Holy Virgin will be with me; St. Joseph, the Archangel St. Michael, and all the saints whom I have begged to obtain for me a happy death, will surround me; my guardian angel will defend me from the spirits of evil, and strengthen me to resist their attacks.”

It is true that I must leave those who are dear to me, but I will be welcomed by those of my friends who await me in heaven. Oh, what joy to be forever united with them in a home where neither death nor sorrow can enter!

“My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?” Thus did Christ pray in accordance with the psalm which predicted His sufferings. The pious child of the Church need never complain that God has forsaken him. Christ comes to him in the viaticum, to strengthen his soul in the supreme moment of his last agony.

My friends, it is hard to die. Death is a punishment of original sin. But how encouraging the thought: “It is the act, the most precious act, by which I give back my life to Him Who bestowed it, if I so overcome myself that I resign myself willingly to His divine decree and unite my will so entirely to His as to desire this very death, in this very place, and in this very manner, and all because my loving Saviour wished it so.” If, beloved in Christ, you can meet death with such entire resignation, the flames of Purgatory will be extinguished for you, and your Lord and Judge will bid you enter at once into the joys of His heavenly home.

“I thirst!” This plaintive cry deeply affected the Blessed Virgin and St. John. Happy the Christian who has lived only for Jesus. At the hour of death his heart will be filled with the desire of the Apostle “who longed to be dissolved and to be with Christ;” and this the more because death takes from us the possibility of ever again committing sin.

��It is consummated.” What a sweet assurance of rest and peace is contained herein! The burning love from the heart of the dying Saviour illumines the words with the brightest rays of consolation and hope. “It is consummated.” The life of toil and sacrifice of three and thirty years is over; the cruel scourging, the sharp pain of the stinging thorns, the anguish of the crucifixion, are over: “Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.” O blessed eye which heralds the dawn of eternal glory! What a consoling ray of divine hope, not only for the Saviour, but for the Christian about to leave this world, if he too has been faithful unto death! How trifling will then be all the labors, toils, and mortifications he endured for the love of God, and how sweet the thought of the consequent bliss which awaits his soul!

Let us so regulate our lives that we may taste this sweetness not only at the close of life, but at the close of the day when we sink into sleep, “the image of death.” “It is consummated.” “Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit.” One glance at the crucified Jesus is sufficient to inspire the heart with the certain hope that sustained St. Francis Xavier in his last moments, as he pressed His image to his lips: “O my crucified Love, I have trusted in Thee and will never be confounded.”

Dearest Jesus, so dispose our hearts in life that at the last dread hour You may appear to us as the glorious Sun of justice, to brighten with these sevenfold rays the gathering gloom which fain would darken our passage into eternity.–Amen!

Good Friday: The Greatest of All Sorrows

by Bishop Ehrler, 1891

“O all ye that pass by the way, attend, and see if there be any sorrow like to my sorrow.” (Lament, i : 12.)

I present to your pitying contemplation, this morning, my dear brethren, the mightiest, the most profound sorrow that earth has ever witnessed. It is not merely a single affliction, (such as is often endured by the human heart), but the sum of all suffering and woe, that fullness of all sorrow, united and enclosed in a single heart, and that heart, the sacred heart of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ! The King of martyrs, our divine Redeemer, appears, today, before our minds in bloody garments, saying to us: “Oh all ye that pass by the way, attend, and see if there be any sorrow like to my sorrow.” Who will refuse to compassionate Him, overwhelmed with the bitterest anguish for our salvation? Who can live through this day, of all others in the year, without being penetrated by the most profound and sincere compassion for the mangled and martyred Lamb of God?

Behold, how our holy Church, the Bride of the King of martyrs, laments for her beloved! She can not find words to express her deep, sharp pain. Clad in the garments of mourning, with anguish in her countenance, and tears in her eyes, she sits before the Cross of her Bridegroom, and tenderly bewails His sufferings and death. To each of her children she cries out, today; “Let tears, like a torrent, run down day and night; give thyself no rest, and let not the apple of thy eye cease. Arise, give praise in the night, in the beginning of the watches; pour out thy heart like water before the face of the Lord.” (Lament. 2: 18, 19.)

The bitter Passion of Jesus should always and continually engage the contemplation of our souls. Day and night, like the blessed in heaven, should we adore the wounds of our Redeemer; ever and always, should we weep with all holy souls over those sufferings which were borne for love of us. But today, my brethren, when all these agonies pass swiftly before our eyes, when the blood flows afresh, and the death-sweat oozes from his body, must not the stream of our tears, like a torrent, run down day and night? Ah! yes: the Passion and Death of our dear Redeemer reveal to us this Good Friday morning the greatest and deepest of all sorrows.

I. Because of the extreme torments suffered;

II. Because of the person who endured those torments; and

III. Because of the cruel cause of those torments.

I. Who can fathom the depths and the bitterness of the deep sea of human anguish? Who can count the tears that have been shed since the unhappy fall of Adam? Who can reckon the cries of woe and misery, of agony and despair, that have issued from the mouth of one single suffering man? Yet there has been no earthly sorrow which can even be compared with that of our Saviour. If ail the pains and miseries of the whole earth were collected together and united in one great mass of anguish, the sufferings of our Redeemer would far outweigh them all. So immense, so profound, so overwhelming were they, that only the mighty heart of the God-Man could endure them.

1. The prophet Isaias beheld in a vision the future sufferings of the Messias, and saw the holy Victim covered with blood and wounds; but when he attempted to paint the picture of the King of Martyrs, O then, my brethren, he was bewildered by the terrible, the awe-inspiring apparition. “Who hath believed our report? And to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed? He shall grow up as a tender plant before him, and as a root out of a thirsty ground; there is no beauty in him, nor comeliness; and we have seen him, and there was no sightliness that we should be desirous of him; despised, and the most abject of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with infirmity.” (Is. 53: 1-3).

“A worm, and no man; the reproach of men, and the outcast of the people,” (Ps. 21 : 7.), our Lord Jesus Christ has suffered all the pains which the soul can suffer. He has borne the excess of mental sufferings, such as anguish and fear, sorrow and desolation, dejection and dereliction–all that can inflict torture upon the heart of man. He cries out: “My soul is sorrowful even unto death” (Matt. 14: 34.); and then He sinks to the earth overcome by so fierce an agony that it forces a bloody sweat to issue from every pore of His sacred body. Each separate torment which He afterward endured in all the members of His body, He consented to suffer beforehand in His heart and soul. “Where is there a grief like unto my grief?”

2. Yes, my brethren, He suffered in every member of His sacred body. “From the sole of the foot to the top of the head, there is no soundness therein; wounds and bruises and swelling sores: they are not bound up, nor dressed, nor fomented with oil.” (Is. 1 : 6.) His head is crowned with piercing thorns; His eyes are filled with blood that streams from His wounded brow; His cheeks are bruised by the blows of a wicked servant; His hands and feet are pierced through with cruel nails; His heart is opened with a spear; His shoulders are torn with terrible lashes, and all His wounds are inflamed and widened by the repeated taking-off and putting-on of his sacred garments. “Where is there any sorrow like to my sorrow?”

He endured every kind of affliction–His bitter chalice contained every form and species of woe. As a babe, He was repulsed by His own creatures, and forced to accept as a birth-place, a cold and miserable stable. As a helpless and harmless child, He was threatened with death, and obliged to flee from His own country into a distant and barbarous land. When grown to manhood, His chosen people, to whom He had shown naught but kindness, whom He had loaded with favors and benefits, despised and persecuted Him. They said: “He hath a devil,” and they sought to take His life. They tried to rob Him of His honor and reputation. He was betrayed by one of His own disciples, and sold by him for a contemptible sum of money, and this under the mask of friendship. He was deserted by His cherished disciples, who had sworn to follow Him unto death. He was bound with cords, and led forth like a criminal amid the wild clamor of His enemies. He was falsely accused, and dragged about from one tribunal to another. He was mocked and despised; a murderer and robber was preferred before Him. He was deprived of His clothing before the eyes of the whole people, and thus, stripped naked, was nailed to the cross: and even on the cross He was scoffed at and denied unto the end. Indifference and cowardice, human respect and treachery, hypocrisy, derision, malice, in fact, every kind of evil, had a share in His torments. “Where is there any sorrow like to my sorrow?”

