#lord forgive me i have made a purchase ��� many purchase in fact

[7-oh-ta1]

I just went on a buying spreeeee I'm so sorry bank account 😭😭😭😭😭

[tj-van-heerden]

The blood of Jesus.

To Christians the blood of Jesus is of utmost importance in our life and in our relationship with God. The blood of Jesus cleanses us from our imperfection and therefore makes it possible for us to draw near to God, and for his Holy Spirit to live in us. We therefore ask for the blood of Jesus to cover us. Our sins are forgiven through the blood of Jesus. The blood of Jesus also protects us and our homes or properties from demons if we ask God to cover it with the blood of Jesus. We must make every effort not to sin, but live in righteousness, out of respect for the fact that Jesus had to die such a terrible death on the cross to shed his blood, and not misuse the forgiveness. When we become Christians, our past sins and the guilt of it is forgiven because of our faith in the blood of Jesus. There is no other way by which sins can be forgiven on earth by God, but only through the blood of Jesus. All whose sins or imperfections are not covered by the blood of Jesus are still under the wrath of God, and cannot be part of the Kingdom of Heaven.

Just a warning: The blood of Jesus comes from a great act of mercy from God's side of our relationship with Him. From our side of the relationship we should live in righteousness and not sin often, or we can lose our place in the Kingdom of Heaven.

Matt 26:26-28 [WEB] As they were eating, Jesus took bread, gave thanks for it, and broke it. He gave to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is my body.” He took the cup, gave thanks, and gave to them, saying, “All of you drink it, for this is my blood of the new covenant, which is poured out for many for the remission of sins.

Mark 14:22-24 [WEB] As they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had blessed, he broke it, and gave to them, and said, “Take, eat. This is my body.” He took the cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave to them. They all drank of it. He said to them, “This is my blood of the new covenant, which is poured out for many.

Luke 22:19, 20 [WEB] He took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body which is given for you. Do this in memory of me.” Likewise, he took the cup after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.

John 6:53-56 [WEB] Jesus therefore said to them, “Most certainly I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you don’t have life in yourselves. He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is food indeed, and my blood is drink indeed. He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood lives in me, and I in him.

John 19:34 [WEB] However one of the soldiers pierced his side with a spear, and immediately blood and water came out.

Acts 20:28 [WEB] Take heed, therefore, to yourselves, and to all the flock, in which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers, to shepherd the assembly of the Lord and God which he purchased with his own blood.

Rom 3:23-26 [WEB] for all have sinned, and fall short of the glory of God; being justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus; whom God sent to be an atoning sacrifice, through faith in his blood, for a demonstration of his righteousness through the passing over of prior sins, in God’s forbearance; to demonstrate his righteousness at this present time; that he might himself be just, and the justifier of him who has faith in Jesus.

Rom 5:8, 9 [WEB] But God commends his own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Much more then, being now justified by his blood, we will be saved from God’s wrath through him.

1Cor 11:24, 25 [WEB] When he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “Take, eat. This is my body, which is broken for you. Do this in memory of me.” In the same way he also took the cup, after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink, in memory of me.”

1Cor 11:27 [WEB] Therefore whoever eats this bread or drinks the Lord’s cup in a way unworthy of the Lord will be guilty of the body and the blood of the Lord.

Eph 1:7 [WEB] in whom we have our redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace…

Eph 2:13 [WEB] But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off are made near in the blood of Christ.

Col 1:20 [WEB] and through him to reconcile all things to himself by him, whether things on the earth or things in the heavens, having made peace through the blood of his cross.

Heb 9:12 [WEB] nor yet through the blood of goats and calves, but through his own blood, entered in once for all into the Holy Place, having obtained eternal redemption.

Heb 9:14 [WEB] how much more will the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself without defect to God, cleanse your conscience from dead works to serve the living God?

Heb 9:22 [WEB] According to the law, nearly everything is cleansed with blood, and apart from shedding of blood there is no remission.

Heb 10:19 [WEB] Having therefore, brothers, boldness to enter into the holy place by the blood of Jesus…

Heb 10:29 [WEB] How much worse punishment do you think he will be judged worthy of who has trodden under foot the Son of God, and has counted the blood of the covenant with which he was sanctified an unholy thing, and has insulted the Spirit of grace?

Heb 13:12 [WEB] Therefore Jesus also, that he might sanctify the people through his own blood, suffered outside of the gate.

Heb 13:20, 21 [WEB] Now may the God of peace, who brought again from the dead the great shepherd of the sheep with the blood of an eternal covenant, our Lord Jesus, make you complete in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is well pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be the glory forever and ever. Amen.

1Pet 1:2 [WEB] according to the foreknowledge of God the Father, in sanctification of the Spirit, that you may obey Jesus Christ and be sprinkled with his blood…

1Pet 1:18, 19 [WEB] knowing that you were redeemed, not with corruptible things, with silver or gold, from the useless way of life handed down from your fathers, but with precious blood, as of a lamb without blemish or spot, the blood of Christ…

1John 1:7 [WEB] But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanses us from all sin.

1John 5:6-8 [WEB] This is he who came by water and blood, Jesus Christ; not with the water only, but with the water and the blood. It is the Spirit who testifies, because the Spirit is the truth. For there are three who testify: the Spirit, the water, and the blood; and the three agree as one.

Rev 1:5, 6 [WEB] and from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth. To him who loves us, and washed us from our sins by his blood—and he made us to be a Kingdom, priests to his God and Father—to him be the glory and the dominion forever and ever. Amen.

Rev 5:9, 10 [WEB] They sang a new song, saying, “You are worthy to take the book and to open its seals: for you were killed, and bought us for God with your blood out of every tribe, language, people, and nation, and made us kings and priests to our God, and we will reign on the earth.”

Rev 7:14 [WEB] I told him, “My lord, you know.” He said to me, “These are those who came out of the great tribulation. They washed their robes, and made them white in the Lamb’s blood.

Rev 12:11 [WEB] They overcame him because of the Lamb’s blood, and because of the word of their testimony. They didn’t love their life, even to death.

Rev 19:13 [WEB] He is clothed in a garment sprinkled with blood. His name is called “The Word of God.”

[1kook]

disney+ & bust

this is part of my netflix & chill collection !

summary; There’s a pounding on your door a little past noon, so hard and rough, that you almost think it’s the police finally coming to catch you for all your years of illegally pirating Phineas and Ferb. It’s not. It’s just a really drunk boyfriend wailing for your forgiveness at the door.  warnings; arguments, feelings of insecurity, bit of asshole jk, smut in the forms of degradation, dumbification, choking, fingering, spit kink, self punishment, unprotected but [ passionate ] sex, jk losing his cool, return of mean jk, he is actually an emotional mess in this one wtf miscellaneous; ANGST, anniversaries, the L word😳, app developer kook, rip ‘pretty girl’ </3, we all become phineas and ferb stans word count; 13k !!

notes; me: *writes couple who’s whole arc is being silly* y’all: MAKE THEM SUFFER GIVE US ANGST!! u ask I deliver so now we all suffer 😐 ngl it was hard writing this fic n u might notice there’s some parts that seem weird n that’s bc this was TWO fics w diff wording but I ended up mixing them bc I’m insane. still had a lot of fun! felt like I challenged myself!! not proofread bc when I say we suffer we SUFFER

please let me know what you think!!! a simple ask goes a long way <3

previous part: kissanime & foreplay

Approximately one week after The Bullet Bestie’s rise to prominence, Jungkook grows annoyed with it as his weirdly competitive nature rears its ugly head the more and more orgasms that little vibrator coaxes out of you. It turns on a weird switch in him, something slightly stuck up and snooty that he’ll never admit to out loud but is there nonetheless. By the following Friday, The Bullet Bestie is nestled deep in your garbage can and Jungkook’s back to pleasuring you with his tongue and fingers alone.

He had those moments in him, the ones where he liked to think he was better than any and everyone else, and occasionally they manifested against inanimate objects like a bullet vibrator.

Despite his polite and generally soft exterior, you catch glimpses of that cocky spirit more than anyone else. Over the past year, you’ve come to realize that Jungkook’s personality was like a coin that had been left out in the sun too long. He had this sweet and reserved nature you saw most times, a kindhearted boyfriend who adored you almost as much as you adored him. He was your angel whom you knew had a heart of gold, even if you were slowly bringing out his more childish tendencies. You knew him like the back of your hand, knew what his mom’s favorite color was and how he liked to stack the plates in his cabinet according to size and make. It was a side that was rusted from years of being out in the sun, basking in its adoring warmth, and you loved every inch about it.

