#he does not remember that he can be so gentile | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thetomorrowshow · 2 months ago

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visions, visage, gentile, genteel ch. 2

esh au sequel jsyk

cw: blood and violence

Apparently fWhip is taking more of an active villain role lately, because Scott finds himself up against the man after he, for some reason, demolishes half of a restaurant.

"Come on, fWhip, I'd expect this of Solidarity, but not you," Scott teases as he halfheartedly throws a snowball at fWhip.

The snow's melting with a temporary warming of the weather—expected for November—and Scott definitely hasn't been moping because of it. That does mean, though, that his fighting is a little less impressive while he waits for the weather to get cold again—it isn't bad by any means, but his winter fighting style is built on the assumption that there's snow and ice around him, and his summer style kind of needs warmer air or rain, so he has to jury-rig something in-between for days like this.

Which is all to say, if he misses his shots, it isn't his fault.

And he's not really trying to hurt fWhip. He's just putting on a show, right now.

fWhip dodges his snowball easily, chuckling. "We both know Solidarity is dead, don't we?" he ribs back.

Scott does kind of hate that fWhip knows so much about Solidarity's whereabouts, but there's nothing to do about it. The man promised not to reveal anything about Jimmy's identity or current living status, and Jimmy (for some odd reason) seems to like hanging out with him, so Scott can tolerate his presence in his life. fWhip had helped to rescue Jimmy, after all. Scott ought to be grateful.

Gratitude, of course, is a difficult thing to feel when the intended recipient is launching mini missiles at him.

"Do you mind?" Scott grunts, ducking out of the way of another one of them.

"Hey, you're the one who won't leave me alone!"

"You destroyed a restaurant!"

fWhip scoffs. "It was a chain restaurant, you can't tell me you care that much."

"It was a source of work for many people," argues Scott. "And food for others. You can't just destroy private property, fWhip!"

Instead of responding, fWhip launches another missile at him.

And that's when it happens.

There isn't a bang, this time. There's no big noise, no announcement of whatever surge is about to hit.

It's just that suddenly, for the first time since the deli incident three days ago, Scott is everything.

He is the icicles hanging from the wheels of every parked car in the city, the slush on the sidewalks downtown, the great melting piles of dirty snow in parking lots that freeze more firmly and spread as he becomes them. He follows the water pipes under the ground all the way along, freezing over as they go, to a townhouse where a woman with brown hair is snapping on her sunflower-themed superhero mask—

It's just the slightest bit easier to pull himself back into his body this time than it has been in the past. Maybe seeing Pearl had shocked him just enough, or maybe it was some unknown influence, or just chance, but Scott can feel his fingers again and pulls himself out of every piece of ice in the city and returns, head reeling and bile rising in his throat.

When he can get a hold of his bearings, desperately trying not to vomit, it’s not quite the same as it was moments ago.

It's snowing.

It hadn't been snowing, but now it is snowing and Scott can't quite comprehend why.

The forecast had said no chance of snow. Not for a couple more days. Scott remembers that very distinctly because he'd complained to Jimmy about it over breakfast.

There's a dark cloud directly above him in the sky, and snowflakes swirling down around, and Scott feels. . . .

So much.

So powerful. So unnervingly powerful.

He doesn’t like it at all.

The handful of watching bystanders and the singular reporter/cameraman pair are shivering, pressing closer to each other for warmth, snowflakes settling on their shoulders and hair.

fWhip's the same way, and he glares at Scott, arms wrapped around himself to find warmth where his thin coat can't offer any.

"Dude, what was that for?" fWhip demands. "You're hurting civilians."

Is he hurting people? Scott still isn't really sure what he did, or why it's snowing, or why he feels so dizzy, but he knows that it was his own burst of power that made the air so frigid. Of course it was. How could it have been anyone else?

Scott glances around at them. The reporter gives him a shivering thumbs-up, so Scott turns back to fWhip, ready to call a bit of a break so he can take the time to reverse this.

fWhip, however, is gone.

Scott mutters a curse under his breath. His power’s got to be teleportation, then. Maybe Scott's a little full of himself, but he thinks he would've noticed superspeed. Some little breeze as he ran or something, right?

That isn't really important, though. As much as it stings to let fWhip get away, it's even worse to accidentally hurt innocents. How could he let this happen again? How is it that he can still feel so much beyond his body, his senses present and yet far away?

No time to really contemplate that now. There's people around him, and new fights to find, so Scott returns to the moment at hand to attempt to unfreeze the civilians around him.

And as he travels home that evening, Scott can feel every arm of every snowflake in the city.

"We've never seen anything like this from Major. He somehow created a wall of ice that was over thirty feet high, images shown here. Observers said they felt a noticeable drop in temperature and that it even started to snow. One witness said that it got so cold that frost started forming on his shoulders. When—"

Scott shuts off the TV and flops back onto the couch. The gossip magazines had been fine. He's always on the cover of some magazine or another. Everybody knows not to trust those, that they spread rumors and lies.

But the news? Channel 9? Sure, he's been a little bit out of control lately. That doesn't deserve an entire news story. He's fine.

If he closes his eyes, he can feel every bit of ice in the neighborhood.

It's too much. It’s so much that Scott can barely keep from vomiting with how dizzy he is.

Where did this even come from?

At first—was it really only a week or two ago when this started?—, the all-encompassing connection faded after a couple of minutes, leaving a lingering sense of nausea but no other ill effects. Now it lasts for hours at a time, ready to grasp his senses if he relaxes for even a second, a far-too intense amount of power to hold back forever.

This morning, Scott had frozen his tea. His toast had frosted over in his hands. His chair still has icicles hanging from it.

And he hasn't managed to find the courage to tell anyone, either. How is he supposed to be the Primary Protector if he can't even keep a hold of his own powers?

How can he be a good husb—boyfriend if he can't stop freezing things at random?

As summoned by the thought of him, a key turns in the front lock, and four little pairs of cat feets patter to the door. Despite himself, Scott can't help but smile at Elle as she trots past him, abandoning her place on the armchair.

Jimmy enters smiling, nose pink from the cold, and Scott almost completely forgets about his worries as he stares at that smile.

Even back at the beginning, when Jimmy’s eyes had been dead and his face cloudy, he was beautiful. Watching the light and life return to his face had been like watching a butterfly tear free of its chrysalis, transformed and radiant.

Radiant. That’s a good word to describe Jimmy’s smile.

He could stare at that smile every morning for the rest of his life, Scott thinks.

"I'm so gay," he says out loud.

Jimmy snorts, leading the two cats to the kitchen. "Is this news?"

Scott doesn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet, stretches, and follows Jimmy.

"How was your day?" Scott asks, checking the clock. It's getting close to dinnertime, he ought to get started on something. Spaghetti, probably, since he left it so late. Something quick and easy, that even he can't ruin.

"Good! Real cold, you would've loved it."

Maybe. But now Scott can't help but wonder if it was so cold because of him.

Can he actually affect the weather that much? Sure, he'd made it snow that one time, but only directly above where he was.

If he was really affecting the temperature of the city, Scott assures himself, he would've seen something on the weather. As far as the meteorologists have reported, the temperatures are accurate and expected.

"Jerry sent us all home with a couple of cookies, which was nice of him! His wife made them for the office," Jimmy continues. "I asked, and they don’t have almonds, so we can both eat them." He gestures toward a little bag of six or so cookies on the table.

Scott's heart warms a little bit. Jimmy didn’t have to do that. He never has to do anything like that, but he's always been one of the most selfless people Scott knows. It's a small act, checking for one's partner's allergens, but huge in the scheme of the relationship. He can't wait to enjoy the cookies with his boyfriend.

But dinner first.

"I was thinking of making spaghetti tonight," says Scott, once again checking the time. "Unless there's something else you want?"

Jimmy shrugs from where he's bent over, feeding each cat a treat. "Whatever you want sounds good," he says, something sappy in his tone. Then, straightening and turning to Scott with a bit of a frown, he asks, "Unrelated—were you warm, babe?"

Scott blinks. He's not, not really. He happens to have a built-in cooling system and can dust his skin with frost any time he likes. And sometimes he does turn down the house temperature, but usually only in the summer. "Uh, not particularly?"

"Oh," Jimmy laughs a little. "Well, it's kind of cold in here. What's the temperature?"

It doesn't really feel cold, but Scott heads into the hall to check the house temperature at the thermostat set on the wall, if only for Jimmy’s peace of mind.

The number he sees displayed there stops him in his tracks.

42°F.

No way.

If he's—he usually has to consciously exert energy to make an entire house cold, and here he'd done it without even noticing. That's—that just isn't possible. He can tell the differences in temperature, he knows what hot and cold feel like, he knows—

Scott bashes the button a couple of times to turn it up to 70°F, checking over his shoulder to make sure that Jimmy doesn't look at the thermostat. He doesn't want to worry him. He doesn't want Jimmy to think something's wrong, when nothing's wrong, everything's fine and normal.

"You're right, it was pretty chilly," he calls back to the kitchen. "I set it for seventy, so don't worry about it."

Scott's going to worry about it, though.

The entire house. He brought the entire house nearly down to freezing temperatures. No wonder Elle and Norman were cuddling like they rarely do.

Scott doesn't know what's wrong. Of course, nothing's wrong. This is just a slight hiccup. Nothing bad is happening.

And suddenly, it gets very intense very fast.