He suffered from every class of men, priests and laymen, princes upon their thrones, and the scum of the people; strangers who knew Him not, and those of His own race; pagans who persecuted Him through ignorance, and Jews who had been instructed in the Law; soldiers hardened by cruel warfare, and judges who were appointed to protect the innocent; the ignorant who were the blind tools of the malignant Pharisees, and the learned who were filled with evil wisdom–all conditions of human society, all degrees of rank, became His enemies. He had not one executioner alone (as has the greatest criminal), but hundreds and thousands of them. “Where is any sorrow like unto my sorrow?”

He suffered throughout His whole earthly career, since no moment of it was free from pain and affliction. All the days of His life, the awful vision of His future sufferings stood out clearly before His omniscient eye, filling His soul with unspeakable woe and dread. Death itself did not put an end to the outrages heaped upon Him; for when He hung lifeless upon the cross, His enemies continued to wreak then vengeance upon His sacred remains. They pierced His side with a lance; they sealed up His grave and placed a watch upon it so that “that deceiver,” as they called Him, might not come forth from the tomb. Jesus, as St. John remarks, knew ” all things that were to come upon him.” (John 18:4.) “My sorrow is continually before me,” the Psalmist says in His person. (Ps. 37 : 18.) “My enemies have trodden on me all the day long; for there are many that make war against me.” (Ps. 55 : 3.)

3. Where is there sorrow equal to His sorrow? He suffered all these pains and sorrows from those who had been His friends, and for whose salvation He had descended from heaven to earth. His people, chosen before all the nations of the earth, whom He had led out of Egypt, fed with manna in the desert, opened the fountain of living water in the hard rock; whose enemies He had subdued, through whose cities, towns, and villages He went about blessing and doing good–this, His chosen people, prepared all these afflictions and humiliations for Him, their Messias. “The ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master’s crib; but Israel hath not known me.” (Is. 1 :3.) “I have brought up children, and exalted them, but they have despised me.” (Is. 1 :2.) Hearing these lamentations of our outraged God, must we not again exclaim: What sorrow is like unto His sorrow!

4. He endured all these sufferings without the least alleviation. No earthly consolation was offered Him, for His disciples had all fled; no heavenly comfort was sent to lighten His pain. He offered Himself willingly to suffer, and He wished to drink the bitter chalice even to the dregs. For this reason, He refrained Himself as far as possible from the succors of His Divinity, so that He might be, as it were, abyssed in the very depths of sorrow. “I have trodden the wine-press alone, and of the Gentiles there was not a man with me.” (Is. 63 : 3.) “I looked for one that would grieve together with me, but there was none; and for one that would comfort me, and I found none. And they gave me gall for my food; and in my thirst, they gave me vinegar to drink.” (Ps. 68 : 21, 22.)

In heart-felt sympathy, my brethren, let us, today, contemplate this deep ocean of suffering, for to nothing else can the great and bitter sorrows of our Redeemer be compared. “Let tears like a torrent run down day and night: give thyself no rest, and let not the apple of thy eye cease.” The earth, the elements, and all inanimate nature once trembled on this day with grief and compassion for the mangled Lamb of God, and shall we, for whose salvation He was slain, alone remain indifferent? Let us fall upon our knees before our crucified Jesus,–let us venerate His sorrows, and detest with bitter tears the sins which caused His unspeakable sufferings.

II. Consider next, my beloved Christians, the dignity of the Person who endured those sufferings.

1. Who is this Man of Sorrows who appears before us, with torn and bleeding body and pierced heart?” Who is He that cometh from Edom, with dyed garments from Bosra?” we ask in astonishment with the prophet Isaias. (Is. 63 :1.) “Why then is thy apparel red, and thy garments like theirs that tread the wine-press?” (Is. 63 : 2.) No human heart is strong or heroic enough to carry such a burden of sorrow, without being crushed, broken, annihilated! Ah, my beloved, the Man of Sorrows is the only-begotten Son of God–the strong and mighty Deity, who, for love of us, has borne all these torments; who in order to make satisfaction for our sins, took their crushing weight upon Himself and suffered in our stead. He, the Man of Sorrows, saw the want and misery of the earth, He saw the corruption of sin which had opened the abyss of hell, and closed the gates of heaven. From the throne of His heavenly glory, He looked down with grief upon the earth, and saw that only His own almighty hand could rescue it from its extreme and hopeless wretchedness. The prayers and sacrifices of centuries had been inadequate to appease the divine wrath. Neither Angel nor Archangel could make the requisite satisfaction to the offended majesty of God, or deliver the world from its impending ruin. Penetrated with an incomprehensible love, the Divine Word cries out to His heavenly Father: “Sacrifice and oblation thou wouldst not; but a body thou hast fitted to me . . . then said I, behold I come . . . that I should do thy will, O Lord!” (Heb. 10: 5-7.) “The Father did not lay the cross upon His Son without His consent,” says St. Cyril, “but the Son has given Himself for us on the cross, and the Father has agreed to it, so that the mystery of salvation might be accomplished.” (St. Cyril.)

2. The Man of Sorrows bore within Him a divine heart, and He suffered with the strength and supernatural power of a divine being. It is true that while He suffered intensely in His human nature, the divine nature was incapable of suffering, yet the divine, being united with the human nature, could not but sympathize with the sufferings of the latter. Indeed, Christ as God wished to sympathize with and share the sufferings of His humanity, so that, thereby, a sacrifice of infinite value might be offered to His Heavenly Father, as an infinite atonement for our sins. Where is there a sorrow like unto this sorrow?

Go through all the ranks of human beings, my dear Christians, and contemplate the misery which meets you on every side. Ponder well the greatest sorrow that has ever been the portion of any earthly creature, and you will acknowledge, after all, that it is only the suffering of a human heart. For all its depth and intensity it is only the trembling outcry and complaint of a finite human soul. But the sorrow which Jesus Christ endured, contains within its unfathomable depths–the unsearchable emotions of an incarnate God! Again: were it possible for the Angels of heaven to experience pain; nay, more, if they accepted it with the whole power of their angelic nature, the united sufferings of all that multitude of mighty spirits compared with those of our Redeemer, would be only as a soft sigh which trembles for a moment on the summer air. Where is sorrow like unto his sorrow?

3. Behold, again, this Man of Sorrows, and meditate upon the lessons of His wounds. Consider not merely that grand, divine Heart which bears human suffering with superhuman strength, but, if you would still further sound the depths of Christ’s excessive sorrow, contemplate, also, that sacred body which is led like a lamb to the slaughter. Not a human body formed from base and sinful dust of the earth is the body of Jesus Christ, but a miracle of the omnipotence and wisdom of God. It is a wonderful creation formed by the Holy Ghost in the immaculate womb of the Most Blessed Virgin Mary. Not merely royal blood flows through His veins, the tender plant from the root of Jesse, but this body is created by the divine operation of God Himself. As all the works of God are more perfect, the clearer and the more forcibly they show forth His power; as the manna which the Lord sent from heaven was sweeter and more exquisite than any earthly food; as the wine which our Saviour created at the marriage of Cana was finer than any juice of the vine; as Adam, the first man, had a most beautiful and perfect human body, because God Himself had formed it from the slime of the earth–so the body of Jesus Christ was more wondrously beautiful and perfect than that of any other human being. It was fine and delicate and perfect beyond all creatures, and formed with special capabilities for suffering. He was appointed to be the Lamb of God, to bear, and to take away, the sins of the world. According to the will of God, as well as through the nature of His holy body, the humanity of our Redeemer must have felt all His pains and sorrows much more keenly and intensely than could any other human body. The greatest and sharpest agony struggled and raged in the most sensitive and delicate of vessels; but through the will of God and the love of our Saviour, the vessel, not being able to break, endured and felt that extraordinary anguish to the bitter end. The fiercest fire, finding the most inflammable material, continues, without consuming or annihilating it, to feed upon it with ever increasing violence, as long as divine Justice requires the holocaust! Where is there a sorrow like unto this sorrow?