And still, there was this other side to him you rarely saw. This cocky asshole who hid beneath the soft smiles and careful hands, making his appearance only through sly smirks and a tongue prodding against the inside of his cheek. He was a braggart, a man who knew his greatness yielded for no one and wanted that fact shoved down everyone’s faces. This Jungkook, this other side that never saw the light of day, was like the Hyde to his Jekyll. An unexpected, almost mean side to him that only dared make his appearance when his exhilaration was at an all-time high. Like when he was fucking you into another dimension, or kicking your ass in Mario Kart, or like now, when he was receiving an award at an annual tech ceremony.

On the eve of your one year anniversary, Jungkook’s company invites him to an awards ceremony for other web and app developers like him. It’s a grand event, filled with all the biggest nerds in the developing industry here to present the baby nerds with awards. Jungkook lies somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, both a seasoned player and a rookie all at once. He spends the night tolling you around in a floor-length gown and fangirling over all the “legends” in the room.

You know next to none of these people and none of their accomplishments but still pretend you respect them to hell and back. By the end of the main dinner, you’re sympathizing with Barbie’s ever-smiling features because your cheeks feel sore.

Towards the end of the night, Jungkook wins that random award— okay, who were you fooling? He wins the Platinum Mobile Standard of Excellence Award, recognizing him for all the hard work you’ve seen him put in this past year. It’s probably the highest recognition he can receive at this point in his career. It was an esteemed award that was bestowed upon only the most innovative developer of the year among tech companies, something Jungkook had briefly mentioned he always wanted. It’s basically the equivalent of placing first place in his field, but given Jungkook’s competitive industry and his young age, you think it’s like telling all these old Facebook lords to suck his big fat cock. (But that was your job when you got home.)

He gives a short little thank you speech, promising to work hard and own up to this title. The people around you are swooning, obviously endeared with his soft puppy dog features and melodic voice. They don’t know him like you do, don’t know that uppity twist to his grin like you do. It doesn’t slip off his face even when he steps down off the stage, arms wide open as he comes barreling towards you. Even with you in his arms, the congratulations that are thrown from every direction ring loudly in his ears and swell that ego of his.

The night goes like that for the most part, Jungkook’s acquaintances approaching him every few minutes to rain down their praises. He goes a little crazy at the open bar after a while, shoving the gold trophy into your arms as his beloved work seniors whisk him off for drinks. You don’t mind because you resigned yourself to a night of playing Jungkook’s perfectly perfect partner anyway, watching him politely mingling with his coworkers. Despite his earlier success, you know he won’t brag about it verbally. No, he’ll wait until the two of you get home���your place or his—and remind you how amazing he is with a quick snap of his hips.

As you said, he’ll never boast aloud.

However, that doesn’t mean you won’t.

“That’s my boyfriend,” you explain to the seventh person that greets you that night, excitedly pointing to where said boyfriend was slowly losing all sense of self by the bar. You don’t know anyone here beside Jungkook, and you’re pretty sure no one in their hammered minds is going to remember who you are anyway, so a little gloating never hurt anyone. “He won the ‘I’m Better Than Everyone Else’ award tonight,” you emphasize to the tipsy woman beside you who only laughs at your exaggeration. You assume she’s like you, accompanying one of the many developers here, because as soon as you finish boasting about Jungkook she moves to brag about someone too.

Truth be told, you spend the whole night re-analyzing the Zootopia movie you saw on Disney+ the other night in your head. So if the little fox fellow didn’t control himself would the city have fallen to ruins? Why was the useless sheep girl so evil and bitter? Why was there an unreal amount of romantic tension between the fox and the rabbit? Whatever, you’ll have to rewatch it some other night, and with your new Disney+ account, you could watch it anywhere you wanted to.

Now, you had never bothered to purchase a Disney+ subscription or even tried to swindle Jungkook for his password before. As far as you know, Disney+ was filled with old tv shows from your childhood, sitcoms that made you laugh when you were ten. There’s nothing wrong with that, but personally, you were a firm believer that that which was perfect should not be touched once finished; in other words, you were utterly terrified you’d rewatch an old episode of The Wizards of Waverly Place, only to find out the same joke you’ve been regurgitating for the past ten years doesn’t actually go that way.

However, the harsh reality was that Disney+ was good for a few things. Ugh, you hate when giant corporations provide decent services. Aside from Zootopia, you’ve watched about every animated media on there as well, all of which you replay in your mind as Jungkook has the time of his life with these nerds, knocking back champagne glass after champagne glass.

Anyway, the night ends a little past midnight, and Jungkook who is buzzed on alcohol and high on exhilaration ends up calling an Uber for the two of you. Your apartment— the new one he had not only helped you hunt for but also helped you move into, greatly cutting the cost of movers out with those glistening biceps and thick thighs —is still going through her rebellious phase where the potted plants are trying to take over, courtesy of Kim Namjoon. So for now, there’s a potted plant in an awkward corner that both of you stub your toe against on your way to your bedroom.

You’re thinking Jungkook is going to go to town tonight, given the fact he’s on Cloud 9 and has had his ego stroked by a bunch of dudes for the past couple hours. Maybe you guys can try out the hot role-playing scenario you saw on GirlsWay a few weeks ago, or the handcuffs you impulsively bought from Amazon one Monday night. Or maybe, and this one really makes you flutter, he’ll let you fully take the reins for once.

All those lewd fantasies end up being for naught because just as you shimmy out of your gown (with the help of his hands, of course) and turn to climb him like a tree, he’s on the other side of the room getting your makeup remover out for you. And also talking. A lot. And way more than usual.

“Did you see him, babe?” he sighs, dare you to say, dreamily, handing you the cotton pads as he begins pulling a million pins out of your hair. Slowly and with a lot of confusion, you pull your fake lashes off and begin cleaning your face. “He was amazing.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, having absolutely no idea who ‘he’ is or why Jungkook is so in love with him and not you at this very moment. “But so were you,” you add. Perfect. Stroke his ego and then stroke his cock.

Jungkook sputters at your praise. He’s carefully placing your hairpins on your thigh, cheeks flaming red every time he leans over you. “Was I?” he murmurs, voice sweet in that cute little way it always gets when he’s downed one too many shots of whiskey, enough to be buzzed but not enough to be wasted.

You turn and the pins clatter to the floor and across the bedsheets. “Yes,” you confirm, ignoring his sad huff at the mess you’ve made. Instead, you grab him by the collar of that pink button-up he taunted you with all night. “You were fucking incredible and I think incredible men deserve to have their dick sucked.”

Jungkook laughs at your vulgar statement, holding you gently by the hips as you climb into his lap. “Is that so?” The soft, shy persona is gone now, replaced by the gentle stirring beneath his dress pants. You nod hurriedly, plopping down on his lap and running your hands through his styled hair.

“Yes,” you confirm, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Luckily for you, I know this nymphomaniac who would gladly gobble up your cock at your every command.”

He snorts just as you push him into his back, nose adorably scrunched up. “First of all, you know I hate that word,” he chuckles, finally gracing you with a sweet peck that only makes you want him to fuck you into the fifth dimension. “Secondly, please don’t ever say you’ll gobble my cock up ever again.”

Something inside of you squeals with excitement as he rolls the two of you over, firm body pressing down on yours. “Oh, baby,” you groan, lazily throwing a leg over his hip. Jungkook grins and then decides to entertain you for a few minutes with a sloppy kiss.

You say a few minutes because just as things are heating up, he pulls away. He smiles apologetically. “As much as I’d love to be here with you, I actually have an early morning tomorrow.”

You frown at the sudden change in events. “Huh? They’re gonna make you work the morning after a Gatsby party?” you gasp, sitting up as he gets off of you. With every step he takes away from the bed your heart breaks a little more. “They can’t do that— that’s illegal!”

From the doorway he levels you with a comically raised brow. “No, it’s not.”

You scamper after him down the hall, watch the muscles in his back flex as he pulls his suit jacket on. “You can’t work on our anniversary— that’s illegal!” you offer instead.

He stops at your front door, feet squeezed back into his shoes. “Baby, it’s not,” he rolls his eyes, leaning down to peck your forehead. “It was either I work in the morning or work at night,” he explains, giving your messy hair a soothing caress. He’s looking at you with those eyes, the ones that make your heart lodge itself into your throat and make life a tightrope experience. There’s a devastatingly lovesick part of you that wants this moment, this kind face, to be engraved into your mind for the rest of your life. You want this to be the first and last thought you have and nothing else: just Jungkook’s adoring gaze on you for the rest of time.