One moment he's there, staring stubbornly at the thermostat, telling himself that he’s in control and he needs to shape up—and the next he's all the way across the city, creeping up windows and the sides of houses and freezing water in gutters and he feels free, he feels everything, he feels like he's going to vomit—

And then there's a shout, and arms around his incorporeal waist, and it's only Scott's instinct that gives him the ability to toss up ice around himself without even seeing through his own eyes.

He's still so far away, crawling into the coffee of a worker in an office building, blowing through a vent in a high school classroom open for robotics club, curling around the ankles of pedestrians as they trudge through the slush on the sidewalk, all at once and so much more.

It's not like looking through a kaleidoscope, it's like being a kaleidoscope, spinning and fractured and put-together in new ways and new places, and Scott is remade thousands of times before he finally finds a metaphorical rock in this river that has swept him away.

That rock is a tiny bit of frost curling around the fingers of his lover, who holds Scott's unmoving body under a dome of ice.

He needs to get back to Jimmy.

Scott drags his way back to himself, expending almost a physical effort, clawing and scraping through time and space and many swirling seas of ice until he can finally see through his own eyes.

He gasps in a breath and chokes almost immediately, dust filling his lungs. His mouth and throat are dry and chalky, and he can't hold back a coughing fit even as something heavy hits his back several times and helps eject the dust from his throat.

When Scott can breathe again, tears streaming from his eyes, he pulls his aching body (he can feel his body, every part of it, cold and tired and nauseating and his head hurts) to his knees and blinks over at Jimmy.

Jimmy's fearful eyes peer out at him from a face white with dust, more of it powdering his hair and in almost a splash across his chest. He looks shaken, but otherwise unharmed.

"Are you okay?" Jimmy asks desperately, trembling hands finding their way to Scott's face.

Scott swallows dust, then croaks, "Yeah, I think. You?"

Jimmy nods, hands still tenderly cupped around Scott's face. One grimy thumb wipes away a tear. "Yeah. Good thinking with the ice."

Scott glances around, sees the strong little igloo that he's thrown around them.

And he's not entirely sure why.

"What happened?"

"The wall collapsed," Jimmy says shortly, dropping Scott's face to dig into his jeans pocket. "It's not good. This is why I always carry a mask—you never know when it might come in handy—"

A mask?

Scott barely even has time to process what Jimmy's saying before a mask is being snapped over his eyes, the elastic pulling funny around his hair.

Why would he need a mask? If the wall collapsed—

"Was that not . . . you?" he asks, gesturing out. It's something that would have happened years ago, before Jimmy got control of his powers. Maybe something went wrong, maybe Jimmy felt the burst of power that went through Scott (and if he releases his tight focus just the tiniest bit, he'll be swept away again into that river of power) and as a result, his own powers kicked in and the wall fell in.

The wall of their house, their things, Elle—Norman—

"It was something more than me," says Jimmy grimly. "And there's someone else here. Get ready to fight."

Isn't that nice?

So Scott dusts himself off a bit, flexes his toes (no shoes for a battle is just asking for trouble), and lets the ice melt away.

For a wild moment, he thinks that he somehow ended up outside.

Then he realizes that he’s still in the house—the front of the house is just gone.

Hanging out of their gutted house is his and Jimmy's bed, half of their shower, and their entire sofa. Books are spread across the day-old snow from where their shelf had collapsed, and their front door is lying on the doormat, the yard a mess of drywall rubble.

Almost poetically, a snowflake lands on Scott's nose. That hadn't been on the weather radar this morning.

He stands, slowly, head spinning, and takes a step off the splintered wood floor and into the yard, snow soaking his socks. He takes another step, then another, until he can see around the side of the tree in their front yard.

There's no one there. Nothing moves. The only sound is his gasping breaths.

And, like an idiot, he starts to let his guard down. He thinks maybe Jimmy was mistaken, that he had destroyed it by accident and hadn't realized.

So Scott lets his fists lower, lets his eyes turn back to the house, looking for any sign of his cats.

A shadow passes over him, followed by the sound of something rippling through the air, and Scott whirls back around.

He's just in time to see a woman land on the ground behind him.

He isn't in time to block her punch.

Her fist glances off his face—he manages to turn his head just enough that it won't be lights out but his vision does spark as pain explodes across his face—and Scott stumbles back, tripping over his own heels until he hits the ground.

For a moment, he can feel everything—and when he tries to quickly pull away from it, he pulls some of it back with him.

The light flakes of snow that have been floating down increase. The sky above begins to darken. Ice crackles down Scott's arms, coating them in the best protection he can create.

Scott pulls himself to his feet, reeling at the nausea that comes from using even a tiny bit of the power that the city has to offer. He's not sure he can do much more than defend himself right now, so ill-accustomed to trying to harness whatever this is. But he steadies himself and looks up at his attacker, properly taking her in for the first time.

She has goggles like fWhip's instead of a normal mask pulled over her eyes, her thin face framed with long, blond hair. She's tall, as tall as Scott is, and she stands more confidently than most minor villains. Her costume is somewhat uncommon for what Scott usually sees—she's dressed like a cosplayer, old-fashioned puffy shirt and breeches with tall, leather boots. Definitely not suited for the weather, but she doesn't seem to even notice it, her leather-wrapped knuckles not even shaking despite it certainly being below freezing.

Scott's never seen her before in his life.

"Major," she growls, as if he's her worst enemy.

"Who are you?" Scott gasps.

Instead of answering, she takes another swing. This one Scott manages to dodge, leaning back far enough that he barely feels the wind as it passes.

She goes for another hit (which she again misses) before rocking back on her heels and pulling from the holster around her waist that Scott has only just noticed—a gun.

A fascinating gun, one with showy gears and mechanisms that Scott only knows about because a snowflake flutters its way inside the weapon (and he sees and feels and is that snowflake), but a gun nonetheless and Scott is very much not bulletproof.

And he knows, through the little specks of frost growing on the gun, that she pulls the trigger, setting off a series of chain reactions inside the workings.

He reaches for a wall of ice—

There's a scream, to his right—Scott's head whips in that direction—a teenager has stepped out of the house next door, phone pressed to their ear as they watch the battle—

And then something hits Scott hard in the arm and he's knocked back from the force of it, stumbling backward through the snow until his foot slips and he crashes, flat on his back.

There's more screaming, and a very loud noise, and Scott looks around as if in slow motion and gets pulled beyond his body once again.

The man across the street, peering fearfully through his window as frost spreads across the glass. The teenager practically screaming for help on the emergency line as a flurry of snowflakes land in their hair. A family, hiding in their van instead of getting out and into the house, their tires icing over. A young man who had been out for a walk with his dog just staring down the street, where a familiar superhero (though in street clothes) is lying on the ground, the snow around him slowly turning red.

And then, like whiplash, Scott is forced back into his body.

And it hurts.

"Did I get shot?" he hears himself mumble, and before he even has time to process his own words he looks down at his arm to see an awful lot of blood seeping out of his bicep. That can't be good.

The pain really amps up, then. It’s all Scott can do to not scream as more and more blood stains the snow, bathing his arm in red.

He needs to get up, needs to keep all those watching people safe, but just thinking about moving his arm makes him want to throw up. It hurts, and badly, a burning hole in his upper left arm and every breath is a gasp that tears at his throat and every movement sends pain jangling down his entire body.

The woman is standing above him. Blurrily, Scott sees her gun pointed right at his head.

"What's going on?" she demands, the words coming as if from underwater. "What has happened to us?"

Scott blinks. What's going on? He doesn't know what’s going on. All he knows is that he's feeling kind of dizzy and his arm hurts and everything smells like blood.

He blinks again, and Jimmy's there, appearing upside-down above his head. He looks pretty from this angle.

"I'll kill you," Jimmy probably says. Whatever he says is low and threatening, and defending Scott. That's nice of him.

And he probably does something. All Scott sees is that the sky gets very very dark, and a roaring sound fills his ears, and the snow gets thrown about and the grass gets torn out of the ground with the force of the wind.

And then he blinks, and the storm is dying down, and Jimmy's kneeling beside him—

Scott screams and everything comes into clarity, and a Jimmy made of a sharp edges is twisting a shirt around Scott's arm right where it hurts the worst—his world is on fire and he can't even think, it's so so so bad—

"Breathe, Scott!" Jimmy commands, cutting harshly through the echo in his ears. Scott sucks in a breath without thinking. It's cold and burns his lungs, but it feels good after screaming.

"An ambulance is coming," Jimmy tells him, clearly and carefully. He looks blurry suddenly, going in and out of focus. "I can’t come with you, but you’ll be okay. Keep your mask on, okay?"

Scott stares at him.

"Cool," Jimmy says, patting Scott's hip. "I'm going to call Lizzie to come here and look for Norman and Elle, so don't worry about that. Did you put your wallet on the bedside table?"

He usually puts his wallet there. Scott nods, then gasps when the movement of his neck pulls at his arm in some way that he didn't think was possible. It hurts. Why does it hurt so much? Surely . . . surely he's had worse. Surely a little . . . a little gunshot wound is nothing.

"Right," mutters Jimmy. He looks away, calling out to someone Scott can't see. "Hey, you! Go in the house through there, okay? Look for a thin wallet on the bedside table and bring it here."

Then he turns back to Scott, and for some strange reason, starts rubbing his hand.

The one attached to his arm. His arm that hurts.

Scott grits his teeth and tries not to scream.

He's been shot. He's been shot, and he needs to man up and deal with it. He's been through . . . like, way worse, after all. Not long ago, he broke his arm and got a concussion at the same time. He ought to at least be better put together than he was then.