4. “Go forth, ye daughters of Sion; and see King Solomon in the diadem wherewith his mother crowned him in the day of his espousals.” (Cant. 3:11.) Behold your Bridegroom, who has delivered you through such exceeding sorrow, and has espoused Himself to your soul at such a great price! Not only will we fall down in adoration and extol the sufferings of our Redeemer, but lovingly we will raise up our eyes to the King and Bridegroom of our souls, and gratefully consecrate the love of our hearts to Him, the Incarnate God, who has given the whole of His divine and human nature to suffer for our redemption!

III. Come now, my dearly beloved, and descending once more into the deep abyss of our Saviour’s Passion, let us search with sincere earnestness for the cause of these terrible sufferings, this ineffable sorrow.

1. On account of our sins, my brethren, the Son of God came down from the glory of heaven. A great invalid lay suffering upon the earth, and a great Physician must needs appear to save and heal him. Love moved the good Samaritan Jesus Christ, the Saviour of the world, to take pity on sick humanity, and to offer to His heavenly Father the atonement for our sins. But was it necessary that our Saviour should suffer so much and so deeply? Would not a single sigh from his divine Heart have sufficed to appease the wrath of the Eternal Father? Certainly; one single drop of His precious blood was sufficient to cleanse the whole world from sin. A single work of our divine Saviour is everlasting and infinite in its redeeming power. Then, wherefore, has He borne the supreme measure of sorrow? Why did He wish to drain the bitter chalice to the dregs? It was to expiate our sins in general, as well as in particular. Every sin that has been or will be committed upon the earth He, in His character of Mediator, has atoned for. “Behold the man,” cried out Pilate, as he presented the scourged and bleeding Redeemer to the gaze of the Jewish people. “O, Pilate!” we must exclaim, “thou hast announced a deep truth!” Before us stands the Man who has taken upon Himself all the sins of the human race, and who bears them and atones for them in His own body. Before us stands the Man in whom we can see our sins and their punishment. “Surely He hath borne our infirmities, and carried our sorrows; and we have thought Him as it were a leper, and as one struck by God and afflicted. But He was wounded for our iniquities, He was bruised for our sins; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and by His bruises we are healed.” (Is. 53 : 4, 5.)

2. Contemplate, today, the sufferings of our Saviour, my beloved brethren, and see if there is one sin which He has not taken upon himself and expiated. Consider first, our individual sins, and in them you will recognize all the sins of the world. Faithless and ungrateful, humanity has turned away from the the good God, and bartered His friendship and love for the miserable wages of sin. The disciples, fleeing, abandon their divine master; Judas betrays Him for thirty pieces of silver; His enemies take Him prisoner, and bind Him like a criminal; they drag Him from one tribunal to another. Behold the man who continues in his vices, who is not satisfied with one sin or one insult to the Lord! They weave a crown of thorns and press it upon His head; they place a reed in His hand, and clothe Him in a garment of mockery. Behold the man who raises his head proudly and haughtily, who would elevate his throne as high as the stars in heaven! They scourge Him with cruel lashes, until His sacred body, which is exposed naked to the gaze of the rabble, is covered with blood. Behold the man who shamelessly wallows in the lusts of the flesh, rejoicing in them, and defiling his body with the filth of iniquity. Pilate releases a murderer, and condemns innocence to death. Behold the man who, full of envy, and jealousy, grudges his neighbor his position, or his fortune. They pierce His hands and feet with cruel nails. Behold the man who misuses his members for sin, whose feet hasten upon the road to ruin, and whose hands are greedily stretched forth towards injustice. They give Him gall and vinegar to drink. Behold the man who indulges in gluttony, and gratifies all his sensual appetites! They mock Him in His sufferings, and cry out to Him: “If thou art the Son of God, come down from the cross!” Behold the man who, in his anger, knows no limit to his hatred and revenge! In death, they pierced His Sacred Heart; and at the same time they pierced the soul of the man who had given away his heart to strange gods. Behold the man of sin! Behold the man of punishment!” It is not the Redeemer and the Saviour,” each one of us might exclaim, “that hangs before me upon the cross, it is I myself whose sins he has borne and atoned for, it is the man of sin that is crucified in Him!”

“What was the cause of Thy suffering, O Son of God?” exclaims St. Anselm. “I was the scourge of Thy pain; I the cause of Thy death; I the sting of Thy torments; I the ground of Thy condemnation. O marvelous verdict, O mysterious dispensation! The wicked sin, and the just is punished; the guilty commit the offense, and the innocent atones for it; the master pays for what the servant has broken; God becomes surety for the debts of man.”

3. Wherein lies the cause of all these incomprehensible sufferings of our Saviour? He did not wish merely to bear all the sins of the world in His afflicted person, but, also, to make an everlasting and superabundant satisfaction for us, in order to lay up for us an everlasting and superabundant merit. “Christ has paid much more than we owed,” says St. Chrysostom; “as much as the ocean exceeds a drop of water, so much do Christ’s merits exceed our guilt.” (Hom. 20 in Epist. ad. Rom.) This superabounding merit of Christ does not merely blot out all the stains of sin and its punishment in us, but it, also, wins for us in the richest measure all the graces necessary to our souls for the gaining of everlasting life. As the good Samaritan did not merely raise up the wounded man from the wayside, and wash his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, but, also, out of love, placed him upon his horse, and brought him to an inn, and left money for his further care, so our Redeemer, the genuine Good Samaritan, does not simply heal the wounds of Our hearts through His atonement; but, also, gives us, through His holy Passion, all graces in the highest degree. He would reveal to the world His everlasting love and its great power; therefore has He suffered so much for us. As the loving pelican opens its breast and gives its own life-blood to feed its famishing brood, so does Jesus, our Pious Pelican, nourish and strengthen our souls with His own sacred Blood, the last drop of which He shed for us.

Today, then, my beloved brethren, let us descend into the holy mystery of the Passion of our Lord. And when we have gone down into the deep well whence such streams of suffering and sorrow burst forth, each one of us may strike his breast remorsefully, and cry out to himself in bitter sorrow: “Thou art the cause of all these innumerable sufferings of Thy Redeemer!” Our sins have prepared these pains for our loving Saviour. Therefore “let tears, like a torrent, run down day and night: give thyself no rest, and let not the apple of thine eye cease.” Today, at least, dear Christians, let us pour out our hearts like water before the face of the Lord. When King David learned and recognized of old the justice of God in his family, and when the punishing hand of the Lord was revealed to him, then that royal penitent “kept a fast, and going in by himself, lay upon the ground. And the ancients of his house came to make him rise from the ground, but he would not: neither did he eat meat with them.” (2 Kings 12: 16, 17.) So let us spend in the holy practice of prayer and penance this solemn day, in which the Justice and the Mercy of God have been so clearly revealed to us: and let us promise the Lord, my dear brethren, at the foot of His cross that, henceforth, we will never again renew His endless sufferings, and unspeakable sorrows, by any future relapses into sin. Amen.

[of-tatooine]

mercy. | chapter 15 - white

“because I know I will kill my enemies when they come.”

Flashes of bright, white light surrounded your universe.

They left no room for escape, encircled and almost trapped your vision to be limited to unbearable shine. And it was not just your eyes that felt the frustration - it was your entire mind, body and soul, in unison against the damage, trying to bring you back to your core yet to no avail.

Every single inch of your skin and every marrow in your aging bones screamed damn murder. Estranged, white hot matter engulfed your brain, occupied your thoughts and shot out any ounce of positivity that may or may not have been there to begin with.

Pain.

It invaded your entire body, every single cell and fiber of your being, like daggers digging deep into your skin. That troubled mind of yours could not recall when the last time you had been in such pain was - even getting shot seemed to be a breeze with the adrenaline kicking in.

In such a state of mind and body - all you were reduced to was wishing you had been six feet deep in some gravel already, to save you the years worth of misery and pure agony which seemed to only get fucking worse. No, these bastards holding you down did not even give you the damn luxury of dreaming of death.

Instead, the blade was dug deeper into your bullet wound.