The moment ends too soon when he flutters one last peck against your lips. “I’ll be done in the afternoon, okay?”

You pout. “Okay, your place?” you huff, making sure to get one last octopus squeeze around his waist. He nods. “Promise you won’t be late?”

The corners of his gaze soften. “You know I won’t,” he smiles, leaning down to bump your noses together playfully. “Can’t stay away from my pretty girl too long. Besides, I have a gift for you tomorrow.”

It’s with that sentiment and a hammering heart that you let him go. With Jungkook gone, there’s really nothing for you to do now. You took the next two days off in preparation for your anniversary sex, so you don’t have to head to sleep early like usual.

With nothing else planned, you decide on rewatching that Zootopia movie that had plagued you all night, ready to dissect every plot hole to hell and back. You don’t think Jungkook’s seen this movie yet so you add it to your long list of animated movies you’re forcing him to watch.

Part of you is actually really surprised Jungkook left. Well, kinda sorta, very, but not really. Jungkook was a good boy, that much was obvious. He took his job seriously, and if his job wanted him to come in at the asscrack of dawn, then he’d come in before the sun even rose. He was a goody-two-shoes, but even so, you were occasionally able to bring out that darker side in him.

Jungkook working, like actually working in an office setting, was pretty rare though. The dude had a chill job that let him stay home most of the time, and essentially clock in whenever he wanted. Every now and then you were able to convince him to stay, tucking him beneath your body or the covers, depending on the night, and refusing to let him go the morning after.

Once he had eaten you out until the wee hours of the day, ravenous between your thighs, and then went to work the next morning like he hadn’t broken you. Another time you had persuaded him into watching every season of the 2017 DuckTales reboot through the night. When the alarm had rung in the middle of the season finale, he had simply gotten into your shower and gone off to work.

So maybe you were a little confident in your skills, and Jungkook slipping between your fingers tonight was a huge bummer. But there was no use crying over spilled milk, you tell yourself, flinging your bra off somewhere in the corner as you snuggle back into your sheets. You’re ready to tear this Zootopia movie apart, scene by scene.

Even though your apartment is a little cold, you’re comforted by the fact Jungkook will be here to keep you warm all day tomorrow.

All men do is lie.

Despite his promise to come home early the next day, Jungkook ends up lying. The meeting he had been in all morning— the same one that had stopped you from getting bent like a pretzel the night before —drags on well past noon. Then, Kim Namjoon, AKA Jungkook’s favorite senpai in the entire world, catches wind of Jungkook’s success last night and absolutely has to take him out to lunch to celebrate.

You scoff, glaring down at your phone and the impulsive messages you’d sent out an hour ago when Jungkook had first texted you telling you he would be late.

You whirl around to stomp off in the direction of his living room, where all of yours and Jungkook’s favorite foods were growing colder by the minute. You had spent the longest time carefully laying them out, making sure the fried chicken was closer than the pizza but not closer than the breadsticks. Truthfully it’s a nightmare. There are about eight stomach aches worth of food sitting on his coffee table, the greasy stench makes you gag and will certainly stick to your hair for weeks, but none of that mattered because it was all for your beau.

Your very late beau who was making you grow more and more agitated with each minute that passed. Ugh! How inconsiderate of him to test your patience on a day like this. You didn’t want to be upset with him, but this was your first, real milestone as a couple with him. You had wanted to spend the whole day cuddled up, maybe finally tell him how much he really meant to you— definitely not waking up alone with eyeliner crusted eyes and an aching heart.

Deciding you’re being a little too dramatic, you head into the bedroom to calm down. This was fine, you tell yourself, carefully laying out the damn near harlotrous lingerie you had yet to put on. Jungkook would come over soon and everything would be A-okay.

Except for the part it’s actually F-not okay because soon it’s nearing sunset and the food has gone cold so you’ve stocked it into the fridge, and the pretty sheer bra has a wonky wire that’s two seconds away from piercing through your heart, but that doesn’t even matter because Jungkook being late for your all-day anniversary celebration has already ripped it to shreds anyway.  

You plop down on the couch in defeat, impulsively opening up the Disney+ app to cry through another episode of Phineas and Ferb. You’ve abandoned the satin robe that came with the lingerie in favor of donning a big t-shirt that smells like him and makes your heart hurt even more. The setting sun paints the living room in muted oranges, the chirping of birds outside the soundtrack to your lonely day.

You end up watching some other cartoon on Disney+, avoiding the Marvel section because you had promised Jungkook he could be there when you lost your Marvel virginity. Well, at least one of you was good at keeping promises, you think bitterly. For a second, you think about randomly watching one of the infamous MCU films out of order just to spite him. But then you think of that soft puppy gaze and how disappointed he’d be in you.

Whatever! It wouldn’t ever match up to the way you felt now.

Anyway, you circle back. When you’re five episodes into Phineas and Ferb you hear the doorknob rattle.

You sit up just as the door swings open, visible from your spot on the couch. He meets your gaze almost immediately, big doe eyes caught in the act. What act? You’re not really sure. In fact, you don’t even know what you’re looking at when he walks in because he’s drowning in shopping bags. His lips twist into a grin. “Honey, I’m home,” he says playfully.

You don’t laugh.

Jungkook frowns, dumping all his bags down at the entrance before waddling over towards you. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, coming to stand before you and cupping your face in his hands. He’s towering over you, so tall and gorgeous but for the first time, you’re not dazed by his beauty.

“Kook, you said you’d be back hours ago,” you say slowly, avoiding his gaze. You try to keep the frustration out of your voice, but you’ve had hours to dwell on it now, and those annoying cartoon characters, though charming at first, had only served to multiply your annoyance.  

Jungkook blinks, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I mean… yeah. But I got you presents?” he beams, glancing back at the mountainous pile he made by the door. You look over too. There are some luxury bags squeezed in between other shops you like, the occasional jewelers' logo on the side.

You stand with a sigh, sauntering off into the kitchen with him on your tail. “I don’t want presents,” you mumble, reaching to pour yourself a glass of water. You’re briefly aware of how childish you must seem. Jungkook hovers behind you.

“What? Yes, you do,” he says. “You had an entire wishlist on my Amazon of things you wanted.” It’s his turn to level you with an unreadable expression, slowly crossing his arms over his chest.

Your frown only deepens as you turn to match his stance against the counter. While it may be true that you did indeed have an entire list of impulsive items on his Amazon, that didn’t necessarily mean you wanted them all. Sometimes you just wanted to stare longingly at a pair of satin gloves without actually buying them. You don’t know how to explain this much to him. “They’re not…” you stop with another deep breath. “Forget it. Thank you for the presents.”

Now it’s Jungkook’s turn to question you. “What,” he says in an unimpressed tone, padding over to you before you can escape back into the living room to watch the entire princess movie collection on Disney+. “No, tell me what’s wrong.”

For some reason, that’s exactly what you don’t want to hear. “Jungkook,” you say flatly, narrowing your eyes at him. “You come home six hours after you said you would without telling me why, and normally I wouldn’t care, but today was supposed to be a special day for us.”

Jungkook reels at your bluntness. “Babe, I was out getting stuff for you. I know it’s our anniversary— that’s why I wanted to treat you,” he responds, oddly condescendingly like you’re a child who doesn’t understand what exactly he was doing.

You brush his hands away from your shoulders. “Yeah,” you huff. “Now I know that. But I spent all day waiting for you,” you stress, chest puffing as you grow more and more agitated by his inability to understand you. God, can he let you go now? At least a bunch of animated, geometrically drawn cartoons won’t question you like this and make you feel as childish as he was.

When he doesn’t say anything else you stomp back into the living room, snatching up your phone from its forgotten spot against the couch. “I’m going to bed.”

At that Jungkook seems to kickstart back to life. “What? ___, it’s barely six,” he says as he follows after you into your bedroom. You ignore him, shuffling beneath the covers. In all actuality, you’re going to bed to mope and watch more animated family shows, maybe cry under the guise of the plot just being so sad. Jungkook sits beside you just as you click back on to finish off your episode. “Baby, I don’t get it,” he sighs. “You’re always talking about how much you want this or that, and I go out and get you it all but now you’re mad?”

You bite down on your lip, eyes lasered in on the pictures moving before you. “Jungkook, just forget it.”

“No,” he says, more sternly than he’s ever been with you before. “If there’s a problem, tell me.” There’s a heavy pause, and then he says, “don’t make me waste my time guessing what’s wrong, okay?” 