Scott struggles to sit up, feels his stomach and head turn at the same time. He pushes through it—he has to get up, he has to help Jimmy fight the woman—but a hand firmly pushes him back down.

"Do not sit up," Jimmy instructs. "You're injured. Hear those sirens? They're coming for you, big man."

Now that Scott thinks about it, he can hear sirens. They probably aren't that important, though, so he focuses on Jimmy, Jimmy and his chattering teeth and his red hands and his concerned eyes.

"Are you cold?" he thinks he asks. Maybe he doesn't say anything, though, because Jimmy doesn’t reply, instead turning away.

Then he blinks again, and someone who is not Jimmy leans over him.

"Where's—" not Jimmy, don't say Jimmy, secret identities and all that— "Where's Solidarity?"

The woman frowns. "Major? We're taking you to the hospital. Do you remember what happened?"

"Where's Solidarity?" Scott asks again, as clearly as he can. He just wants his boyfriend here with him, is that too much to ask?

The woman's face grows serious, but she doesn't say anything else to him. She backs up, making room for some other people who lay a stretcher beside him.

And then there's a lot of pain as people move him and settle him and lift him, and Scott is horribly conscious of all of it, from the ground to the ambulance bed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.

He wants Jimmy. Why isn’t Jimmy here?

He feels so dizzy, though. So very dizzy, and sick—and someone’s snapping in his face, telling him to keep his eyes open, but his eyes are open, he’s deliberately holding them as wide as he can despite the blackness fuzzing over his vision.

He should be okay to take a little nap, though. That should be fine.

Maybe, when he wakes up, Jimmy will be there.

#empires smp #esmp #empires smp fanfic #flower husbands #scott smajor #jimmy solidarity #esh au #empires superpowers au #mas writes #yallllll i'm so tired #as soon as i post this im going to BED #well first im showering #then?? sleepytown population me #me: oh i cant believe i'm uploading such a short chapter #checks word count #me: oh. that is 4k words.#that is a normal chapter length for me #anyways lmk what you think #love you guys

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danibee33 · 1 year ago

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The Queen’s Guard - Chapter 6: Promise

knight!simon riley x queen!reader

word count: 2.5k

[<<< chapter 5]

For the first time, in longer than you can remember, you don’t dread the morning sun. You watch it crest the horizon, feel its warmth radiate on your skin, bask in its dewey light- bathing you in a delightful glow.

And it feels so surreal, like you’re surely doomed to wake from this dream, like the strong arms that had held you so tightly, and the lips that kissed yours so passionately, were only figments of your imagination. Yet, when you reach out, your fingers graze over the very real, and very smooth, cold, dark surface of Simon’s helmet still sitting on your bedside table; unmoved since he had retrieved it from the balcony hours ago-

“It’s real, My Queen..” You suck in a breath at the thick rasp of Simon’s voice in your ear, earning you a sweet chuckle, the arm around your waist pulling you closer so he can bury his nose into the soft hair at the nape of your neck, “‘m sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

A deep sigh parts your lips at the way he feels, how solid and hot his body is wrapped around yours, his breath sneaking beneath the collar of your nightgown,

“Tell me,” You say, wriggling yourself even further against him, “can you read minds, Ser Simon?”

Your question riles a deep and genuine laugh from him this time, though he does his best to keep it quiet, only for your ears, and hopefully none that dare to pry-

“Why?” He asks, gently tugging you to turn over, “Somethin’ up here you wouldn’t want me to know?”

Smiles pull at both your lips when he taps your temple with the pad of his finger, and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen something as glorious as Simon’s dimpled smirk- Gods, why would he ever hide under that helmet.. it’s a fleeting thought, but one you hope to learn the answer to eventually. Hm, eventually, when is that? How much time do you really have with him? What could possibly-

“Hey..” His calloused palm settles over your cheek, thumb tracing a soft, back and forth pattern, his eyes narrowed in concern, “What is it? I lost you..”

Such a simple question, and such a simple statement, but they feel incomprehensible. That you could have given your life to man for years, and he still knows nothing of you, thinks nothing of you- but Simon, who has only been with you for a handful of months, has somehow learned you, maybe even better than you know yourself.

You rest your palm over his hand, unsure of what to say, or where it could possibly go; his promise ringing in your ears, reverberating through your marrow and bones-

“I’m goin’ to get you out of here. I swear it.”

“If we leave.. Where will we go?”

“When we leave..” His voice is steady and hardly above a whisper, the tip of his nose grazing over yours, “We’ll go wherever you like. The coast, inland, mountains, and forests- we’ll see it all.”

“But.. Simon- the King..”

So, so sweetly, you feel him pull your head forward just enough to crush his lips against yours- effectively silencing all your relentless thoughts, even if only for this glorious moment. Because it’s so easy to be consumed in him, in his power and his gentility, his brutish strength and the way he holds you as if you were made of the most precious and rare element he knew. And once again, you feel your body giving in to him- feel the tightness gather in your belly, and the ache grow between your legs. You want him, in every way that a woman can want a man- but all too soon, he’s pulling away again, his forehead pressing against yours,

“I will deal with the King, sweet girl.” He studies you, biting harshly at his bottom lip before glancing behind you towards the sunrise, “I have to dress- your hand maid will be here soon.”

You know you should let go of him, but it feels like you only just got him- and your stubborn heart wins against the logic of your mind as you lean into him again, kissing him with a little more urgency, a fervor behind your actions that he gives into, but only for a moment. He holds you back, eyes clenched shut in a silent battle all his own,

“Little Queen, you might think me a better man than I am..” He practically groans out the words, reaching down to hitch your thigh up over his hip, pushing his pelvis forward so that his want and arousal are made quite evident to you, “But, I beg of you, not here.. Not yet.”

There’s nothing in his words or his tone that could lead you to believe he doesn’t want all the same things you do, nothing about the hard length that presses against your cunt that could possibly make you believe he isn’t holding on by the thinnest of threads, trying his damnedest to be good to you- so that you’ll never, ever think that he simply wants your body and nothing else.

“Ok, Simon..” You nod, letting him press one more kiss to your lips, one so full of pining and longing, that it threatens to steal the air from your lungs as you reluctantly relent your hold on him so that you both could sit up, a little breathless and out of sorts.

But even though you’ve parted, it doesn’t stop him from planting a few more chaste kisses over your jaw and cheekbone before tearing himself away, allowing you to watch as he moves across the room. Seeing him only in his thin base layers is enough to raise your heart rate, remembering how you helped him shed his bulky armor last night- and now, you watch ardently as he picks it up and puts it back on, piece by piece- the thick muscles of his back and shoulders rippling and flexing with every practiced movement.

And, far quicker than you like, he’s sauntering towards your side of the bed, where you’ve sat so entranced by him- seeing him once more covered by the heavy steel plates, the ones that only make him larger than life, that make his already broad frame almost unnaturally bigger, his pitch black cloak billowing behind him,

“I’ll assume my post like always,” Simon says with a low tone, taking your bare hand in his gloved one just so he can place a gentlemanly kiss to the soft, pale skin, grabbing his helmet when he lets go.

You stand, looking up at him- committing every wonderful feature and flaw to memory before it’s covered again,

“And I’ll have a raven sent to Clan MacTavish, he can help us-”

But Simon shifts on his feet, your hand still engulfed by his own, “Are you sure, My Queen?”

And you can see the way his dark brows furrow behind the helmet, he doesn’t trust Johnny, but you can understand his apprehension- he doesn’t know the Scot like you do, and if what you think is going to happen, there can be no loose ends in what’s to come.

“Yes, I’m sure. There’s not a soul that we could trust more, Simon. I promise.”

This time, it’s you who lifts his hand to your lips, kissing the black leather as if to seal your own words- something a proper queen should never do, but the warmth that spreads through you when you see his eyes widen slightly makes you want to do it again and again.

He gives you a nod, not allowing himself the chance to waste anymore time, because gods know he would never leave you if given the option- but he must. There is much to plan, much to do, too many seeds of doubt to sow in far too short a time.

Johnny’s POV——

Work. That’s what it feels like for Johnny to come home. There’s no rest for the weary, no, not at the MacTavish estate, they’d never dream of allowing such a luxury-

Buncha fuckin’ dobbers they can be.. I swear.

Yet, he greets them all the same. Giving his Da a stiff, one-armed hug, exchanging the traditional three harsh pats to the back before moving down the path towards his childhood home.

“You’ll tell us about yer visit to court, won’t ye, Johnny?”

A warm smile spreads over his face as he looks down at his youngest sister, throwing an arm lazily over her shoulder,

“Well, hi to you, too, El..” Johnny teases, ruffling her dark brown curls playfully, “I’ll give ye all the juicy gossip tomorrow- after we get some shut eye, eh?” he says, nodding at the maid as they cross the grand threshold, “And I wan’ tae hear about this new constellation ye’ve discovered, my wee little genius!”

Elsie giggles and tries to escape his hold, going on about him being a numpty- all smiles and laughter until the most senior Lord MacTavish blows out a loud scoff,

“Enough o’ that, you two. Elsie, go on, need tae talk tae yer brother.”

She shies away almost too quickly, and it makes his stomach turn, seeing the flash of fear in her eyes as she gives his side one more weak squeeze before flitting off up the stairs-

“Been a long few days, Da. ‘M right ready for a bed-“

The door to the Lord’s study slams shut, cerulean eyes pinning Johnny down in an instant,

“I dinnae give two shites ‘bout how long it’s been, son. I told ya, if you were comin’ back here, ye’d better have a wife in tow.”