“Motherfucker - ” was the latest addition to the plethora of curses you had spitted out in the past waking hours, the only vocabulary available to you. Sweat dripped down your jaw and trailed down your bloody neck in contrast to the freezing cold right outside the wall inches away, your flannel-covered chest heaved in exertion. Arms bound behind the chair with some makeshift rope which, in other circumstances, would not stand a chance against your nimble fingers. The jeans drenched in a mixture of blood, some dried and most of it your own, the fabric and bandages that used to cover your thigh ripped beyond recognition - and the sick fuck who would not stop grinning held the blade way too deep into your scab, reopening the wound, making blood gush out all over.

Ellie.

From the pain that rattled the very ground you were sitting on, your eyelids pushed themselves open to seek for the little girl. As much as you could make out of the bloodshot sight coated by tears, your almost lifeless irises searched for that familiar sight - heart dropping once again as you spotted her green coat in that blurred vision of yours.

Yelling, screaming and arms flailing as a couple of men tried to get a hold of her, dragging her out of the dirty cell they had tossed you both into and she put up a good fight. Just like she always did.

Just like he had taught her.

A newfound rage fueled you from within, surpassing the agony delivered by the probing into your body - the thought of filthy fingers touching her with nothing but harm intended, her screams echoing off of the hanging slabs of meat and corpses making your jaw clench and blood boil, veins bulging.

Get her the hell out of here.

“Leave her the fuck alone!” you would scream out into the bastard’s face with whatever voice you had left in your throat, body tightening and shooting up in a sudden burst of adrenaline - the movement erupting another groan out of you as the metal moved within your flesh.

Gathering all your efforts to keep your focus on the girl, green eyes would meet yours and they had nothing but absolute fear and terror in them. Helpless and hopeless, fighting yet beaten as the men pressed her against the rusty bars of the kitchen cell that was built to keep in animals for slaughter.

It was in the slight furrow of your eyebrows as your eyes met hers for the briefest of moments. The little spark of hope that never gave up on shining, no matter how much blood you had lost and how close death was. The sternness that seemed to give her some sort of determination, something to take example of. The pure rage against any and all men that walked on this very ground who dared touch her.

Be brave, Ellie.

“Now, we tried to be nice,” the greasy-haired fucker David who stood dangerously close to your face spoke, “ - but you just wouldn’t play.”

As you breathed in and out, frantically, the veins in your neck bulging as you struggled to get out of the bindings with what little strength your body could muster. “You let that girl go,” your bloodied lips would spit out, jaw clenched as you dared stare the monster right in the eyes.

Surviving for this long meant you had seen a lot of fucked up things in your lifetime, as a Firefly or sometimes on the other end of the barrel - yet your mind and soul would never forget the horrors these pack of cannibals had inflicted on both you and the little girl, in just a matter of days. It was not even about the beating they gave you, nor the scab wounds they re-opened up, no. This was so much more than your own torture, watching that little girl you had somehow sworn to protect be handled so roughly, hurt, battered and bruised.

“What are you gonna do, doll? Kill me?” he taunted you, pressing the blade a bit sideways to widen the wound, eliciting another muffled scream out of you as your head arched back slightly - if you had managed to get out of this hellhole alive, if the fucking Cordyceps did not kill you, this pain in your damn thigh would take you out. A bloody hand wrapped around your neck as he left the blade embedded, bringing your face forcefully back to match his eyesight - those sick orbs not having an ounce of light in them, shaded by a couple strands of hair.

Had you not been in such a weak position, you would have snickered at the man’s broken finger in a cast.

Lips aching to scream, legs craving to run and mind racing for the one and only Ellie, you used every inch of your leftover resolve to not give up your soul right there and then as your fingers worked softly against the knots of the rope bindings - broken fingernails digging into your skin, jaw clenching yet the rope giving away slightly. A silent prayer went up to whatever god was listening to you - it was some worn-out material that they used to tie animals with, or in this case, human meat. These fuckers had not anticipated you to be conscious, with all that residual pain after the torture.

“Take me. Let the kid go,” your hoarse voice pleaded, the desperate tonality of it lighting sick sparks inside your captor’s eyes. Another thick knot slipping through, the coarse rope cutting through your calloused fingertips.

Fuck, almost there.

“Now, how about we take you both?”

A blood-curling scream rang in the cold air of the kitchen as a couple of men carried Ellie forcefully to the adjoint freezer room not too far away from you where slabs of meat dangled all over, making you sick to your stomach knowing half of those were human.

Chest heaving in exertion and pure anger, you could only watch helplessly as David extracted the blade from your thigh in a sickening pop of blood and flesh - opting to press it against your neck, your own blood trailing down your throat as he cooed to you - an animalistic ssh that was sure to haunt you in your dreams if you ever made it out alive.

The only thing you could do was gulp, speaking would be futile as he angled the blade to keep you looking up at him. Meanwhile, your fingers worked ever so softly to untie the last knot. You still kept your hands together behind you - if that did not work, well, he would be better off slitting your throat right there and then. Even if it was your only chance, you would take it.

So you did.

“What the fuck is that?” you would hear one of his soldiers speak up, in total and utter disbelief, making your bloodshot eyes look over to the girl they had tried to restrain against the metal table. Her sleeve tugged up as her legs tried to kick at the other guy - yet their attention to a certain detail seemed to stop the proceedings, and stop time for a split second as David turned around to face his men.

Then, you saw it. From the corner of your eye, squinting a little. A fucking bite, all scabbed in its’ glory, on her inner forearm where they had tugged the sleeve upwards to make a cut.

When they told you she was immune, you did not believe it one bit. This crusade was simply for the fact that Joel needed the help, for whatever end goal he had in mind. For the contentment of the kid and her safety, nothing more, nothing less.

Now, you had seen more infected bites than you could count - and this one was no ordinary one. Jesus Christ, this was real. Your shocked orbs caught Ellie’s equally scared ones in that moment of confusion - a distraction that you probably would not get ever again.

“Run!” you screamed at Ellie as the bindings dropped from your reddened wrists, your foot lifting up with such force to hit the man where the sun don’t shine - your hands reaching to hold the blade further away from you, not even giving the cannibal a split second to comprehend what the fuck was going on as he collapsed in a loud groan, the blade tumbling over the concrete floor.

And run she did - using her little size to her advantage, she jumped off of the table before the bastards could catch her, running to the exit through the slabs of meat as you ducked into another hallway in a hurry - the pain subsided by the pumping adrenaline only for a little while. Curses and slurs rang in the coldness of the compound as the men scurried for their guns, one rushing to help David up yet you would not dare look back.

The only thing that mattered was finding Ellie outside and getting the fuck out of the village. The moment you dashed from the backdoor of the kitchen, the blinding blizzard hit you right in the eye, making your step falter in the snow. From the right came footsteps - quick yet light, your instinct told you to follow them, only to find a head of ginger hair with specks of snow scattered as you got close.

Hope filled through your being, despite the fact that your only protection against the blizzard was Joel’s flannel. Blood trickled down every inch of your skin, leg limping.

Oh God. 

Joel.

Would you live enough to see him one more time? To thank him for his shirt you had borrowed? Freezing would be a big understatement in your condition, somehow the fear of death and the survival instinct pumping through you kept you in operating condition. It did not matter if you got hypothermia or suffered a long, painful death from blood loss - as long as you got this girl under safety, you could die a happy woman.

She must have seen you too, you reckoned when she collided into you, a silent throe of gratitude as her hands wrapped around yours in such force. Dragging you deeper into the snow, away from the approaching sounds of men and guns cocking and into temporary cover.

There was no way in hell they were going to spot you in this hell-sent snowstorm, unless you got too close, or shot someone. The latter would not deem to be the case, considering you had absolutely nothing to defend yourself with. You had been in fucked up situations before, but never like this, never with the responsibility of a little kid looming all over your shoulders and a gaping bullet hole in your thigh. Taking the chance to peek above cover, your arm was placed protectively around the little girl, your best attempt to shield her from harm and give her some warmth.

As the two of you took a moment to breathe, the slow crunches of snow underneath boots alerted you - they were everywhere, looking for you both, eager to get their hands on you. Muttering a curse, you looked down at her, and that was when you noticed the utter fear mixed in with blood and determination written on her face. Staring up at you with faltering eyes.