“Waste your time?” you scoff, sitting up with pinched brows that you find match his. “I’m not trying to waste anyone’s time— in fact, that’s hot coming from you, Jungkook.”

He rolls his eyes. “What are you even saying? You’re mad because I took a little long getting presents, for you, might I add,” he huffs, plopping down on the edge of the mattress beside your knee. “You’re always saying you want this and that, but you can’t handle me going out to get those things? Do you hear how weird you sound?”

You whip the covers off of you. “Me talking about things doesn’t always mean I want them,” you defend.

Jungkook snorts. “Yes, it does,” he says. “Anytime you ramble about stuff for minutes like a little kid it’s because you want me to buy it for you.”

You blink. “Like a little kid?” you repeat, stunned by his comparison. Granted, you always knew you were the more childish of the two, but you never thought that would equate Jungkook thinking of you as a child. Something red and nasty flares in your chest. “Well sorry,” you spit, crossing your arms over your chest defensively, “sorry we all can’t be perfectly mature golden boys who would never see the light of day if I constantly wasn’t dragging them out.” You know it’s a somewhat low blow, especially because Jungkook’s told you before how his introverted tendencies were a sensitive issue growing up, but you can’t help it.

Jungkook groans, dropping his head into his hands. “Baby, don’t do this now,” he warns, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Stop acting like this.”

“Like how?” you spit, “like a kid?” Jungkook says nothing, leveling you with a blank stare from the corner of his eye. You roll your eyes, phone falling off your lap. Another episode of Phineas and Ferb had started, the corny opening tune filling the space between the two of you. “At least now I know what you think of me,” you mutter over the guitar riff.

“Oh my god,” Jungkook blurts, sitting up wildly. “Of course I’m gonna think of you as a stupid little kid, look at you,” he seethes, gesturing at the phone beside you. You flinch. “All you do is watch kids shows and whine whenever I wanna watch anything normal adults watch. You complain every single day about the most normal things, like your job? Why should I fucking care that you’re working a dead-end office job in a field you didn’t even study for— that’s not my problem, __!” he snaps, eyes narrowed into little slits. “I just won an award last night,” he says suddenly, voice back to its regular volume. “I’m at the height of my career and I’m only going up, but I can’t even enjoy that because I have to come home and cater to you,” he finishes, a loud scoff punctuating the final word.

You had never imagined Jungkook finally bragging about himself would be at your expense.

A beat of silence passes, the angry glint in his eyes quickly fading away the longer you don’t say anything. You sniff once, turning your head idly to the side where Phineas and Ferb is still blaring loudly from your phone speaker. Picking up the device, you throw it across the room where it hits his closet door with a terrifying bang the breaks the silence.

The sound snaps Jungkook out of whatever shock he’d been in. “Baby…” he says slowly, carefully, like you’re a caged animal that’s just escaped the zoo.

“I’m going home,” you say, also a little too calmly. You saunter over towards his closet where your shattered phone screen glares up at you as you yank a pair of sweats off a hanger. Jungkook is still frozen on the edge of the bed, watching you with wide eyes as you move about the room.

It’s when you’re in the hallway leading downstairs that Jungkook finally snaps out of his daze, scampering behind you as you descend the stairs. “Baby,” he rushes out, loudly bounding down after you, “___, wait,” he gasps, catching you by the kitchen counter collecting your keys. “I-I didn't mean that,” he rushes out, eyes wide and frantic as they flicker over your expression. “I don’t think that—I don’t, baby, please, just… let me explain, please.”

“Jungkook, let go of me,” you respond, shaking your wrist in an attempt to release yourself. He’s not even holding you tightly— he never would—but the sound of your heart pounding in your ears makes your movements jerky and erratic. “I wanna go home.”

“No,” he chokes, cornering you against the counter. “No, baby, please just listen to me, I-I—“

“You what, Jungkook?” you snap, placing a hand on his chest and forcefully pushing him away. He lets you, stepping back with a wobbly bottom lip. “You need to tell me how you’re too good for me? How much I hold you down because I wasn’t lucky enough to get a job like yours straight out of college?” He says nothing, swallowing roughly as you jab a finger into his chest. “Well let me tell you something,” you snarl, chest heaving, “I may be childish and a huge complainer, but I’m not stupid enough to let someone walk all over me like this.”

With that, you make your great escape. Truthfully, you don’t want him to see the tears in your eyes as you yank his door open, stomping down his steps and in the direction of the nearest bus stop. The door opens right after you tug it shut, painting your shadow across the sidewalk. There’s the scrambled sound of house slippers against the concrete that follows you down. “Go the fuck back inside,” you snap without missing a beat.

Sensing your obvious anger, he pauses before he can reach you. “Text me when you get home?” he calls out quietly.

“No,” you respond.

You would never admit to anyone that you spend the entire night eating a tub of mint chocolate ice cream. It’s disgusting and makes you gag, but it’s the only one you have in your apartment. And of course, it was brought over by none other than Jeon Jungkook himself a few days ago. Even when you’re trying to comfort yourself over how mean he was, on your anniversary night no less, you’re plagued by thoughts of him everywhere.

As much as you want to brush his words off, put on that cool girl exterior you’ve maintained since high school, there’s something different about this situation. You guess it’s impossible to brush off such hateful words when they come from someone you love and adore so much.

Were you too childish? You had always believed that side of you was what made your relationship with Jungkook so perfect. The two of you meshed well because of your differences, like yin and yang. So how had he been able to so easily deconstruct every inch of that balance in a matter of a few seconds? Was this perfect reality all in your head this whole time?

You want to tell yourself it was just a heat of the moment outburst from Jungkook, give him the benefit of the doubt because he’s never snapped at you like this before. Of course you’ve fought a couple of times in the past year, but neither of you had ever stooped as low as you did yesterday. Furthermore, the insecure part of your brain says he obviously felt this somewhere in his heart to bring it up at all. What he had said to you wasn’t something someone could make up on the spot.

You don’t text him when you get home, partly to spite him, but mainly because you had left your phone at his place anyway. You know he tried calling you last night because the call log is synced up to your laptop. He called on and off for about thirty minutes before he probably found your phone in his room. Whatever, he can mope in his regret for all you care

—is what you wanna say, but the longer he goes without showing himself to you the more your insecurities and hurt fester. Was this it? Was this the end of what was probably the best year of your life? It’s too painful to think about, to even consider the possibility that Jungkook might have gained a new insight last night and decided, hey, maybe this is for the best after all.

You drown yourself in an ungodly amount of sugar for breakfast, your laptop blaring yet another episode of Phineas and Ferb on the dining table. Muscle memory has you making Jungkook’s favorite pancakes before you can stop yourself, and by the time you do realize, you’ve resigned yourself to the blueberry smell anyway.

There’s a pounding on your door a little past noon, so hard and rough, that you almost think it’s the police finally coming to catch you for all your years of illegally pirating Phineas and Ferb.

It’s not.

It’s just a really drunk boyfriend wailing for your forgiveness at the door. You open the door with a fright, jumping back when he slumps forward and almost crashes face-first into the floor. “You didn’t call,” Jungkook cries, leaning a little too much of his weight onto you when you reach out to steady him.

The thundering of your heart slows upon registering it’s him. “Kook?” you frown, nose pinched at the ungodly stench of alcohol wafting off his clothes. “Have you been drinking?” you ask even though the answer is staring you right in the face (and in the nose).

He groans, staggering deeper into your arms. You blindly push the door shut behind him, resigning yourself to this new situation while your pancakes grow cold in the other room. “Baaaby,” he slurs, letting you guide him into the living space. He’s unceremoniously dumped onto the couch, half-opened eyes gazing up at you. “Let me,” a hiccup, “explain.”

You won’t lie. There’s a very obvious sense of discomfort sitting in your chest, torn between two paths that you don’t wish to choose between. His skin is warm and flushed like he’s just walked all the way here in this morning sun. You step over to the window that faces down onto the street below. There’s no sign of his car; you would have killed him if he ever tried to drive in this state.

“Did you walk here?” you ask instead, deciding there’s no need for one singular path, not when you can walk straight down the middle, both cleaning him and grilling him at the same time.

Jungkook’s response is delayed, head lolling from side to side as you help him out of his sweater. His skin is sweaty beneath, scorching to the touch. “Uh-huh,” he groans. Jesus, you sort of assumed but him confirming it really set things into perspective.