Johnny rolls his eyes- big mistake.

His father is a big man, and he’s never had an issue using his size against the lot of them- Johnny being the eldest, all the way down the line, and even their Ma, gods rest her soul.

Which is how he ends up with his back shoved against the closest wall,

“Mind yer fuckin’ attitude with me, boy.” He spits the words, making sure Johnny knows just how little he still in his father’s eyes, “Ye think yer someone big and important out there, huh? Think the army made ye tough, gave ye a big heid, that it? Well, dinnae forget who-“

But, see, Johnny isn’t that little boy anymore, he isn’t that frightened little teenager constantly in fear of the good Lord MacTavish’s thumb crushing him under its weight. His time in the army has treated him well, in fact. He’s bigger, taller, stronger, and faster- and too much time spent on the front lines has made his skin thick and calloused.

With a deep snarl, Johnny is quick to grab the older man by his collar and reverse their positions before he even knows what’s happening,

“Tha’s not how this works anymore, m’lord.”

If Johnny could sketch the shock and surprise in his father’s eyes, he would- hells, he might, because it’s a beautiful sight. One he thinks he’ll remember for a long, long time to come-

“And if I hear one more cross word out of yer filthy fuckin’ mouth, I’ll cut yer tongue out m’self. Is that clear?”

Matching blue eyes stay locked in a silent battle, young and old, a battle as old as times itself, father and son going head to head, a true fight for dominance.

The old lord’s lips curls in anger and disdain, his breath hot and laden with the thick scent of Scotch,

“Ah..” he coos, a chuckle bubbling from his barreled chest, “Aren’t ye a big hotshot, spent time with the little traitorous Scottish queen herself and suddenly yer invincible, that it?”

Johnny growls right back, pulling his father forward before slamming him against the solid wood even harder, “What? And yer still mad it wasn’t one of yer daughters, huh?”

The lord struggles against his hold, but turns out, the boorish old man isn’t all that strong anymore- at least not stronger than his son, which only enrages him more,

“I’m only here to settle my inheritance, ye insufferable old bastard. We’ll talk tomorrow, when ye think ye can speak to me like an equal-“

Johnny lowers his tone to something heavier, his voice dripping with malice, “and there will be none of this, ye won’t put yer hands on me, and I willnae put mine on you. Aye?”

A long silence stretches across the space between them, a heated pause, one that threatens to explode on a hair trigger- and maybe, it’s not actually that long, maybe it’s really only a few seconds, glaring daggers into his own father’s eyes before the old man gives a hateful, “Aye.”, in return.

And if Johnny just so happens to shove the self-righteous old cunt into the wall one more time for good measure, well- that’s between him and the gods he chooses to answer to. But, fuck all if it didn’t feel good to do it.

——

When he finally gets to his room, it’s a disparaging sight- dusty and stale, not a thing changed since he left years ago. And he wishes so badly to feel peace, to feel warmth and love in the place that he should feel all those things and more- in the place he did feel all those things when Ma was still alive.

Yet, it’s just sad and cold now, just how it was when he left. But, a smile does tug at his lips when he unlatches the case Sunny had sent home with him, packed to the brim with treats and fine fabrics and leathers. Some for him and each of his sisters, and an abundance of spares that would last them for a long while-

“Yer too good to us, Grianach..” he mumbles, popping a delightful, citrusy sweet in his mouth as he continues to unpack.

And it takes a while, but eventually he pulls a lone envelope from under a primly wrapped hunting vest, one of the finest he’s ever laid his hands on- the dark brown leather soft as butter in his fingers as he lays it to the side with care.

The bone white paper is thick and stiff, royal stationary that he knows well from letters and messages he’s gotten from her before; the edge sealed with a deep green wax crest- the king’s crest. It brings a disgusted grimace to his face, thinking of the last days with her, the terrible, mottled bruises on her skin- it makes him ill to his stomach to remember.

But, with a deep sigh, he gently pulls the seal apart- recognizing her handwriting right away- though, the farther he reads, the more his guts twist and wrench, the harder his heart beats and the less air it feels like he can suck into his seizing lungs-

No.. no, no, no. This isn’t right, it can’t be- not you, not my Sunny. How could you not tell me? Why didn’t you tell me how much pain you were in-

My dearest Johnny,

I pray this letter finds you well, cousin. And, I pray for your understanding in what I feel I must do, not only for myself, but more importantly, for you. Though.. I do not think you will see it that way, and I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry, Johnny. You’ve been my best friend since my first memories, never letting me forget that you’re one month and one day older than me, or that you learned to ride a horse first- remember sneaking out to the stables? I thought Mother would kill us both when you brought me back home covered in scrapes and muck. Oh, I miss the simplicity of those days, I miss it so much it hurts. That life I had for just a moment, where I was free and untethered- or well, I thought I was. And, I suppose, perception is what really matters, isn’t it?

That is what I’ve been taught my whole life, afterall, perception is key. That I must be at my best, presented in a pretty, pretty package- pleasing to the eye and well groomed enough so that the masses may never know the chaos that lies beneath the silks and jewels.

Well, my sweet Johnny, no more. I won’t do it, I will not be scruffed by the neck any longer, I will not live as a possession, an item, an object that only exists to be pretty and used. I am more than that, and I pray.. I pray you forgive me, I pray you are not disappointed, I pray that you remember me only as I was, and not what I have become. Remember me covered in scrapes and muck with a broad smile on my face and joy in my heart. That is the real me, not this fallacy that everyone thinks they know.

I have a trusted courier at the ready, the few earthly possessions I own that mean anything to me are to be delivered to the estate. They are yours. We always shared everything anyway, no need in changing that now. Be well, cousin.

All my love, your Sunny.

[chapter 7>>>]

taglist: @spxctorsslxt

#call of duty #but make it medieval #medieval au #knight!ghost #queen!reader #simon ghost riley #cod fandom #cod fanfic #john soap mactavish #lord mactavish #are you kidding me #also on ao3 #simon riley x reader #maybe a throuple?#slow burn #eventual smut #i promise #it’s coming #🫢🫢🫢

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extravagantliar · 2 months ago

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Dhavihal taps the tip of her carving knife against a blank branch, held in place by magic that flows from what remains of her left arm. She craves something to do to occupy her hand before she begins this conversation, again, but her mind is in so much turmoil turning the problem over and over that ideas for what to carve can't make it through.

They've been at this for only a couple of years, hunting him. Most of the people that she has surrounded herself with still believe there's no reasoning with him—they remember how scathingly stubborn he could be. They didn't see—haven't been told—the gentility he carried when Dhavi last saw him. The gravity of what he thinks he has to do. The regret, before it's even done, and how it weighs him down. How he would cherish the opportunity to be proven wrong yet again.

Because she has proven him wrong before. They all have. And maybe she's foolish, but she is still so full of hope. For now.

"Do you think—" she cuts herself off, hesitates. Digs the blade into the branch without direction, just to start something. Maybe all she'll whittle is a pointed stick, but at least it's something.

She starts again. "Are we fooling ourselves? That we can be enough to make him understand? He's—Solas. That literally means pride, Varric. Pride doesn't tend to listen very well. And he's—" A god, she doesn't say, because she doesn't have gods anymore, and she knows he wouldn't call himself that.

"He thinks he knows better than everyone. How are we supposed to contend with that?"

Varric pokes at the fire, eyes up and over the flames, over the gold and sparks, and he knows the words well. He is a man who never learned a lesson, surrounding himself with people just as stubborn as he is, leaving a city and a family he loves as he does this, and putting himself on thin ice and water that he cannot swim through, yet he's still out here; out in the middle of nowhere and still tending a fire, telling tall tales, of course, the company had dwindled, dying like embers against the night air, snapping back to a place that people should be.

Yet, Varric Tethras is not good at finishing books, missions, follow-through, and all the things that fall in between those words, all the bits and bobbles that should be finished and placed on a shelf, yet here he is out over a fire with Dhavi, just them - well and Harding, but she had been lulled to sleep by some story he had cooked up over something that was considered Ferelden's finest food. So, maybe Dhavi and Harding were also as bad as he was, maybe hard-pressed to put something down, maybe less Harding and more Dhavi.

"Haven't we talked about this before?" Maybe he was on the other side at the time, both of them talking at each other about what they were really doing out here, how he now had crows feet and more greys than he could count, how they shouldn't be out here ( But even then, Varric knew they should, they had to, as if who else but them? ). "Shit, Dhav, are we doing this again?"

The stick is thrown into the fire, and sparks flare for a moment, up and over as he stands and moves from his spot to next to Dhavi. It's dramatic in how he groans and flares his coat out over the stump. "Alright, Chuckles is three things - a gambler and an idiot." He wiggles his pinky and ring finger at both of those. "Pride can fall under either of those things, shit - I know I have mine." This is uncharted territory, a map that is still mostly blank, a board devoid of moves for a knight and a queen, both of them boxed nearly in.

Varric doesn't say a name; rather, Solas is now a contact, an old friend, an editor, an old ally, and just a man. He's read all he could get his hands on, heard the stories from Dhavi he's been allotted and listened to the words from the man himself, someone aching as much as he did - trying to get back something that was long gone, clawing at an end that Solas could not see as such, such words weigh in his mind. Varric knows not if they are for Solas after all; they could be for the foolish dwarf who still lights fires, chasing wolves and ravens, chasing signs and lost letters, broken glass and fragments he now casts wide among Thedas, like murals and memories.