"Ellie," you whispered, head leaned in, as your arm encircled around her to press her against you. "I'll get you out of here. We need to go inside - and take these fuckers down."

She nodded quickly, tensing up at the sudden movement up ahead, her trembling hand reaching to her coat to take out her trusted switchblade.

"No matter what happens, you don't leave my side."

Another nod of confirmation, and against the protests of every inch of your limbs, you moved on forward into the unknown snow - Ellie tugging onto your sleeve as you advanced like a wolf to choke out the first of many cannibals. Adrenaline and the resolve to protect this little girl at all costs the only things giving you strength.

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

She was gone.

All it took was one second of carelessness, leaving her a couple steps behind to sneak up on another one of David’s gang members - by the time you had choked him out, fighting and stammering in the snow, the wind had picked up and made you totally lose sight apart from what was literally an inch in front of you.

Sqinted eyes searching for the little girl frantically, the jacket you had stolen off of the bodies you knocked out in your way providing some much-needed warmth. Yet another stolen item - a scarf this time, thickly tied around the gaping wound to stop the bleeding the best you could. The dizziness from the blood loss seemed to hit you in waves, faltering your step occasionally as you trudged through the blizzard. After coming this far, all this way, with the cold freezing the very marrows of your bones and your blood drying all over your skin - you would not let a fucking bullet wound take you down nor keep you from finding her.

There, over the far horizon of your vision coated by snowflakes, you could spot color. Orange, burning red, emanating from the building not too far away it seemed - it could not be if you could make it in this storm. Dark smoke starting to follow up into the sky, contrasting the white stillness of the snow with the smell of burning wood.

Praying she was alright, you would let out a silent curse and take off towards your new lead.

Fear rose up in your throat again, your heart racing as you tried to stick to the walls and be as stealthy as possible while making your way towards the burning building. Not many men were in sight, even if they had been, they did not spot you - most of them you had choked out or kicked to death on your way. There was no room for mercy, there never would be for these bastards who tried to touch the kid you swore to protect.

If only you could get your hands on that fucker David, you were going to make him wish he was never born.

Breath quickening as you silently approached the building from the back alley, which seemed to be an old, abandoned diner, an open window could be spotted near the back of it - noting that it was just near Ellie’s height. Without a second doubt, or thought in that matter, you hastily moved and carefully hopped inside of the kitchen of the joint. Alert and jaw clenched, you could hear the thuds of footsteps and the voice of that sick fuck once again as you dared sneak a peek from the crevice - along with the cracks and winds of the flame slowly emanating through the walls, originating from the entrance.

“You think you know me?”

Ellie’s muffled sounds of protest rose up in the air, your feet fucking killing you as you sneaked your way towards the two. If you wanted to save her, you needed to do this nice and so damn quiet - you were not packing and the only weapon you had was your damn hands, knuckles all bloody. The one guy you managed to snag had been out of bullets, before you decided to discard it and you were beginning to regret that stupid decision, made in your haste to get to her. It destroyed to your core, knowing that she had been through so much and you could not save her sooner - in the end, even if it meant your own demise, you promised her you would protect her.

Fire illuminated the center point of the premise as you sneaked up closer, sounds of struggle ever so prominent as you readied yourself up for the battle, now having a clear view of his denim covered back. You would not dare imagine the animalistic expression on his face.

And Ellie, laying vulnerable and beaten on the floor.

When that monster, no doubt injured by the way he was holding onto his arm, got on top of Ellie to strangle her - that was when your blood boiled to the rim. It did not matter if the fire burnt through your skin, bullets pierced your limbs, knives got stuck in flesh.

Legs pushed you up in almost an instant as you growled and lunged at the man from his back, catching him by surprise as you used the maintained stealth to your advantage. Giving Ellie time to escape the hell out. He grunted as you tackled him to the ground, laying down a solid punch to his jaw but then the remaining survival instinct in him decided to act up, much to your bad luck - his good arm came out of nowhere and punched you in your stomach, hard, pure rage spitting out of his mouth.

“You fuckin’ bitch.”

Sending you curling back on the floor as the wind got knocked out of you, that split second enough for him to try to get up with a snarl and move towards his one designated victim - the best he could do was crouch in his state.

Maybe you should have noticed, or maybe the blinding fire had been too distracting. Maybe it was the urge to get this man’s hands off of her as soon as possible, no matter what the cost. As you practically crawled on the floor towards the girl in a race with David to get to her, the shy glint of the machete she wielded stopped the breath in your lungs.

A loud hurl that no child should have to muster came out of her lips as she gave the man who had put her through so much pain a slash - right in the head, the man’s screams erupting in the burning room before ceasing abruptly as the metal pierced through his skull. Blood and brains scattering all over the hardwood, with such force - and yet she did not stop. All that frustration of captivity, the way he touched her and you, tortured you relentlessly - it was all expressed in the form of brutal, fatal slashes to David’s now unrecognizable remains.

“Ellie,”  you managed to crawl up to her, your arms tentatively reaching out to get wrapped around her tense shoulders, pulling her towards your frame as tears dropped from her green eyes, sobs filling in the air.

“C’mere - it’s okay, it’s over,” you softly whispered as the girl wrapped herself around your kneeling frame, letting go of the machete with a thud, craving the comforting touch. She had done it. Killed a man viciously, without an inch of remorse, exactly the way he deserved to die. Brutalized and mutilated to no dismay. And now she was crumbling, as if reminding herself that she still was a child in a cruel, big world.

“It’s alright, sweetheart.”

Heart broken into a million of pieces, her tears coated your stolen, oversized jacket as your eyes threatened to spill - a couple drops raining down on your bloodied cheeks, chest heaving in the aftermath of it all. Fingers ran through her hair  as you pressed her even closer, finding much needed comfort in each other surrounded by fire and death.

Lost in the embrace as you comforted the child, you did not hear the giant of a man run through the fire and into the burning diner, breathless and battered - who dropped down to his knees and encircled both of your pressed frames into a hug, pulling you close. Ellie shielded herself from the world instantly, grabbing a hold of his jacket while another held onto your hand for dear life as she cried his name.

Instant warmth comforted you, the scent of flannel and snow seeping through your very being. Instinct told you not to budge, not to protest - you did not have to. It was safe, he was safe, hell - his arms were be the safest place to be on that scorched earth. His calloused hands wrapped around both of your shoulders, you felt his breathing soften. He had found you - before it was too late. Before he lost the two who mattered to him the most, even if his lips were silent.

Unable to do anything else, your bloody lips parted, leaning your heavy head against Joel’s broad chest as you never let Ellie’s other hand go - her small but bruised one in your equally injured. Joel’s presence gave you all the hope you had needed in the world for that moment, as if he was this glue putting together the shattered pieces, after you and that little brave girl in his arms had gone through absolute living hell.

“Ellie, it’s okay now,” he spoke, the rugged edge of his voice breaking as his one hand cupped Ellie’s cheek, the little girl looking up to him and you with terrorized eyes.

“Joel…he, he tried to - ”

“Oh, baby girl…” he gave in, the giant of a man’s entire resolve dissolving, the pure love he held laced his tone as his thumb wiped down the tears falling down her blood-coated skin. Joel buried his face in the little girl’s hair, cherishing her very existence as his hand held her face ever so gently. It warmed your heart, this burning fire reminiscent of your entire reason of fighting to survive. It was all for love, in any shape or form. Taking care of each other and never letting go.

That was all that mattered.

“It’s okay now, I got you. I got you both.”

As he allowed her to just let it all out for the mere remaining seconds they had before you all had to flee, his neck craned down to focus entirely on you. “Look at me, honey,” his rugged voice spoke with the softest, sweetest tone, olive green eyes clouded with such concern and relief, his long fingers gently pushed your hair back. Exhausted and teary eyes met his orbs as he adjusted his arm so that his calloused hand held your cheek in a warm embrace. No doubt inspecting for injuries, always checking if you were okay. Your lips curled in the softest of grateful smiles.

“God, I thought I lost you,” he whispered, the approaching flames reflecting in his green orbs as he pressed a desperate, loving kiss to your forehead. Lips you never thought you would feel against your skin. The type of affection that could only come from a man who thought you had been gone forever.