By no means did you and Jungkook live on opposite ends of the earth. On a good day, a drive from your place to his took about ten minutes. But walking? Easily an hour. Had he walked all the way from his place, drunk on top of that?

You brush his hair away from his face, his eyes fluttering shut at your touch. His lips are pouty yet chapped, dehydrated from the sun and the alcohol he reeks of. “Sit up for me,” you instruct, scampering off to your room for chapstick and water.

“Anything for you,” Jungkook wheezes, throat probably dryer than a desert. When you return, he’s two seconds from face planting into the coffee table and breaking that pretty face of his. You catch him with a hand on his shoulder, keeping him balanced. “Tell me what to do,” he chokes out, voice hoarse.

“Just need you to drink some water,” you say, pressing a cup against his lips. He drinks it, but a drop still dribbles down his chin.

“No,” he groans, catching your wrist in his hand when you reach up to apply some chapstick on him. “Tell me what to do,” he stresses, “to fix this. Fix us.”

His words make you pause, the tube of chapstick hovering over his plush lips. “You don’t have to do anything,” you respond quietly, trying to finish the application so you can pull away.

Jungkook doesn’t let you go. You try to look away, but there’s something about him that looks off. Maybe it’s the raw skin under his eyes, red and swollen. Or the sad droop to those same eyes that hold you captive. Or maybe it’s the subtle tremble in his hands, the fingers that hold tightly to your wrist, not to keep you there but to ground himself. “I don’t wanna lose you,” he rasps out, shakily bringing your hand to his mouth, where he presses one airy kiss to your knuckles. “Tell me ho-how to fix this and I’ll do it,” he pleads, a vulnerable look in his eyes.

Unable to withstand the sheer amount of agony on his expression, you look away. “___, please,” he chokes out, stumbling off the couch in his drunk and desperate haze until he’s kneeling in front of you. “I can’t… I can’t,” he sniffles, tears clouding those pretty eyes you’ve come to love so much. “I don’t know who I am without you.”

You clench your jaw. “You’re Jeon Jungkook,” you murmur, slipping your hand out of his hold to run through his hair. It’s knotted and a little too greasy, two things Jungkook would usually never allow. “This year’s Platinum Mobile Standard of Excellence Award recipient,” you remind him, trailing your thumb across his cheekbone when he turns to look up at you with those big Bambi eyes. “Sweet and shy, but you love being rowdy with your friends. You love movies and TV and organizing your shirts according to fabric type. You work harder than anyone I know and never complain. You date me, even though I’m a huge child,” you smile sadly.

“No!” he jumps, turning that frantic stare back into you. “Y-You’re not— it’s not,” he stammers, words still slurring together. “I’m a liar,” he cries, resting his forehead on your knees. His shoulders shake. “I don’t deserve you,” he weeps quietly. You place a hand on his shoulder. “Y-Y-You make my life so much better, ___, so colorful and fun. I-I wish I knew you in high school,” he admits, “maybe I wouldn’t have been so emotionally constipated now.”

“You’re not,” you reassure him softly.

He disagrees. “You bring out the best,” he hiccups, “the best in me.” Your heart skips in your chest. “I-I love you, you know that?”

You sputter, eyes wide at his sudden confession. “I… love you so much, y’know? I think about you ev-every night, ___,” he rambles, eyes dreamily gazing off into some miscellaneous spot on the wall behind you. “I can’t get you out of my head. Like you're a song, o-on repeat but it’s not annoying because it’s my favorite song, and I could listen to it for the rest of my life, y’know? My favorite song, I know all the words b-because it’s all I think about! I love... My love… I love you so much.”

“Kook,” you rush out, cheeks flaming as you try to pull him away from where he’s slumped over your legs. His passionate speech has you abuzz, body tingling everywhere until you feel overwhelmed, head spinning like you’re on a rollercoaster. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He nods sleepily, seemingly coming down from whatever alcohol induced rampage has allowed him to walk for an hour straight in this searing heat just to confess to you. “Y-You don’t have to say it back,” he continues to stutter as you guide him through the living room on wobbly legs. “I just-I just— can I?” he babbles. “Can I love you, ___?”

You pass through the kitchen space, where whatever you were watching on Disney+ is blaring loudly. It distracts Jungkook for about two seconds before his attention returns to you. When you don’t answer, he presses on. “Is that okay?” he asks, whirling around to face you, catching your shoulders in his hands. He towers over you by the entrance to your bedroom, dark curls tickling your forehead. His eyes are dark and glazed over, both in tears and an emotion so raw and unfiltered it squeezes around your chest until you can’t breathe. “Is it okay for me to love you?” he murmurs softly, knocking his nose against yours.

Your cheeks blaze. “Yes, th-that’s fine, Kook,” you blubber, placing a hand over his chest, where his heart is also hammering away. “Just need you to go rest now, okay?”

He nods sleepily, nudging your nose with his one last time, like a soft almost-kiss, before letting you push him into the room. “Yes, yes,” he breathes, his body finally crashing from his adrenaline spike. He flops down onto the bed unceremoniously, dark waves fanning across your pillows. You try to wiggle him out of his shirt, but it only gets about halfway up his chest before he blindly reaches for the covers. His legs stick out awkwardly, clad in the sweatpants you’ve come to associate with him.

When he’s all swaddled up in your blanket he finally goes limp, tiny snores leaving his lips as he dozes away from reality. You sigh, pressing a palm to his forehead. He’s still warm and clammy, but at this point, there’s nothing you can do but wait for him to sober up.

With a final kiss to his forehead, you leave the room, closing the door behind you before sliding against the wooden surface. There’s a trapped bird in your chest, wildly flapping its wings in an effort to get out, and it’s all stupid Jungkook’s fault in the next room. Stupid Jungkook who demolished and remodeled your heart all in less than twenty-four hours. It doesn’t calm down, even when you rush off into the kitchen for a glass of water, or when you try to immerse yourself in some other show on Disney+. It stays beating against your ribs and your chest until you’re forcing yourself to sit down on the couch and process.

He wakes up a little before dinner. You hear him from the living room, where you’re flicking through the options on Disney+ for the nth time that day. You’ve seen the first fifteen minutes of about twenty different series and movies by now, always growing antsy and abandoning them early on. The only reason you know he’s awake is because the shower turns on for a few minutes, and then his bare feet are heard padding across the hallway back into your room.

By the time he resurfaces in the living room, you’ve resigned yourself to just more Phineas and Ferb, nonchalantly watching the silly cartoon. (Except you’re anything but nonchalant, and your heartbeat rings in your ears.)

Jungkook hovers by the door, clad in a pair of shorts he’s left here before, and a t-shirt you stole from him. “Hey,” he says quietly, lingering by the doorframe. You nod back in response. “Can I watch with you?” Again, another nod.  

Slinking over to the couch, he’s rather careful as he sits down, leaving a few inches of space between the two of you. You don’t even think he can see the screen of your laptop until he murmurs, “he’s my favorite character,” when Perry the Platypus appears on the screen.

You hum. “Thought you didn’t like these kids shows?” you ask. You don’t mean it to sound as petty and backhanded as it comes out, but that’s really no one's fault but his own.

Jungkook’s breathing tightens beside you. “No,” he admits, “I don’t. Only watch them because I know you like them.” You contemplate pausing the episode and engaging in a real conversation with him, but at this point, you’re very tired from the events of the last day. Jungkook doesn’t press either, just shuffles more comfortably beside you.

You get about five minutes in, quiet chuckles shared between the two of you, before he strikes. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says, so hushed you almost don’t hear it. His hand is resting in the space between you, pinky brushing against yours. “About… being late. And the presents.”

You inspire slowly. “That wasn't even the problem, silly,” you brush off. From your peripheral, you see Jungkook’s slow nod. “I didn’t want any presents,” you mention, “I just wanted you.” You look away from the screen immediately after, pretending like the spot on the ceiling is actually really interesting.

The two of you fall into silence, the animated characters on your screen rapidly chattering away. “Oh,” Jungkook says after a moment.

You roll your eyes. They’re moist but you don’t want him to see. “Yeah, oh,” you parrot back softly, relaxing into the couch again. “Did you eat the food I left out?”

Jungkook shuffles beside you, the soft lull of the speakers soon being cut as he reaches over to pause Phineas and Ferb. A couple of seconds pass and then he’s leaning into you, head resting on your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, placing a palm over the hand he had been teasing for the past few minutes. “I thought I knew what I was doing but I was wrong.”

His voice is so soft and sincere, it makes your chest ache. You try to burrow your face against your opposite shoulder, try to hide the stray tear that escapes out of the corner of your eye. “It’s fine,” you brush off, voice choked off and hoarse.