So, there is a third reason and a middle finger. "He's just a man," Just like all of us - god or not, no capitalisation. It gives a though merit and misdeeds already done pulse again, so through bad deals and wild outdoors, Varric is out there to prove a point, a point they the both of them may stand on opposite divides of.

It wasn't always like this.

He had complained, but that had been a handful of years ago, a handful of years before he stood in front of a mosaic, in front of something that glittered like stars and spoke to a world of pain. Positions change, and hope can wear thin, nearly through and translucent, and light can seep through. "Pride is a fickle thing, you know, appeal to the better nature." Varric bullshits, elbowing Dhavi as he says it, as he tries to find something to sell it, if he can.

Who's to buy his own words but him?

There are no names, as those words are intended for several parties, himself included.

"Well, a few years ago, someone once parted seas of people and stitched the sky back together; brilliant woman - you should meet her." He elbows her again, a laugh, "You showed me that we don't give up on things; you take the path one step at a time. Even if he thinks he's right..." Even if they're wrong, those words die on Varric's tongue.

"We contend with it by showing up. It might not fix it, but - we have to try."

#someone said sign your own permission slip so I have #sometimes you and your found family make bad choices on the people you love #what is in the goddamn water?#this is hatemail to canon as i spike it onto the dash #.ask #.family is something like it ( KEEPSLORE )#is it raining in my house or am I CRYING #oh my ceiling is leaking

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short-wooloo · 1 year ago

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From Jediism to Judaism: Star Wars as Jewish Allegory, by Daniel Perez

A look at some of the Jewish elements – coincidental or otherwise – of Star Wars.

A long time ago in a place far, far away...

It is a period of civil war. A new government has declared the practice of the old faith a crime punishable by death, disbanding an ancient order of sages and sending many into exile. Rebel fighters, striking from a hidden base, have won their first major victory against the evil Empire, stirring a spirit of defiance among the populace. Outarmed and vastly outnumbered, the ragtag band of rebels – aided by an all-powerful, all-permeating Force that binds together all life in the universe – remain the only hope for restoring peace and freedom to their people.

It's one of the greatest epics known to mankind. No, not Star Wars. The above synopsis is actually the story of Hanukkah, the eight-day Jewish festival that commemorates a miraculous victory of Israelite insurgents against the tyrannical Seleucid Empire roughly 2,200 years ago.

With Star Wars Episode VII set to premiere in just a few short weeks, I got to thinking about how certain aspects of the Star Wars universe are eerily similar to the history, beliefs, and teachings of the Jews. Now George Lucas did not set out to create a fantasy universe full of Jewish references, but the connections are nevertheless there. So let's put the “Han” back in Hanukkah (Harrison Ford, by the way, technically a member of the tribe) and look at some of the Jewish elements – coincidental or otherwise – of Star Wars.

A Galaxy of Hebrew Names

The heroes of the Star Wars series are members of a “rebel alliance,” basically Maccabees in outer space. It's right there in the name: Jedi. The Hebrew letter yud is often anglicized as a “J,” and syllables occasionally get dropped in translation. Hence, a Biblical name like “Yehoshua” makes its way into English as “Joshua.” It's not much of a stretch to see how “Jedi” can be derived the original Hebrew word for Jew, “Yehudi.”

Remember Luke Skywalker's Jedi rebbe, Grand Master Yoda? Is it just me, or is his peculiar syntax reminiscent of someone whose first language is Yiddish (“Yodish”)? More to the point, his name sounds a lot like “yada,” the Hebrew word meaning “to know.”

And how about those Skywalkers? Luke Skywalker might sound like a gentile name, but that name was clearly chosen to alliterate with his twin sister Leia (Leah). Also keep in mind that their parents were an interfaith couple. The father, Anakin Skywalker, played by the unmistakably un-Jewish Hayden Christensen, tried to convert to Jediism, but as we know he ultimately turned to the Dark Side instead. Their mother was Queen Amidala, portrayed by the beautiful and talented Israeli-born actress Natalie Portman. Suffice it to say their marriage did not end well, and it wasn't until much later in life that their children discovered their Jedi-ish identity.

Learning Academy

When an aspiring Jedi Knight goes to the Academy, he or she must complete what is essentially an apprenticeship with one more learned in Jediism than they are. Similarly, a future rabbi's yeshiva experience will consist largely of chavruta learning (studying with a partner – lit. “friendship”). Fun fact: The name for a young, unmarried yeshiva student, “bochur,” actually means “chosen” (as in “The Chosen People”). The idea of a foretold “Chosen One” who would “restore balance to the Force” was a theme running throughout the Star Wars films, wherein Anakin Skywalker was recognized for his extraordinary potential as a Jedi. As mentioned above, he went “off the derech” and became the villainous Darth Vader. In Return of the Jedi, however, Vader/Skywalker fulfills the “prophecy” when he does teshuvah (our term for repentance, which literally means “return.” Whoa. Return of the Jedi!), thwarting Emperor Palpatine to save his son's life, and ultimately, the galaxy.

Of course, if you tell a young rabbi-in-training that he is the “Chosen One,” it sounds cool and dramatic and is technically true, but then, the same can be said of all of his classmates.

While the Star Wars films don't feature Jedi trainees delving into sacred texts (it doesn't make for the most exciting movie montage), some of the greatest rabbinic books of ethics and Jewish philosophy would be right at home in any Jedi library. “Duties of the Heart,” “The Path of the Just”....tell me these don't sound like the reading list for a hero of the Light Side.

The Force

While Jediism isn't a theistic religion per se, its practitioners do teach of a Force that, in the words of Reb Obi-Wan Kenobi "...is what gives a Jedi his power. It's an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together." That almost sounds like some sort of Chasidic teaching – just replace “energy field” with “entity” or “consciousness,” and “created by,” with “that creates,” and what you have starts to come across less like new age hippie talk and more like an introduction to Kabbalah, Jewish mysticism.

One idea that devout Jews of all stripes share, is that God, the creative “Force” that sustains all, is the source of a Jew's power. “Ein od milvado,” there is none besides Him. The Jew expresses his or her connection to the universe by striving for an ever closer relationship with its Creator.

Another aspect of Jedi belief is the notion of balance, the idea that the Light Side and the Dark Side are both aspects of the same Force seeking equilibrium. The religions that branched off from Judaism tend to show the Creator and Satan, or “The Devil,” in an adversarial relationship, almost a sort of de facto dualistic theology with a God and an anti-God, if you will. Judaism maintains that the Satan (lit. “Accuser”) is the angel associated with temptation, and prosecution in the Heavenly Court. He's basically Slugworth to God's Willy Wonka. He's got a dirty job to do, but in the end, we're both serving the same Boss.

Judaism also teaches that the source of Light and Darkness are One and the same, as it says in the prayer book: “Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who forms light and creates darkness, Who makes peace and creates all things.” The source for this line of liturgy can be found in the Hebrew Bible, Isaiah 45:7: “Who forms light and creates darkness, Who makes peace and creates evil; I am the Lord, Who makes all these.”

Incidentally, one of the traditional names for God – invoked particularly by the Jewish mystics – is HaMakom, literally “The Place.” The deeper idea conveyed by this name is that the Creator does not exist within the universe; the universe exists within Him. It sounds a lot like The Force. The key conceptual difference between the fictitious all-uniting Force of Star Wars and the Shechinah or “Divine Presence” is that the former is impersonal and passive, the latter is an omnipotent consciousness that actively intervenes in human history, speaking with Prophets and working miracles until this very day.

So if you see the new Star Wars movie, directed by Jeffrey Jacob Abrams (who couldn't sound more Jewish if his name was Saul Cohen or Herschel Rosenblatt), perhaps you'll be able to seek out and appreciate the surprisingly Jewish flavor of the Star Wars universe.

Happy Hanukkah, and may the Force be with you!

#wooloo-writes #wooloo writes #star wars #sw #jedi #jedi and judaism #judaism #✡️#article #chanukah #hanukkah #happy hanukkah #happy chanukah

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aprillikesthings · 4 months ago

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Reading the book of Romans for my religion class.

And in the middle of a bunch of confusing-to-me metaphors, Paul is like "I'm speaking with ordinary metaphors because of your limitations." (CEB translation, 6:19)

First of all: rude. Second of all: yeah they were probably "ordinary metaphors" to people at the time lol

He's also weirdly relatable sometimes (7:18-19): "The desire to do good is inside of me, but I can’t do it. I don’t do the good that I want to do, but I do the evil that I don’t want to do."

Yeah dude. I feel that.

Romans has both some of the worst shit in it (that section used against gay people, the whole "elect" business people turned into Calvinism) but it also has some of the most moving lines in the whole fucking bible, from 8:38-39:

"I’m convinced that nothing can separate us from God’s love in Christ Jesus our Lord: not death or life, not angels or rulers, not present things or future things, not powers or height or depth, or any other thing that is created."

"But April, why tf are you posting this to your main and not your religion sideblog" I mean, I am going to reblog it there.

But because ch9 has the line that's quoted in She-Ra, that Horde Prime says through Catra before pitching her off the platform to her (temporary) death. The wording is different because I'm using the CEB, but yeah.

19 You will say to me then, “Why then does he still find fault? For who can resist his will?” 20 But who indeed are you, a human, to argue with God? Will what is molded say to the one who molds it, “Why have you made me like this?” 21 Has the potter no right over the clay, to make out of the same lump one object for special use and another for ordinary use? 22 What if God, desiring to show his wrath and to make known his power, has endured with much patience the objects of wrath that are made for destruction, 23 and what if he has done so in order to make known the riches of his glory for the objects of mercy, which he has prepared beforehand for glory— 24 including us whom he has called, not from the Jews only but also from the gentiles?