A loud thud of burnt wood falling down the floor echoed amongst the cracks of fire. “Let’s get out of here, c’mon,” he cooed, helping both of you up to your feet as his arm remained tightly wrapped around your waist - never letting go, always holding you close. Ellie took his other hand as she used her sleeve to wrap her tears, eyes looking up to find the exit.

Joel Miller swore to himself, right there and then, that he would take care of both of you. No matter what it took, he would always be there to watch over you and fight for both of you to the ends of this earth.

As long as it meant having you in his arms again.

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) 13- Wessex

Pairings: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 2877

Warnings: None I don't think.

AN: I hope I don't disappoint anyone with how this chapter starts 😅😅 Slooooow Burrrrrn.

12- Northumbria

...

Her head hurt.

It was a pounding that rattled the side of her temple that seemed intune with her heartbeat. 

She couldn't sleep.

Whenever she closed her tired eyes, Bjorn's bloody knife tortured her. It was one of the many more tragedies she knew was to come.

She would be lying to say her lack of sleep that night had nothing to do with the heathen nestled within the furs beside her. Like her, he did not rest easy. He was in pain, she could hear it in the small grunts mutterred in his sleep. She was almost sure that his brows were knitted in that look he couldn't hide on particular days when he struggled with pain. 

Sighing internally, she removes herself from the comfort of the furs to light a candle, bringing it up to the bed. Ivar's broad back was suddenly illuminated, his muscles expanding with every breath he took. 

She watches him for a while, wondering how the Ivar in the daytime was the same one that slept fitfully beside her. He looked harmless, curled up on his side with bedridden hair. He even pouted in his sleep. It was almost enough to make her smile, but she refrained from doing so.

His legs were exposed from under the fleece, heavily covered in thick trousers. Sometimes she wondered what his legs might look like underneath all that fabric. Thin and frail, perhaps, from lack of use. For obvious reasons, she was never to be near when he bathed or dressed, his legs being a vulnerability that he didn't want her or anyone else to see.

Artemis didn't blame him. 

Carefully, and with subtle movement, she crosses her legs bringing the flame to hold between her hands. She supposed she had Ivar to thank for...whatever it is he did for her. He was being uncharacteristically kind, though she knew the only reason was his newfound use of her. She had much more to offer than the average slave, and now there were certain expectations of her. 

She must serve this heathen army, the people who will continue to murder others that she was connected to through Christ. But even so, Ivar treated her in the best way he could. Somehow, he came to tolerate her. 

She brings a hand to the golden cross hidden in her bodice, tugging at the string that kept it round her neck. It felt so much more significant to her now than it did before. Her traitorous thoughts caused her cheeks to blaze like a bad sunburn.

Her eyes lingered over him once more before sliding from the bed and onto the moist ground. She needed to pray and ease her mind, and perhaps she would receive an answer. She begins to recite.

"Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth at it is in heaven,"

Ivar's eyes snap open at the intrusive words, hand already gripping the hilt of his dagger under his pillow. He looks out over his shoulder, immediately noticing the empty bed side before rolling his body over to the other side. Pushing the furs aside, he peers down over the edge of the bed to find his thrall on her knees in a Christian prayer.

He blinked his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the candle beside her, getting a better view of her muttering lips. It took him a minute to realize her babbling was in Greek.

"Give us this day, our daily bread, and-"

"What are you going on about?" Ivar interupts, sitting up on his elbows to rub the sleep from his eyes. Artemis looks up at him as if she were caught stealing something of value. He notices the dark hues under her eyes.

"Were you praying?" He asks in exaggerated disbelief. He's never seen her do that before.

"...Yes." 

"Why?"

"I could not sleep." She replies sheepishly, lowering her hands to her knees to scrape at the fabric in her nervousness.

"And so you decide to pray," Ivar replies flatly, rolling his eyes before flopping back onto the bed, "After all that I have been teaching you?" The whole journey to England was spent teaching her of his gods and their stories. Clearly a waste.

"I have been learning," She insists, bringing her hands to the edge of the bed, shyly leaning in closer to him, "But I am still a Christian." Ivar sucks his teeth in utter displeasure.

"Perhaps you are delusional," He mutters, "A delusional girl who believes in fairytales." She wastes no time in moving away from him. She wouldn't say that his beliefs sounded like fairytales, though it threatened to leak from the very tip of her tongue. She decides to occupy herself instead, standing to light the candles around the tent as a distraction and to put much needed distance between them.

"What were you praying for anyway?" He asks curiously, stretching his upper body as he watched her move about. As usual, Artemis takes a moment to respond, until finally going over to the candles at his bedside , lighting the up wicks. The flames immediately lit up her sour features.

"Wisdom." She reveals.

"Wisdom." He repeats. 

"Yes." Artemis lowers herself again onto her knees, leaning against the makeshift bed. She refused to look at him, merely staring into the little flames as she often did. Ivar teasingly pokes her temple with little force, just enough to make her head sway.

"You have many things running rampant in there, hm?" 

"It seems I am plagued by my own thoughts." She agrees dully.

"What worries you so?" Ivar demands, "Do I not treat you well?"

"Of course, you treat me well," She drags her her eyes to his, "And I am grateful, but I am afraid these are matters of the heart." Ivar purses his lips, his mood quickly souring.

"Matters of the heart?" He chuckles darkly, "Is it Arvid's marriage that ails you?" He then snorts unbecomingly, crossing his arms as he feels jealousy's grip around him like iron chains. She looks at him with an odd expression that he couldn't read.

"That is far from the torment that ails me." 

"Then what is it?" He demands again. He watches her struggle to form her words, a hint of fear rising in her eyes at exposing herself.

"My path," She says, "My path is uncertain."

"The gods led your path right where we need you," He grunts, "You have purpose here with us."

"To support those who have forced me into slavery?" She was over stepping her boundaries again. That annoys him.

"Your purpose is to aid our army. Your purpose is to aid me," His words were forceful, "We have discussed this already, Artemis."

"Of course, Prince Ivar." She replies bitterly. She was just a tool to be used. Perhaps she should be grateful. Her use would not be in bed like so many others have been subjected to.

"Yet, you are not pleased." Ivar notes with a tired sigh, running a hand through his thick hair. 

"With respect, Prince, it pleases no one to be a slave." 

"Freedom is earned," He stresses, "And you have not yet earned it." Ivar notices the weak sunlight filtering into the tent, hearing the sounds of warriors waking and mingling within the camp. It was nearly sunrise. He removes the fleece blanket from over him, swinging his buckled legs to dangle off the edge of the bed.

"Help me dress. Go to Arvid and see to whatever needs to be repaired. We leave to Wessex by midday." 

...

Men were childish. 

Arvid was in no talking mood, still fuming over the events of the previous day. She'd try to make simple conversation but found it difficult to engage him, so after a while she left him alone with his thoughts after completing her duties.

The rest of the morning was spent preparing their departure, and by noon they marched towards Wessex. 

The journey was short, and the warriors passed the time by singing some kind of folk song she didn't really understand. After a long debate, Ivar allowed her to travel alongside Helga and Tanaruz. She was happy to sit beside the older woman and the young girl on a horse drawn cart led by Floki.

Helga recounts the stories of the Valkyries, warrior women that take men fallen in battle into Odin's hall in Valhalla to dine with him. She tells them of Freyja's beautiful fields, where fallen men also reside. The story was odd when comparing it to heaven, but it was still an intriguing tale to keep them entertained. Artemis attempts many times to translate them to Tanaruz, but the young girl hardly cared, her unfocused eyes glaring at the passing dirt road.

It was quiet when the army reached their destination. There was no Saxon army that greeted them, nor a single warrior to face.

King Ecbert's settlement was completely deserted.

Walking in through the gates was too easy, and all the warriors braced themselves for a possible attack, but none came. Bjorn cautiously enters, sending a few men to scout the perimeter, but once they returned safely, it was known they were victorious in a battle they had no need to fight. 

Suddenly, an old man emerged from some part of the settlement. He held his hands up in surrender, yet he appeared at peace, accepting his fate.