Jungkook leans up, pecks your cheek so tenderly it makes you go mushy. “No, it’s not fine. I acted like a know-it-all and said something way out of line,” he murmurs, raising his head to look at you. His hand feels warm over yours. It’s the touch you craved all day and yesterday, the warm feel of his body against yours. You’re embarrassed at how easily you melt into it. “You’re the best thing that has happened to me in a long time,” he tells you, holding your hand close to his chest. “I had no right to say those things to you.”

You sniffle, resting your head against his shoulder now. His heart beats loud enough for you to hear. “Was it true?” you mumble. “Do you really think of me like that?”

He shakes his head, his soft breaths fanning across your forehead. “No, never,” he answers. “I think you’re incredible. My brain was just trying to justify my dumb anger.”

You nod, even if you don’t believe it just yet. But that was a conversation for later, you suppose, sometime in the future when you aren’t on the verge of tears and threatening to crumble apart at the simplest word that leaves his mouth.

“I should have come home like you wanted, thought about my words before saying them,” he says, snuggling closer to you. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” you sniffle, covering your face with your free hand as he presses a kiss to the vein that runs over the back of the hand he’s holding captive. “Now it just sounds like I'm just being inconsiderate of your gifts and a crybaby.”

Jungkook kisses your temple softly, gently. “Don’t think about the gifts,” he says. “Just tell me what you wanted to do, doll.”

His voice calms you, has you like putty in his arms. “Watch movies,” you mumble, toying with a thread on your couch cushion. “Be with you.”

He hums. “Then we’ll do that,” he says, reaching for your laptop again. The screen nearly blinds you when it flickers back to life before you, Jungkook’s low breaths against your ear making it near impossible for you to process the titles on the screen. “You liked Disney+?”

Belatedly, you nod. “I like the animated movies,” you admit quietly, the anxieties of before slowly melting away, even more so when he slides his arm around you, pulling you close against his chest.

Unlike other times where he’ll critique the hell out of such childish films, Jungkook says nothing as he starts up the Zootopia movie instead, the same one you had wanted to show him before, right from the beginning. “That bunny looks like you,” you murmur when Judy Hopps first appears on the screen.

Jungkook snorts. “You say that about every cartoon bunny.”

You turn your head to glance at him over your shoulder. He meets your gaze with a small smile you return. “It’s because you’re so cute,” you say softly, lips twisting playfully when his cheeks grow scarlet.

He knocks his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Not cute, just lucky,” he chuckles. “Lucky enough to have you.” Your heart turns over in your chest, threatening to burst out of your rib cage at his words. You try to turn in his arms. Before you can say the words that have been sitting on the tip of your tongue for months now, he’s beating you to it once again. “I love you,” he confesses in a hushed whisper, no alcoholic influence. 

Something inside of you blossoms, eyes wide as he chastely kisses you. He pulls away without you ever reacting, too caught up in surprise to kiss him back properly. He stays close, curls tickling your forehead as he leans over you. “You don’t have to say it back, I just wanted you to know. I love you,” he says again, long lashes blinking down at you. “So much. It makes me feel like a stupid teenager again, going to the mall to buy a gift for my crush.” He laughs sheepishly, reaching down to tangle your fingers together. “Is that okay?” he asks quietly, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

It mirrors the confession he’d given you that morning, those slurred words and teary eyes. It had been difficult to pinpoint the legitimacy of it before, the meaning scrambled by his hazy mind. But with him staring at you like this now, like you single-handedly plucked the stars from the sky to put them in those sparkly eyes of his, it makes something inside you ache.

Still, you choke on your own spit. “I-Is it okay for you to love me?” you sputter incredulously, realizing the oddity of the same question he’d thrown at you earlier. But now, you’re both sober and you can really tear apart that sentence. Jungkook nods a little too seriously for your liking. “Are you crazy?” He blinks in confusion, brows pulling together as you slowly but surely lose the last bits of your sanity. “You’re an idiot, Jeon Jungkook,” you huff, “a stupidly handsome, rich, walking dream, idiot who goes out with stupid girls like me.”

“Not stupid,” he murmurs, closing in on you again as he finally understands the truth behind your masked insults. He smells minty and like his favorite body wash of yours.

“No,” you deny. “You’re actually, like, insane. You have a bachelor pad, make enough money to sustain an entire litter of kittens, look and talk like every teenage girl’s dream boyfriend— but you mess it all up by dating evil, conniving hoes like me who lose their shit over Disney cartoons.” He says nothing, watching you with an amused grin as you talk over yourself, basically regurgitating his statement from yesterday except it kinda seems plausible now that you’re over it. “It’s stupid. No, you’re stupid. No— I’m stupid.”

Jungkook chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth gently. “Done?” he says, a dimple appearing on his cheek. You could kiss it away, but you need him to know the amount of stupidity in this room was astronomically high. “You’re not stupid, baby,” he says. You level him with a look. “Well. You have your moments.”

“Moments?” you repeat, standing up in a hurry that has him flopping down beside you. Your laptop is lost somewhere on the cushions, the voices faded as they grow farther away. “I am so stupid. I called Namjoon a whore for taking you out for lunch!” you cry. “I am the stupidest person in the world.”

Jungkook cackles, standing up beside you. “Yes, yes, you’re my stupid girl,” he teases, tapping the pout on your lips playfully. “So stupid she slanders herself instead of just telling me she loves me too.” He bumps your noses together, dark eyes staring at you almost daringly after his claim.

You fold soon enough. “I love you,” you mumble, “even if I’m too stupid to say it.”

He rewards your confession with a kiss, pulling you into his arms soon after. He sighs, almost wistfully. “Whatever shall I do with my very stupid girl?”

After exactly three minutes of feeling safe and loved in his arms, he abandons the living room in favor of leading you back to your room, where he pushes you down against your mattress. You cling to him, leaving him positioned over you at an angle. His chest presses against yours, arm curled around the back of your head. “Gotta get up, baby,” he laughs.

You shake your head, caging him in your arms. “Nuh-uh,” you murmur, legs wiggling when he places a hand on your hip.

Jungkook chuckles, pressing a kiss against the side of your ear. “Your movie is still playing in the other room,” he reminds you, thumb drawing soothing circles on your hip. You don’t release him, his mindless touch only encouraging you to keep him close. “Babe?”

You say nothing, relishing in the comfort of Jungkook’s presence. His hair smells good and feels even softer against the side of your face. The cotton shirt he found is crumpled beneath your fists, dark blue pattern wrinkling. Finally coming to terms with his new home, Jungkook eventually relaxes into your hold with a sigh.

“Alright,” he hums, patting your hip as he repositions himself more comfortably. “I get it. My pretty girl must’ve missed me, huh?” You nod, soaking in every detail about him in this moment. Jungkook shifts, the hand on your hip suddenly falling over your thigh instead. “Or should I say my stupid girl?” he purrs, hand slipping between your thighs. “My stupid, little girl?”

A gasp catches in your throat when he runs his fingers over the front of your panties. Your legs kick out wildly at the sudden touch, toes curling at the hands you dreamt about all day and night. “Oh,” you pant, each brush of his fingers feeling better than the last.

“What?” he says, mouthing against the side of your neck. His tongue feels warm, but the trails of saliva he leaves have you shivering. “Too dumb to speak?” he scoffs, biting down against a particular spot on your neck. You whimper, unsure if it’s because of his hands or his mouth.

“N-No,” you try to sneer back, fingernails digging into his skin through his shirt. His hands are getting braver now, the pad of his pointer finger dancing over your engorged clit. The sheer material of your panties certainly doesn’t help, each touch feeling like it’s being magnified three times over. And if it felt this good with underwear, you can’t even begin to imagine how it’d feel without.

You don’t have to ponder for long, because soon after Jungkook is slipping his hand beneath your waistband, touching your sensitive pussy head-on. “Kook.”

He uses your momentary vulnerability to ease himself from your hold, finally recoiling enough to smother your mouth with his. You moan in surprise, thighs quivering as he gets to work circling your hardened bud sans your panties. Jungkook isn’t the least bit kind as he kisses you ruthlessly, likes he’s trying to compensate for something with his movements. When he finally pulls away it’s with an obnoxious pop and cherry red lips. He huffs, glancing down to see where he’s got his fingers pleasuring you.

Your thighs are squirming back and forth, closing around his hand every few seconds. Jungkook snorts. “Huh, look at that,” he mutters, trailing down until his fingers are gliding over your quickly sopping folds. “Stupid girl is good for something.”