(Couldn't find a gif of the actual line, so have the one from right before it.)

Yeah, Paul could say some unpleasant stuff sometimes, or at least things that have been interpreted in unpleasant ways--like I'm not the only one to look at those verses and think he's speaking metaphorically, I don't think he's saying that there are people God made just to send to hell as an example to the rest of us.

But the church ND Stevenson grew up in was hardcore Calvinist, and they looooove that whole "God decided whether you were saved or not before you were born and you can do nothing about it." (Most churches, side note, do not teach this. Mine doesn't.)

Someone else has already done a really great explanation of how Catra's story, specifically, is a refutation of some of the shittier parts of Calvinism, so I won't do it here.

But oh man one of the things that comes up in Romans, REPEATEDLY, is "don't judge other people, don't act like you're better than other people." Amazing how few people remember THAT part.

ALSO and this always cracks me up when people insist that the epistles are the literal word of God: most of ch16 is "Say hi to my friend so'n'so!" like there's a long list of friends and family members. And the next paragraph is "Oh and Timothy says hi!" pfft

#my posts #meta #.....really hesitant to fandom tag this ngl #this doesn't need to be in the main tag lol #christianity #<-for ppl who have that blocked

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the-chosen-fanfiction · 25 days ago

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Gentile. | Chapter XLVIII

Tensions between you and Quintus are ever growing, threatening to boil over when Atticus pays an unexpected visit in pursuit of Jesus of Nazareth. Your husband reveals his latest intentions.

Chapter list

You find it odd that your brother has sent you no word of congratulations nor any sign of life for that matter, but you don’t dare to bring it up with Quintus. Not only are you currently under the poorest of graces with the magistrate, but something else seems to be on his mind that you don’t want to inquire about lest you get yourself killed.

The sun casts a long shadow when you seek out Quintus for lunch, a daily routine he has ordered you to comply to. Valerius is left in the care of the servants — the Praetor cannot stand the crying — and it leaves you some time to do your reading. Not that the authors you used to love still spark the same interest in you, but you have to get through the time somehow, until a servant shows up to fetch you to nurse your son.

There is a certain heaviness in the air when you enter the office, and you carefully walk over to your usual spot, dropping the bag with lunch on the table in front of your husband, who looks up a little exasperatedly. “There you are. You’re late.”

“I had to change.” He gives you a once-over, noticing that indeed, you are clad in a different set of clothes than what you had been wearing during breakfast earlier today.

“Is our son sick again?”

“He isn’t, but babies just puke sometimes. It is how it is.”

Quintus shrugs. “Whatever. Sit down and don’t get in my way. Someone important is coming over and I can’t have you distracting him with your incessant chatter.”

You want to protest and tell him that you don’t even talk that much, but you swallow the comment and instead ask: “Who is coming, then?”

Your husband grabs a new piece of parchment and begins to jot down a business letter. “I’m going to have my face carved out as a bust, so that the next generation can look back on me and see what great bloodline they came from.” He gives you a smirk. “Valerius will remember me in my prime.”

“Bloodline, huh? What blood?” leaves your lips before you can even realise it, but before he can tell you off for the dangerous remark, you are saved by a guard walking in unannounced.

“The sculptor is here, Dominus.”

Quintus’ gaze falls into its usual professional look. “Very well, let him in.” The Praetor waves the stranger to the front of his desk, a middle-aged man who is steadily greying. “What is your name?”

“Magnus, Dominus,” he introduces himself with a bow of the head.

“They sent you from the academy?”

“They did, Dominus.”

Quintus watches cautiously as a few items are brought in; a small worktable to stand in front of your husband’s desk, a large chunk of covered clay lest it dry out before it is properly hewn into its shape, a basket full of tools. “I hope you know what you are doing,” the Praetor says. You are almost inclined to open your mouth to tell him that the man in question does things like these as his profession, but you bite your tongue.

Magnus nods and goes through his tools, making you curiously crane your neck in an attempt to look at what he is doing. When you sense the magistrate’s eyes on you, however, you sink back into your chaise longue, pretending to read.

“What expression do you reckon I should put on? Angry, stern, powerful?”

“Something serious is the norm, Dominus.”

Quintus shifts a bit in his seat whilst the sculptor prepares to get to work. “Make it symmetrical.”

“If I were to make it symmetrical, perhaps it would look unnatural, Dominus.”

You have to fight the snort threatening to escape you as Quintus glares at the sculptor across his desk. “I don’t care about how natural things are, Magnus. It doesn’t matter, it’s a piece of clay. Anyways, I am the one paying you for this, aren’t I? You better make sure that it looks perfect.”

Magnus shrugs and goes to work with the general shape, observing your husband closely as the Praetor uneasily shuffles in his chair. “How do you need me to look?”

“I’m just trying to make out the general shape first, Dominus. You may resume your work in the meantime, since I do not need the details just yet.”

You let your eyes drift to the expert way the sculptor begins to cut away at the large chunk of clay, getting rid of the corners to get a more round shape to it. It’s impressive how easy he makes it look. The only sounds in the room are the wet clay being cut and bits of it falling onto the tile floor, and it takes but a few minutes for Magnus to have carved out the shape of Quintus’ head. You have to bite your tongue to fight the laugh when you realise how much it resembles a large egg.

“Now, take on a pose that makes you look stern and powerful, but please do not overdo it, Dominus.”

Although the magistrate hardly follows instructions, he does so now. He leans a hand on his desk and sits a little straighter, his jaw tense in such a way that you figure it must hurt after holding that stance for a while, but you do not warn him about it. Instead, now that his gaze is focused on the sculptor getting to work, you take your chance to observe the man as well. “This will work,” Quintus announces.

It is miraculous how quickly Magnus manages to make something of it, his eyes flickering between your husband and the clay rapidly as his thumbs and blades work away at the soft material. It is almost as if he blows life into the inanimate clay, as if he pulls a face out of it that might start talking at any moment. You try to shake the thought — one Quintus is more than enough.

Your husband is so caught up that he at first doesn’t notice it when you stand, but when he follows your form walking towards the sculptor to investigate a little further, he hisses through his gritted teeth whilst barely moving the muscles in his face: “Sit down.”

Pretending to not hear him, you stand next to Magnus to watch how he expertly makes the shape of Quintus’ cheekbones. Genuinely in awe, you let out a small noise and smile. “You’ve got so much talent, sir.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he says, his lips quirking upwards, “I hope I am doing him justice.”

The hum that escapes your lungs is a little ambiguous and Quintus narrows his eyes a little, unsure what that is supposed to mean. “I said: Sit. Down.” He repeats himself with his jaw just as tense. The way the vein on the side of his head is throbbing, you wonder if he’s still comfortable sitting like that. You sidle back to your chaise longue, where you busy yourself with your book again.

About an hour passes and the process Magnus is going through is quite entertaining to watch. The nose and brows take form, as well as Quintus’ chin, and the sculptor has begun to work on the mouth. Your husband’s brow has furrowed into a frown.

“You’re sure that’s my good side?” he inquires, as if Magnus would deny it and start from scratch again.

“You said it was,” the artist murmurs.

Quintus takes pause. “Am I wrong?”

“It’s a bust,” offers Magnus matter-of-factly, “Your likeness will be seen from every angle.”

Annoyance crosses the Praetor’s face even though the sculptor has answered the very question he just asked. “I’m not paying you for art lessons.”

You are about to say something along the lines that you’d be interested to know more about the theory behind it, when the words get stuck in your throat.

Someone you had not expected to see in a long time barges in unannounced, calling your husband’s name.

“Quintus, I don’t—” Atticus halts as he sees the bust being made, but freezes up when he realises you are there, too, and you feel your blood start to rush inside your ears. The magistrate tenses up with unbridled hatred, his eyes spitting fire as he glares at the cohorte who so rudely interrupted.

Then, his gaze flicks to you, almost daring you to look at Atticus. Red hot shame finds a home on your cheeks as you avert your eyes from both the Praetor and the marshall. Your heart pounds inside your chest violently as you want the ground to open up underneath you and swallow you whole.

Atticus’ eyes bore into you, committing every detail, every change within you to memory. He is aware of your situation. Instinctively, your hand goes to your stomach— There is still more skin there than before, but not the swell.

This is not the reunion you had wanted. You fight a losing battle against your tears. With a whimpering breath, you hide yourself in your book.

“Say it now and get it out of the way.” Quintus attempts to appear disinterested in what he has to say and ignores the way your breathing grows shallow.

“Way too easy,” Atticus protests, “And not today.” He turns to Magnus. “Leave us.”

“Ah, wait, wait.” Quintus let out an exasperated huff of humourless laughter, “Wait, I’m in the middle of…” He pauses as Atticus gives him an expectant look, before he gestures grandly at the bust being made, “This.”

“And normally, I would tell this man here that he is immortalising the wrong end.”

Usually, you’d feel a jolt of pride at the way Atticus so easily shoots down Quintus in their typical arguments where your husband obviously wants to show off his status even to someone who doesn’t take anything from him, but you’re feeling too agitated with his sudden presence in the room to even think about laughing right now. Goosebumps have spread over your skin underneath your dress and you wished you had stayed at home today, no matter how much you want to see Atticus.

“There it is.” Quintus groans as he sinks back in his chair, thoroughly fed up.

“Not today,” Atticus continues, “I need your latest intelligence on Jesus of Nazareth.”