"It is King Ecbert!" Bjorn yells, pointing his axe as did the men surrounding him. 

Artemis scans her eyes over the so called king, wondering if all western kings were this unkempt. He wore a simple shift, long and dirty, as was his gray hair and long beard. He walked towards them with a strange smile on his face. She had never seen a proper king in person, only a portrait of the Emperor once in all his glory, the complete opposite of how the English kings have presented themselves. With no need for a fight, King Ecbert was easily siezed.

The Ragnarsons all headed inside the settlement with Bjorn leading the way as the old king stumbled along with them. Many entered the hall, warrirors stomping with glee as they held torches in pursuit of destruction. The scent of smoke and burning filled the air. 

"Go on with the other slaves," Ivar tells her, "A feast must be prepared." He grins, disappearing with the rest of his brothers.

She did as was told, moving to place pitchers of ale and platters of bread and meats on makeshift tables. Then she waited, digging her boots into the earth in boredom until she heard whispers among the crowd. Turning to the source of the whispers, Artemis's face pales.

Floki walked with his beloved Helga in his arms, her lifeless body hanging off him like a rag doll. Her heart began to thump uncontrollably at the sight, immediately noticing the blood that coated his hands. 

He walked a distance, and she sneaks away to follow him in haste, only stopping to watch as he decided on a spot at the nearest hill. Gently, he places Helga under a tree as he began to work on digging her grave. She watches for a while, waiting for Floki to have a moment to mourn his wife.

He cries, carefully placing his wife's body into the pit that he had dug for her, and once she was made ready with the little items she had brought with her, he began to sob.

Artemis's eyes swell with tears until she couldn't hold on to them any longer, pouring down her cheeks in salty streaks. She wipes them away furiously, angry at the turn of events. Helga was with her just moments ago. 

Nothing good came from coming to England, only fear and broken hearts. 

She continues to wait until she deemed it appropriate to approach the mourning man. Quietly approaching the scene, she kneels beside Floki. She glances at him but he doesn't utter word, nor make any indication of acknowledging her presence. He only stares at his dead wife who looked quite comfortable in her new home. Artemis notices her skin had already changed from its healthy glow to a sickening gray, her body quick to deteriorate. 

The wound was over her heart, quickly patched over by Floki in haste to stop the blood. Artemis did a sign of the cross, to which Floki says nothing, just glares down at his wife's grave with balled fists. 

"I will pray for her soul," She says to him, shifting her hair to get access to the small golden drops on her ears. Helga had always admired them, and so she decides that Helga should be the one to keep them. Cautiously, she leans forward, glancing back at Floki who still did nothing but watch her movements closely with those beady eyes. 

She carefully places the earrings beside each ear, bringing a hand to Helga's cold cheek, as if her warmth would bring life back into her. She sniffles, mentally reciting a prayer, before standing and dusting off her knees. 

"May she rest in peace." She says, quickly wiping her eyes and turning to head back to the settlment.

"Christian." Floki calls out to her, and she stops in her tracks, meeting the eyes of the grieving man.

"It was Tanaruz," He growls out, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Artemis takes in a shaky breath.

"Where is she?"

Floki snorts, releasing a hysteric giggle that emphasized his vulnerability. He then sighs, pressing the heels of his palms onto his black lined eyes before answering.

"She took her own life with the same blade." Artemis says nothing, choosing to look up towards the fading english sun. 

Tanaruz was such an ill fated Moorish child. In her melancholic ruse, she murdered the one person that had a gentle heart. 

Helga was in the hands of the Lord now, or perhaps, in Freyja's lovely fields. 

...

The crowd was boisterous, men and women clinking their cups of ale in joy. Artemis watches them solemnly. There was no room for celebration, not in her mind. She watches with heavy eyes at the festive scene before her.

She tried to distract herself with Prince Sigurd's lute playing, the rhythmic tune celebrating the death of a king laying in a pool of his own blood that leaked from his wrists.

The brothers had their celebratory meal, quite satisfied with themselves. Whatever they had sought out to do was successful.

Floki was not there to share in their merriment, to no surprise. The reckless man continued to mourn on his own. Arvid sat beside his wife, though his eyes searched for someone in the crowd. When he finally finds Artemis, he offers her a gentle smile, an attempt to an apology. He raises his cup to her, a symbol of friendship. She smiles back at in return, nodding her head in acknowledgment. 

She watches him place an arm around his wife, and she smiles up at him lovingly. It was a lovely sight, and although Artemis felt the smallest feelings in her damaged heart for the young blacksmith, she was happy for their union. Alfhild was a good woman.

Bjorn suddenly addresses the crowd, reminding them of his fathers dream. He goes on to inform them that he would not be going to push that dream forward as his true calling was to return to the Mediterranean. 

Artemis interest is peaked, watching as Bjorn gave Halfdan an embrace once it was decided that he would join in the voyage. If they were to return to the Mediterranean, would Crete be part of their plan?

The commotion happened suddenly, an argument between Ivar and Sigurd. It was nothing new of course, but she was not following their discussion to know where their harsh words stemmed from. Ivar's brow twitched in that familiar way, the angry way, and even from quite a distance Artemis could see his hand moving towards his most favored axe. 

"-You are crazy. You have the mind of a child." Sigurd's spits, standing up in a show of defiance. Ivar growls, nose flaring and brows arched. The bickering continued.

Ivar didn't wish to settle down and plough land like a farmer, he wished to raid, pillage bigger cities and conquer them, but most of all, he wanted to take charge and be a leader, something Sigurd was clearly against.

Ivar was such an ambitious youth, an impulsive one too, for in mere seconds he took his axe and hurled it, lodging it in Sigurd's ribs. 

A deafening silence spread over the entire settlement, all eyes watching as Sigurd dropped to his knees. Despite the pain he must have suffered, he found the energy to rip the axe out from his skin and tossing it aside before falling over. The madness that would ensue was inevitable, and the look on Ivar's face expressed it all. 

It was the second death of the day, though most had not realized it. Ubbe and Hvitserk kneeled down beside their brother, immediately mourning his death. 

Artemis watches in stunned silence, her hands trembling at her sides. Ivar's eyes caught her own, revealing nothing but remorse.

...

[winifredsandersonsbitch]

“Wallow”

Spike x Summers!Reader, BTVS

Warnings: swearing, violence, mentions of sex, S6 SPOILERS!!!

Description: Out of the five stages of grief, anger is the one that appeals most to the reader. Spike gets the brunt of it during training.

writing fanfics doesn’t feel so appropriate atm, but I wanted to take a break from signing petitions/writing letters (which I encourage you to do as well) and do something creative for a minute. Posting in case anyone else is in a similar situation

Training started up again the day after Buffy’s funeral.

It was important to keep moving, now more than ever. Spike didn’t think it was a good idea, but you shut him down every time he tried to bring it up. What you needed was not time or space or love. You needed to be prepared. You were not going to lose another sister. No one else was going to die. The universe had taken more than its due.

“Again,” you panted, and Spike lunged at you. He couldn’t go in with the intent to hurt you or his head would fill with white hot pain, so you were always uncomfortably aware of how much he was holding back, how easily he could take you if he wasn’t. Most times, he still beat you, although he always offered to fix you up after. All in all, he was a patient teacher, better than you deserved. But even he had his limits.

Spike tackled you to the ground, knocking the breath from your lungs, but you recovered quickly and aimed a punch at his face before he could pin down your arms.

Wheeling backwards, he stretched a hand out to his aching jaw, running it over the bruising skin. “Listen, sweetheart, I know my stamina is legendary, but we’ve got to give it a rest.”

“Again.”

This was all there was for you now. Practice and duty and anger. You wondered if this was how it had been for Buffy, near the end.

You woke up every morning with your skin a mottling greenish purple, darkening with time. Everywhere ached. You covered it up with makeup as best as you could for your shifts at the diner, but your coworkers were starting to notice.

No doubt they blamed it on the blond who sometimes came in to sit at the corner booth during your shifts.

Today hurt more than most. Spike had hurt your back the last time he slammed you against the alley wall, complaining that you fought like a rabid animal instead of a person when you tried to bite him to get away.