Your cheeks burn. “Kook, I’m not—“

Jungkook levels you with an unimpressed glare. “Not what? Not stupid? But I could’ve sworn you just spent the last few minutes saying you were,” he drones meanly, landing one light slap against your cunt that makes your hips buck.

You bite down a whimper. “I was just…” you trail off, eyes rolling back when he teases one finger against your opening.

“Kidding?” he supplies. “Well, I wasn’t.” Your heart stutters in your chest, eyes growing wide as he finally pushes himself off of you, propping himself up with an elbow beside your head. His gaze is dark and unrecognizable. “I think you’re so fucking stupid, doll,” he sneers. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

You should have seen this moment coming, the manifestation of that shiny side of the coin finally reaching its full potential.

While Jungkook wasn’t exactly shy about his interests, he certainly wasn’t tripping over himself to tell you every new kinky thing he wanted to try. You sort of guessed he had some interest in this sort of play a few weeks ago when you watched the Barbie movie at his place. A lot of that night had branded itself into your three am wet dreams, but there was one particular moment that stood out to you. That was you, on your knees, with him condescendingly patting your head. Or just last week, you vaguely remember the term slipping through his lips as he pleasured you with The Bullet Bestie.

The thing about Jungkook was that, until last night, he would have never admitted, or so much as even thought, that he was better than you. That was fine because you would say it enough for the both of you anyway. Did you think Jungkook was amazing, an absolute diamond among these measly rocks? Absolutely. (Were you slightly biased because you were his girlfriend? Skip.) However, you also had this insane evil villain complex that made you want to brag about everything you possibly could, especially if that meant bragging about your boyfriend.

Realistically speaking, he was better than you, that much you could look past yesterday’s anger to admit, and not even in a stuck-up, conceited way; he had a really good job, an architecturally amazing house, and a hot girlfriend. Meanwhile, you had a mediocre job, an okay apartment, and an insanely sexy Calvin Klein boyfriend, half of which he had pointed out yesterday. Regardless of how powerful that third factor was, he still outnumbered you three to one.

Sue you, Jungkook was amazing. Anyone could see that! Except, maybe, himself.

And if the only time Jungkook would openly brag about his greatness or establish how much better than you he was, was in a post-fight, sex-induced setting, then you were more than happy to be his punching bag. So long as it was on your terms, and not as a result of his weirdly bottled up feelings.

(Yeah, you would have a long talk about that tomorrow.)

But for now, you pout up at him, clamping your thighs shut purposefully. “You’re stupid too,” you defend, “stupid and mean.”

Something in his expression changes. Suddenly, he’s moving at superhuman speed as he snatches his hand out from where you had previously trapped him between your legs, yanking you up by the front of your shirt. “Mean?” he mocks. “Isn’t that what you always wanted?” You shiver, fingers wrapping around the wrist that holds your sweater. “Wanted me to be mean and push you around like a little rag doll?”

Jungkook looks at you for another two seconds, before he’s slowly pulling away from you, leaning back on his knees. His tongue is pressing against the inside of his cheek, jaw tightening from the movement. “Baby,” he says so quietly it instills a prickle of fear in you, tainted with delicious excitement.

“Yeah?” you whisper, sitting up tentatively as you watch him, He was a bit frightening, like a wild animal about to devour you whole.

Jungkook rolls his neck, the joints in his spine cracking as he begins tugging off his shirt. You salivate at the sight, too focused on the sinewy muscles of his body to catch the dark gaze he levels your way. He throws it off to the side, his sleeve of tattoos that wraps around his bicep and begins to crawl down his chest wonderfully unobstructed now. “Eyes up here,” he says and you quickly meet his gaze. He leans forward, muscled arms coming to cage you against the headboard. “Stupid little sluts don’t have the room to make such comments,” he rasps out, unamused expression adorning his normally soft features. “Don’t you think so?”

“I-I don’t know,” you stammer, leaning away as he comes closer and closer, eventually just turning your head to the side to avoid that emotionless look. It’s the wrong move, and Jungkook lets you know as much by forcefully digging his fingers into your cheeks and turning your face back around to meet his gaze.

A hand grabs beneath your knee, tugging harshly until you’re flopping down onto your back with a squeal. You settle with his knee pressed hotly against your core. Jungkook stays towering over you. “Dumb little girls who make me watch cartoons,” he spits, tracing a hand over your chest, molding your breasts beneath his hands roughly enough to make you gasp. “And watch little animal movies on Disney+. Aren’t they just so stupid?”

“So stupid,” you concede, subtly shifting your hips for some desperately needed friction. Jungkook snorts, finally granting you your wish with one rough slide of his thigh against your core.

“I agree,” he says, and surprises you with a hand around your throat as he leans in to properly grind his thigh into you. “All they’re good for is being dumb little sluts with good pussy,” he murmurs darkly, thumb pressing into the side of your neck forcefully. “Sometimes, they don’t even do anything,” Jungkook continues, his other hand on your hip hauling you higher up his thigh. You mewl, soaked panties rubbing roughly against your folds. You miss the soft swirl of his thumb, the gentle prod of his fingers. Even so, you can’t deny this change in Jungkook is doing something to you, riling up a part of you that you hadn’t known existed. Maybe it’s the horniness from yesterday that was left unfulfilled, the one year anniversary sex that was put on pause. “Just lay there and take it, too fucked out and dumb to say anything.”

His fingers loosen for the briefest of seconds and you gasp for breath. “That’s terrible,” you whimper, rolling your hips up into his thigh, so close to his swollen cock.

Jungkook chuckles without an ounce of humor, pressing your foreheads together as he helps grind you to completion. “Isn’t it? I think that stupid little girl is cute though.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, vision spotting as he tightens his hand back around your throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you moan, stomach tight from all the stimulation.

Jungkook hums, slowing you down with a tight grip on your waist. “Hm, what are you sorry for?” he croons, pink lips pulling into an evil smile. “You said you weren’t that stupid girl, __.”

You shake your head, trying to roll your hips up again but he’s holding you too tightly now, rendering you immobile beneath him. “I am,” you choke out shamefully, grabbing at the hand on your hip in a feeble attempt to remove it. “I am a stupid little girl.”

Jungkook smirks, leaning down to slot his mouth over yours. “That’s right,” he murmurs, “nothing but a dumb little slut.”

You shiver, opening your mouth when he slides his tongue against your bottom lip. He’s not the slightest bit nice, and more messy than usual. He pulls away with a bite to your lower lip, meeting your trembling gaze with that same unrecognizable glint in his eyes. “Come on, dummy, keep up,” he snarks before devouring you again. You try to, you really do, but he’s moving like an animal today, despite his slow and drunken movements from that morning. So you end up with his saliva dripping down your throat, clinging to the corners of your lips as he begins slowly grinding you against his thigh again. He flashes you a wicked smile, pearly teeth on display for you as he glances down at your messy appearance.

“Are you gonna touch me?” you ask, lower lip trembling at the thought after your desperate rutting. Jungkook purses his lips together in thought.

“Mmm,” he hums. “Don’t know yet.”

You whine. “Jungkook, please,” you whimper, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I need you.”

Jungkook chuckles, running his hand up your waist and taking your shirt with him. He slips his fingers beneath your bra, pushing the wire over your chest as he mouths at your neck. “Cute,” he says. “Can’t do it yourself?”

You tremble, chest arching into him as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “I-I can,” you gasp. “Just feels better with you.”

Jungkook follows your statement with a nip against your skin, tongue soothing over it right after. “Why? Because I do everything better than you? Even make you cum better than you?”

Your cheeks heat up at his blatant ego rearing its head, hands carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. You say nothing, and that only eggs Jungkook on. “Come onnn,” he teases, finally, finally rolling his hips down onto your core. You squeak, head falling back against the pillows as you’re granted the one thing you’d been chasing. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you ask, voice wobbly as he continues to slowly rut against you, the front of his shorts pressing against the soaked crotch area of your panties. “Oh, oh, Jungkook,” you whine.

Suddenly he bites down harshly, teeth digging painfully into your skin. You yelp in surprise, pussy throbbing at the pain that shoots throughout your body. Jungkook pulls away and doesn’t bother soothing over it as he leans up to capture your jaw this time. “Say you’re a stupid little slut who can’t do anything without me,” he purrs, kisses too soft for the words he says.