A thousand conflicting thoughts shoot through your mind, your fight or flight response making you opt for freezing up instead, as you want to run, to cry, to listen, to throw yourself into Atticus’ arms, to strike Quintus across the face and to die at the very same time.

“Military intelligence.” Quintus taunts, trying to be smug about it. “Those two words paired together always struck me as… Oxymoronic. Why are you here, really? Are you trying to appeal to my wife? Hoping to catch a glimpse of the child who is my son, under the eye of Jupiter and our sacred Roman law?”

Atticus reacts within a second, stepping back and moving his hand onto the unfinished statue’s forehead in one fell swoop to tip it over, teetering it on the edge. Magnus moves away, not wanting to get involved. Your husband jumps out of his chair, calling the name of your lover. “Atticus!”

“Quintus, tell me about Jesus.”

“All right, just…” the Praetor beckons him to put the bust back down, and Atticus slowly lowers it onto the pedestal.

“Uh… No change.” Quintus says, “Jesus and I talked. You were there, we have an understanding.”

“No new information?”

“No.”

“The Jews have new information.”

“Of course the Jews know about a Jew. I don’t think you understand the role of a magistrate.”

As you let yourself observe the marshall further, now that your initial shock about his sudden presence has passed, you realise that something about him is… Off. Different than usual. Part of you is suddenly convinced that it has to do something with you, but you are able to quickly shake off that thought.

No, it is not about you.

Something happened between your last moment of contact and now.

“It is all happening right under your nose.”

“Debrief me, detective,” your husband mocks. “What’s so important?”

There is tension in Atticus’ shoulders. Everything in your entire being screams to stand up and put a hand on his arm, but you know you wouldn’t live to see another day if you did. “It feels like… The beginning of something… War, maybe.”

Whilst Quintus scoffs a laugh, you don’t even doubt the marshall’s words for a second. There is a certain fear in his gaze that you’ve never seen on him before.

“I am not going to do your job and make life difficult for the people who follow Jesus. I will not break up their gatherings or expel the pilgrims, tu comprendi?” Your breath hitches at the intensity of his intonation, the way his brow has raised. Not only does he look determined; there is puzzlement behind his dark irises, and you know that he rarely sprinkles Latin terms into his vocabulary.

Quintus takes a long look at him, putting aside the initial disgust that he feels whenever he looks at the very man who earned his wife’s favour and allows a look of concern to spread over his face. “Something spooked you.”

The way Atticus taps his fingers against Quintus’ desk makes you once again have to fight the urge to touch him. Yes, something definitely happened.

“I know my Jews better than you do.” Your husband seems to be very aware of it, too. “What’s going on with you?”

Sharply, the marshall turns to Quintus with a glare on his face. “Right now, the only thing keeping you in Caesar’s good graces are your revenues. They’re up, spettacolare, Dominus.” There is an edge of mockery in his tone, “But you really need—” Disconcerted, Atticus pauses, trying to find the right word. The tension in the room now knows a whole other layer, and you aren’t certain what to make of it yet. “—To do something!” A warning resounds in his tone. “Don’t become infamous for overseeing the town where a revolution started!”

At that, not even awaiting the Praetor’s response nor giving you another look, Atticus storms away, muttering a half-hearted “Hail Caesar,” after which the room remains silent for a few long seconds.

“Hail.” Quintus mirrors, attempting to process what just happened whilst Magnus steps back forward.

“Dominus, would you like me to continue—”

“—Come back tomorrow.” There is that edge of anger again that you’d rather not hear, and the artist clears his throat, bowing his head.

“Of course, Dominus.”

In silence, you sit under Quintus’ scrutiny as you listen to the way Magnus scurries about to wrap up the still-unfinished sculpture and leaves the room in a hurry. Once the two of you are alone, your husband inhales deeply through his nose, and for a long beat, you hold your breath.

Whereas you had expected him to snap, to take out his wrath regarding Atticus unwanted presence and advice on you, there is a strange noise that escapes him, something akin to a hum and a sigh, and he pinches his bottom lip between his fingers in thought.

“…How… Odd.” Are the first two words that leave him, and you are inclined to frown in worry at how extraordinarily calm he sounds. Then, a high-pitched chuckle leaves him, one of these dangerous noises that makes your gut twist in anxiety, for it displays how volatile and unpredictable the Praetor is.

“Can you believe it, (Y/n)? Even your dear lover boy can be scared for ridiculous reasons. Perhaps he is not as strong and untouchable as you think, hm? Well… I’ve got my belly full of this Jesus of Nazareth. Perhaps that more… Convincing ways of pest control are in order, no?” A hateful look sparks within Quintus’ gaze. If he cannot take out his wrath on you or Atticus, he might just redirect it onto the citizenry, completely unwarranted.

The secretary steps into the room before you can figure out what your husband’s enraged plans might entail. “There is a servant here to fetch the lady, Dominus.” he states when the Praetor gives him a look to spit it out, “The son of the master requires his mother.”

You stand up, your legs needing a second to adjust, and you gather your things in order to leave your husband be without as much as another glance over your shoulder. However, right as you are about to follow the female servant out to go and tend to Valerius, Quintus calls your name.

“(Y/n),” you freeze.

“Don’t even think about seeking out Atticus,” he reminds you sharply, “And make sure to meet me in our house once I return. You and I need to have a little talk.” The way he states it makes a wave of nausea hit you. There is a certain confidence in his tone that doesn’t sit well with you. Whatever the topic of conversation might be, you doubt that you will like it.

“Yes, dear,” you clinically state, the name uttered with such an undertone that the smile drops from Quintus’ features. With one final glare earned from him, you see yourself out, having more important matters at hand.

There are increasing nerves that gnaw their way through your system as you sit and wait at home, keeping your eyes on Valerius in the hopes of remaining grounded. You wonder what Quintus wants to discuss later today, how it will influence things around here, and how it will affect your son. Atticus’ sudden appearance might have something to do with it, but at the same time, your mind drifts back to when your father and husband had spoken in secret.

At the memory, goosebumps make their way onto your arms. Instinctively, you take Valerius into your hands and hold him tighter to your chest, attempting to not speculate too much about things you aren’t certain of.

You wonder if your parents know about the affair. If they did, they did a wonderful job at hiding it last week, when they had visited you here in Capernaum.

Evening falls and you ask a maid to prepare a light dinner when Quintus returns, tired and on edge. The tension oozes off his form as he walks in with deliberate steps, a heavy sigh leaving his lungs as he takes a seat at his usual spot at the dinner table. The meal is consumed in awkward silence, where your husband’s eyes rarely leave your form. Ignoring it as much as you can, you keep your eyes focused on the plate, where you play around with your food for a bit, not feeling like eating.

Once finished, your husband leans back in his chair and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Go to our bedroom,” he commands without any prior warning, and you are glad you’ve barely eaten, or else it would have come back up right away. Your blood runs cold at the way he demands it, his intentions clear. “Go there, or I will drag you there by your scalp.”

He isn’t taking no for an answer. “Wash yourself,” he tells you as you stand, “I’ll be joining you shortly.” You head upstairs with slow, heavy steps, your entire body pleading you to flee out of that door and never come back, but Valerius is sleeping upstairs and you won’t leave without him.

Quintus hasn’t done anything to you ever since the late stages of your pregnancy, and he hasn’t seen you naked after your labour. The idea at how much more it will hurt this time around makes you flinch as you prepare to distance yourself from your body.

Nothing ever changes.

Every step sounding on the stairs, indicating Quintus is heading your way, makes you sink further into the bed. He slams the door behind him with abandon and glares down at you. “I don’t like any of the men you seem to care so much for in your life. I don’t like your brother, I loathe Atticus, and I like this Jesus even less! And time and time again, you seem to seek them out, drawn to them like a moth to a flame.” The sound of him undressing makes your gut drop in fear as you watch him do so. “You need to remember that you are mine. That your father gave you to me in marriage. Binding you to me by law. Now and forever! Do you understand that, (Y/n)?”

When the question is met with fearful silence, he sharply turns to you. “I asked you a question!”

You swallow hard and nod meekly. “Yes.”

“Yes what?!”

“Yes Dominus.”

“No!” he hisses, lurching forward to grab your chin between his sharp fingers, “Do you understand?!”

Tears swim on the brims of your eyes, but they do not sway your husband into a gentler nature. “Yes, I understand, Dominus.” He hums lowly, not releasing your chin as his eyes roam your face.

“Such a pathetic girl. A child in so many ways.”

He pushes you back with such force that the back of your skull slams into the headboard, causing a splitting pain to shunt through your head. You flinch and instinctively crawl away.

He huffs, staring down at you for a long moment as he takes you in, his gaze on your vulnerable form. After a few long beats of silence, he opens his mouth again.

“I’m shipping you off to your dear old father in two weeks from now.”

Your pain is instantly ignored as your eyes widen, and you sit up a little, gasping for breath even though your airways hadn’t been physically restricted. “What?”

Quintus continues to dress down. “You heard me. I don’t think you and our son can thrive here in Capernaum. You’ve been lacking the proper education ever since you married me and our son should not be able to get even remotely close to either Atticus or Jesus.”

You gulp hard, your vision spinning in front of you, swirling uneasily. You aren’t sure if it is because of the impact of the blow you got against your skull just now, or the implication of Quintus’ revelation.

“I cannot afford to constantly supervise your pathetic self,” Quintus mutters, “Things around here are too important to not focus on right now. You are in my way.”