“Use anything that you have at your disposal.” You spat blood into the gravel. “That was your first rule. Come at me again.”

That was when he threw you across the alley.

It wasn’t the first time you had been tossed around in a fight. But for some reason, this time you couldn’t get up. You hit a pile of crates and struck your abdomen before rolling over onto your back.

You had practiced being thrown before, falling, all of it, but this was different. Today your anger had gotten the best of you. You had only been focusing on hurting him, not on protecting yourself. And now you couldn’t move.

Spike appeared above you, a bone-white face in a field of black night. You wheezed, trying to take in air that wouldn’t come.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to throw you so hard. Can you sit up?”

“Something cracked,” you said, and Spike reached out for you, then yanked his hand back like he was afraid he’d hurt you more by touching you. Then he covered the side of your waist with either hand, trying to relocate the pressure that would come with hauling you up to his body instead of yours.

“Here, I’m going to help you up, we’re going to take you to the hospital. I’ll call the others. We’ll— What the hell are you— Stay down, woman!”

You put your hand flat on the crate nearest to you and hauled yourself to your feet. Then you put your fists up, your knuckles bloody from where the scabs had split.

“We—don’t—stop,” you puffed, each word more difficult to get out than the last. “A real fight doesn’t— stop— for anything.”

“This isn’t a real fight,” he reminded you. He reached out and you ducked under his arm, a lightning strike of pain shooting up your side where the bone had fractured. But you came out on the other side, planting your feet.

“It’s real. You’re a vampire.” You needed him to be as worked up as you were, so you pushed this button deliberately. “I’m the new Slayer.”

“You’re not—”

“I am.” You were taking shallow breaths now, trying to stay steady. “She’s gone and I’m here. Someone has to take over.”

“There’s already a new Slayer out there, you don’t have to—”

“I promised my mom I would take care of her. And if I couldn’t do that, then I’ll make damn sure I take care of Sunnydale. Now fight me.”

With one swift move, he had your wrists pinned behind your back, making your ribs groan.

Jesus Christ.

“You can handle it,” Spike said, reading your mind. “Don’t think I’m going easy on you. Not when you seem to like the pain so well.”

You weren’t strong enough to shake him off. Months of this, of trying to train your body to do better, and you still didn’t possess a fraction of what Buffy had.

“Why don’t you tell me what this is about, love?”

He bent his neck over your shoulder like he was playing the part of the loving boyfriend getting ready to place a kiss on your cheek, maybe hold you from behind like he was helping you to line up a shot in golf.

“I need to get better.”

“You’re killing yourself.”

“No.” You almost broke your wrists pulling out of his grip and he had to steady you before you fell back. He placed a hand on middle of your ribcage where the skin was beginning to swell, wincing. “I wouldn’t do that to Dawn. To any of them. I’m only trying to make it right. Willow will look me over when we’re done.”

Spike shook his head. “I know this is how you deal with grief from your mum, but this is ridiculous.”

“This is nothing like that.”

“No?”

You picked your jacket up off the ground, shaking it out. You got hot during training, but you were freezing now.

“No.”

He followed you out of the alley doggedly, his thunderous footsteps right behind your own. Across the street, down the sidewalk, and into your car. He climbed in before you could lock the doors. Sitting down made the pain in your ribs flare, but you filed that away under Things to Deal with Later.

“Tell me.”

“It’s just different.” He continued to watch you steadily. Stealthily. Hungrily. You reached to start the car, but he stilled your hand. You slapped his away.

���Why do you care? Do you really have so few other friends that you have to follow me around like a lost puppy? Get out, Spike.”

“You know why.”

You did. He told you before, before Buffy took the high dive, but you had ignored him. Even when he offered to kill Drusilla for you, even when he almost got himself killed by Glory to save Dawn. You believed he felt something. Lust, a proximity to danger. Something to make his immortal life more interesting. But as you had told him before, that wasn’t the same as love.

“Get out.”

“I care about you,” he said through clenched teeth. “For the last year, I’ve only tried to do right by you. You say that you don’t want to play the part of the broken girl, but here you are. I should nominate you for a bloody Oscar.”

“Just because I don’t want to fuck you doesn’t mean that—”

Spike almost broke off the handle as he slammed open the car door, his jaw tight.

“Don’t come crying to me when no one else is willing to stomach your bullshit.”

You stewed in the car for all of two minutes, smacking the horn and screaming at the top of your lungs, before you calmed down enough to think things over.

You were miserable.

Mostly because of Buffy’s death, but also because you were tired of trying to fill her shoes. You couldn’t come up with that many puns in combat or put slaying ahead of everything else. You couldn’t lock down your feelings in order to get the job done. You couldn’t even be honest with the people you loved about how you felt.

You fully considered letting Spike walk out of your life and never come back. You probably would have, too. If he hadn’t been right. If he hadn’t found a way to get you the money you needed after your mother’s death. If he hadn’t volunteered to watch Dawn, to do extra research, even to make dinner one night when you were feeling especially out of it. He almost burned the house down, but he had tried.

You had lashed out at him more times than you could count, and he always took it with a steadiness that kept you grounded when it counted. And now, when he finally bit back, it was because you had suggested that all he wanted from you was sex.

You rolled out of your seat, locked up the car, and tucked the keys in your pocket, swiveling blindly. Where had he gone? Back to the crypt? To the alley? You saw a flicker of black disappear around the corner and followed.

You caught a glimpse of Spike ducking into a decrepit all-night bar. Tugged your jacket tighter around yourself. Prayed that no one would recognize you. Stepped inside.

It was the seedy kind of monster venue that only he could like. Demons leered at you from behind tables marked with blood and vampires ordered drinks at the scuffed bar top. Spike was ordering a Bloody Mary when you sat down next to him. The stool creaked beneath your weight, but he didn’t so much as look at you. The bartender glared at you disapprovingly but let you be. To soften him up, you ordered your own drink, although you didn’t know if you’d be able to take a single sip. The place didn’t look very sanitary.

“I know when I’m wrong,” you said to the glasses behind the bar. “I’m not trying to put up walls. But I don’t want anyone taking care of me. I don’t like to be treated like I’m fragile.”

That wasn’t true. You remembered that one night after your shift when all you had wanted was to be babied. To have someone else take the load for you. But that was before and this was now.

Spike stayed silent. You cleared your throat. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to dangle anything in front of you. When I suggested we train together, I wasn’t leading you on. Or I didn’t mean to be leading you on. It’s just different being around you than the others.”

You could practically hear crickets chirp in here. The bartender dropped off your drinks and Spike took a long sip. Like you didn’t even exist.

“I didn’t want to ruin what we have.”

You were conscious of sounding like every annoying movie protagonist ever.

“Not that we have anything, only—we’re friends, aren’t we? I don’t want the only reason for you hanging out with me to be that you’re waiting for the day you can get in my pants. So I ignore it, like it’ll make it go away,” you babbled. Demons were giving you disgusted glances now, but you rushed on. “And I meant what I said, about how this isn’t like when my mom died. I always knew that any one of us could meet something we couldn’t come back from. I had a plan then. I saved and I learned how to do taxes and I made sure Dawn got to school. But now when the money’s almost run out and we’ve been through two funerals, I can’t—I can’t do this. Any of it. And if you’re only in this for the chase and I give in, that means I have one less person on my side, and I used to have friends, people I trusted, but then life started revolving around Buffy like she was the sun and now— Now she’s gone. And I don’t want anyone to love me ever again, I only want to know that I can take care of myself in the absence of love. I only want to know that I can take care of who’s left.”

He still wasn’t looking at you. And whose fault was that? You had burned your last bridge to the one person left in your life who had known you and cared about you more than Buffy. Who was more concerned with your life than her death. Wasn’t that awful of you? To have ever wanted that?

“I’m sorry,” you said again. You left the money for your drink and stood up. “I thought you should know.”

God, your ribs fucking hurt. You applied pressure to the swelling like you were holding in your internal organs as you dragged your feet to the front door. Then you heard one of the barstools squeal as Spike spun in a full rotation, casual as the devil.

He finished his drink and stood, meeting your eyes for the first time and prying the keys from your hand.

“Come on then. I’ll drive you home.”