Your face darkens. “For how long will I… Stay there?”

“I intend to keep you at the Peninsula at least until Jesus is out of the picture, so that you cannot fill your naive little head with His blasphemous ideas. After that, Atticus has no reason to be around here anymore, so why wouldn’t I declare him an enemy of my province?”

“It isn’t even in your power to do that—”

“—Shut up.” Quintus hisses, “I will make sure that you are gone for so long that he forgets about you, and by the time he is able to see you again, I’m sure he’ll have knocked up a dozen other women. You’re not special to him. He didn’t even look at you. He’s lost interest already.”

Even though you are trying your hardest to not let the magistrate’s words get to you, it is so difficult when you think back on the encounter earlier today. Quintus was right that the marshall had barely acknowledged your very existence, going right into business without as much as a word of greeting. Tears are rolling down your face as Quintus tuts his tongue, brushing them away with a rough thumb.

“Forget about him. You’ve got me, remember? You’ll be going to your parents for a while until things around here are safe for you again, and then I will bring you home to me. You and my son,” he mutters, “My son.”

Your body is so numb that you don’t even feel him crawl over you, tears rolling down your face until your cheeks are red and raw. Your agony doesn’t seem to earn you any mercy tonight.

The rest of the evening, you spend in an unfeeling, miserable daze.

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Chapter list Next chapter

#the chosen #reader insert #the chosen x reader #chosen x reader #atticus x reader #quintus x reader #gentile

8 notes · View notes

wangxianficfinder · 2 years ago

Note

A question : Why aren't there any horses used in mdzs? I mean for people who aren't able to cultivate properly but are main part of the sect, eg, Nie Huaisang, he isn't able to cultivate well and has to rely on someone to carry him on sword. Same goes with Wei Wuxian, he uses a donkey instead of a horse and so does Cangse Sanren. So are horses not famous? Even in Sunshot Campaign, no one uses horses.

Going off pure memory -

They do use horses. When they lose their swords at the wen indoctrination, they use horses to leave the Nie sect (at least in CQL iirc).

The reason WWX uses a donkey is because it's part of a core memory of his parents. The only memories of them he can truly remember is of him sitting on a donkey with his mother laughing next to him and his dad leading it.

He uses a donkey because of nostalgia and because it reminds him of happier times with his parents.

Why they use a donkey instead of a horse? I don't really know. Maybe it was more efficient or cheaper for them to get a donkey.

As for why there's no horses in the Sunshot campaign - they use swords. They don't really have a reason to use the slower method of a horse. Though they might have actually used them and we just missed it/it wasn't outright mentioned.

I haven't read the novel in a while, so I can't remember any obvious mentions of horses, but I am sure they used them in some capacity.

Though, please correct me if I am wrong!

- Mod C

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gentil-minou: There's horses in the novel just before the Phoenix knight hunt, with the flowers! (Unless im misremembering or confusing with fanart oops)

Ah, yes! It's when Wei Wuxian throws a flower at Lan Wangji and pretends to be talking to the people next to him when he looks over but they point to Wei Wuxian! It's part of the ceremony of the hunt, each sect arrives on horses and people in the stands throw flowers at them. I remember that scene now too ^^

- Mod C

justgot1 said: I think they’re using a horse drawn carriage as well in the scene where the boys send an unconscious Jiang Yanli off with Song Lan (?) to get her safely away while they “go see Baoshan Sanren.” And come to think of it, Jiang Yanli arrives by carriage to the unclean realm at some point too I think.

I believe it was a horse carriage too.

- Mod C

#mod c #answers

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scribeforchrist-blog · 1 month ago

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Prayer & Praise

MEMORY VERSE OF THE WEEK

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+ Hebrews 13:6 So we can confidently say, “The Lord is my helper; I will not fear; what can man do to me?”

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VERSE OF THE DAY

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+ 1 John 5:15 And if we know that he hears us in whatever we ask, we know that we have the requests that we have asked of him.

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** SAY THIS BEFORE YOU READ; HERE’S SOME CHRISTIAN TRUTHS **

I AM PRAYING MORE TO GOD

I AM RIGHTEOUS

I AM HOLY

I AM FREE

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READ TIME: 8 Minutes & 22 Seconds

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THOUGHTS:

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Prayer is often seen as just a routine or a formality, but in reality, it is the most vital aspect of our relationship with God. Just like communication is essential in any relationship, prayer is how we communicate with God. It goes beyond just talking; it delves into the deepest parts of our minds and allows us to express our thoughts and feelings to Him. It is in those moments of prayer that we can truly connect with God and understand His plans for us. Some may not see the importance of prayer, but it is through this practice that we can strengthen our bond with God and find peace and guidance in our lives. So, let us remember that prayer is not just a task but a powerful tool to deepen our relationship with God and find solace in His presence.

Every morning, I pray to God for about 1 hour or 1 hours and 30 minutes;it depends on the day. As I pray, I try to focus only on him and praise him and i make sure I sing one song to him so that he can know that I am here to P&P. Praise and pray; as we learn more and more on this walk, we realize. That intimacy starts with us doing those two things; it also starts with a heart that wants to and we should do it out of routine.

It’s also essential for those who can speak in tongues to speak in tongues; when we do this, the enemy doesn’t know what we are speaking about because it’s an unknown language between God and us, Romans 8:26 Likewise, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words

When we don’t know what to pray, the Holy Spirit will speak for us; when we don’t know what to say, the Holy Spirit will go into our innermost being and bring forth what we need; the Holy Spirit is our comforter, and our guide he’s there to guide us through our time of need.

Matthew 6:7 And when you pray, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do, for they think they will be heard for their many words.

It's easy to get caught up in saying the "right" words when praying, especially when we see others use long and impressive-sounding words. But the truth is, God isn't concerned with the length or complexity of our prayers. What truly matters to Him is the sincerity and genuineness of our hearts. Are we praying to God out of routine or because we truly need Him? We all need God in our lives, but we must express that need in our prayers. So don't worry about finding the perfect words; just speak from your heart and know that God hears and values every prayer, no matter how short or simple it may be.

Psalm 145:18 The Lord is near to all who call on him, to all who call on him in truth

When we are in need, we have to call upon the lord, we don’t have to worry about him not hearing us because he does; now the enemy will make you feel that he’s not there for you and that you're doing something wrong and that’s what the enemy want to do to keep you from praying but ignore what schemes and plots the enemy has for you and focus on God he says it right here I am near all who call on me, it’s easier to forget this when we are feeling overwhelmed, but God is near those who are near to him.

Controlling our cravings can be a challenging task for many of us. Some people can resist their desires and make healthy food choices, while others find it difficult to control themselves. No matter how hard we try, our cravings can sometimes take over and become even more intense. I have experienced moments where I gave in to my cravings and couldn't control myself. However, one day, my dad gave me some wise advice. He told me that just like I discipline myself to pray every morning, I need to have the same discipline when it comes to my eating habits. He also suggested that I pray to God about my appetite. I never thought to ask God for help in this area, but that afternoon, I went into prayer and asked Him to help me control my cravings.Not to my surprise because God can do all things , I realized later that God had indeed helped me. I no longer struggle with overeating or desiring unhealthy foods. It was a simple reminder that sometimes we need a little discipline and a prayer to overcome our weaknesses.

Galatians 5:17 The sinful nature wants to do evil, which is just the opposite of what the Spirit wants. And the Spirit gives us desires that are the opposite of what the sinful nature desires. These two forces constantly fight each other, so you are not free to carry out your good intentions.

This works like our walk with Christ; our sinful nature wants to do evil, and our flesh will always want to do something contrary to the spirit because our flesh knows what we desire, but the spirit knows why we need to do it. Our spirit will always give us desires that will help us supersede our fleshly ways, but we must listen to our body, and we must listen to the Holy Spirit!

The more we grow in God, the more it will fight against the flesh; our flesh will always give us things we don’t need, but we must be strong enough and disciplined enough to say no. Are you disciplined enough???

It’s hard not to indulge, and we cover this week how not to indulge, 1 Corinthians 16:13: Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong.

Are you firm? Are being strong? This is what we must do to not indulge in the things of the flesh; we must learn to control our ways each day; we have a choice whether we will do what the lord says or will let the flesh take over, every day we must surrender ourselves to God and say God I need help not to indulge I need your help to keep me firm I need your help to be stronger, and he will help us !!!

So many of us submit to the devil because we don’t do things to make us strong. Every day, someone goes to the gym, learns what their body is, and their body gets stronger. They lift weights, run on a treadmill, and do other training to get stronger, right? What are you doing to get stronger?

Ephesians 6:11 Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil

Do you read your word and pray? Do you worship him even if you don’t feel like it ?? Do you give more and more of yourself to God? Some of us don’t give more of ours let to the things of the spirit, but we expect the spirit to guide us; we must be willing to, are you?

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PRAYER

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Heavenly Father, we come before you with hearts full of gratitude and thankfulness. Every day, you bless us, and we truly appreciate everything you do in our lives. We give you all the praise, glory, and honor because we know that everything, we have is from you. As we go through our daily lives, we strive to stay close to you and follow your ways. Help us pray more and listen for your voice when you speak. Thank you for always being there for us and for being our loving Father. In Jesus’ Name . Amen.

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REFERENCES

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1 John 5:14 And this is the confidence that we have toward him, that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us.

+ Luke 18:1 And he told them a parable to the effect that they ought always to pray and not lose heart.

+ 1 John 5:15 And if we know that he hears us in whatever we ask, we know that we have the requests that we have asked of him.

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