Your mind blanks, torn between the humiliating phrase he wants you to say and properly checking him in his place. In the end, it’s with a twisted need to please him that you’re repeating the words back to him. “I-I’m a stupid slut,” you whimper, fingers digging into his shoulder blades as he continues pushing you right along the edge. The rope pulled tightly in your core is slowly being pulled apart, threads hanging on for dear life. “Can’t... can't do anything without...”

“Without who?” he asks, reaching down and untying the front of his shorts. “Can’t do anything without who, baby?”

“Without you, without you,” you cry, bucking your hips up against his, the combined movements of both your bodies making you shake like a leaf. “Ah, K-Kook,” you wail, hips stuttering as your orgasm finally swallows you up. Your panties quickly grow wet and icky from your own arousal that pools between your thighs. Jungkook lets you writhe beneath him as you chase your high, mouth sucking a pretty blossom against your jaw.

You know better than to expect the night to end here, especially after seeing the glint that had been in his eyes as he watched you unravel.

He leans close, let’s his nose brush against yours as you catch your breath. “So perfect for me,” he groans, slotting his lips against yours. You can barely keep up with him, languidly going along with his hot tongue. “Perfect, perfect girl,” he murmurs, a stark change from the less than friendly adjectives he used just moments before. “Tell me you love me?” he says softly.

You nod, mind fuzzy as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Love you,” you exhale, letting your fingers knot in his hair. Your proclamation does something to him, makes him grind the front of his cotton shorts hard against you. For someone that was often rough and brutal with you in bed, he sure was sensitive to the mushiest of things.

“Don’t deserve you,” he huffs, hot breath fanning across your skin. He switches gears fairly quickly. “Tell me you hate me,” he begs hoarsely, rutting against your soiled panties. “Tell me I’m a piece of shit and you could do better without me,” he pleads, voice too airy to be another one of his usual sex-induced thoughts.

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he rolls his hips. “It’s not true,” you whisper, “I love you more than you’ll ever understand.”

Jungkook groans, suddenly winding back and tearing your ruined panties down your legs. You gasp in surprise, letting him haul you about in his blind, self-inflicted rage. “Stupid, stupid,” he huffs, though at this point you can’t tell who it’s directed at. With your underwear out of the way, he wastes no time plunging his fingers back into your cunt, bypassing the tight ring of muscle around it without any of his usual care. “You should hate me,” he snarls, lips pressed against your ear.

You moan, back arching at the sudden pleasure that blossoms between your thighs. “I-I don’t,” you gasp, toes curling.

Jungkook groans, the sound traveling down your spine and straight into your pussy. “Stupid girl,” he huffs, slipping an arm around you to pull you so close until you can’t breathe, chests lined up together. His skin is warm to the touch, scorching almost. “Fuck,” he groans, curling his fingers inside of you. You whimper and moan, incapable of staying still beneath him as he tortures you with a thumb to your clit. “Tell me you hate me,” he seethes again.

Despite the fog that’s settled over your mind, you still manage a resolute shake of your head. “N-no,” you cry, digging your nails into his back. They run dark red lines over his skin, making him hiss at the sting.

Whatever punishment he’s trying to put himself through is falling through with your refusal to admit such a thing. It aggravates him even more, your adamant stance on loving him so, and he’s retracting his fingers before you can cum again. “Please,” he chokes, face tucked into your neck. He’s sloppy with his movements; as he pulls his shorts down and kicks them away, he nearly suffocates you with his weight. “I don’t deserve you, ___, please.”

“I love you,” you whimper for lack of explanation. Jungkook leans back, that same madman gaze in his glossy eyes. He’s looking at you in disbelief almost, pouty lips puckered and swollen. Your hands slip from around him, falling on either side of your head.

Like a cobra he strikes, collecting your wrists in one hand he pins above your head. The sudden movement has him leaning in close, lips brushing over yours. His lashes are coated in a wetness he refuses to acknowledge, looking at you like you drive him insane. “If you ever try to leave me,” he whispers, jerky breath fanning over your skin, “I’ll lose my mind.”

He loves you so much it aches.

“I won’t,” you whimper, feeling your own eyes well up with an emotion that consumes every inch of your being. “I’ll never leave you, you stupid, stupid boy.”

A faint smile crosses his features at your words, lips quirking to the side. You relish in it for all of two seconds before he’s ramming his cock into you, your sensitive walls spawning around him. You sob loudly, eyes rolling back into your head. Your legs instinctively hook themselves around his waist, digging into the base of his spine as he rolls his hips into you.

You feel full and complete like he belongs there in this moment and every moment after this. It makes your heart constrict painfully. Jungkook’s soft groans follow your more unraveled noises, the vulgar slapping of skin on skin the underlying melody to it all. “Ffffuck,” he spits, greedily swallowing your moans up. You whine, arms bucking in an effort to hold him close. But he’s determined in his act of restraining you, long fingers tightening around your wrists until they hurt. “I warned you, didn’t I?” he huffs, snapping his hips into you.

Your walls clench around his hard cock, the drag as he exits sending shivers throughout your body. Jungkook’s body towers over you, glistening in sweat as he nails you into your mattress. “Remember what I said?” he asks, voice but a shuddery exhale. You shake your head numbly, overwhelmed by the rough drag across your walls. “All those months ago, when you first came over,” he adds. The hand on your hip abandons its post to cup you beneath the jaw, palm pressing sinfully against your throat enough to block the tiniest of airflow. “I’ll fuck you and keep you forever,” he murmurs, voice deeper than the pits of hell. He licks a fat stripe over your cheek like you’re nothing but a sweet for him to devour. “Do you remember that, pretty girl?”

You nod jerkily, hips arching up into him when he thrusts into you again. It’s a memory that replays in your mind every so often, your first night with the man you had planned to humiliate over a mere misunderstanding, now your boyfriend of one year. “Want that,” you gasp, tears blurring your vision when he begins picking up the pace. “Wanna be y-your pretty girl forever.”

Jungkook groans, kissing the corner of your mouth. His thighs are some magnificent beings, keeping his pace consistent even as he loses himself in his overwhelming need to kiss you. “Always,” he manages, soft lips pressed against yours. “I won’t ever let you leave.”

A shriek tears itself from your lips as he picks up that harsh piston, releasing your jaw to hold both wrists above your head. It makes his curls dangle in front of his eyes, covering that beautiful dark gaze. It makes his thin little necklace swing back and forth too, though it’s too small to actually touch your face. The rhythmic swing has you hypnotized, just like everything else about Jungkook.

With the length of his hair, you’re left staring at his lips, pulled taut between his pearly white teeth. The word from before sits heavy in your chest, begs to drip from the tip of your tongue. But he’s moving too fast and too hard, scrambling your thoughts until all you can think about is the cock plunging into your heat. His name falls from your mouth like mindless blubber instead, arms thrashing as your second orgasm swallows you up. It sends you crashing, body spasming as the sheer euphoria waves over you slowly and then all at once.

“Perfect,” he grunts, leaning down to slot his mouth against yours, “my perfect girl.” Your cum makes the sound of his hips erotic, the loud squelching following your panting. Still sensitive from your high, your body unconsciously tightens around him, keeps his cock from fully leaving. It brings a soft whine out of Jungkook, one he tries to muffle against the side of your face.

“Inside,” you whimper, even though your body feels like jelly beneath him. “Cum inside, Kook, please,” you beg.

It only takes a few more thrusts into your leaking hole for him to finally reach paradise, hips stuttering when that first shot of pleasure hits him. “Fuck, fuck,” he growls, wildly snapping his hips into your achy cunt. You moan, feeling just about brainless at the overstimulation. His cum leaves you full, almost makes your belly bulge from it. When he’s done he doesn’t bother pulling away, simply slumping into your limp form. His cock, though quickly softening, serves as a plug for the cum threatening to spill out of you.

There’s a muted noise coming from the other room, the faint sound of the mail slipping through your letterbox, the quiet chattering of the street outside. And of course, the loud blaring of your laptop playing the Phineas and Ferb theme song. Jungkook registers it at about the same time as you, a soft chuckle leaving his lips.

He pushes off of you soon after, leaning on his palms over you. He’s got that molten look on his eyes, the heat of a thousand suns burning behind those irises as he looks at you. Like he can’t get enough, even though he’s just about taken everything there is to take. “Love you,” he murmurs quietly.

A drop of sweat rolls over his forehead, clinging to the end of his eyebrow. You reach up and brush it away, let your hand trail down his face to cup his cheek. Immediately he leans into the touch, eyes falling half shut. “Love you more,” you respond.

“Impossible,” he scoffs.

Soon after you’re both stumbling out of bed, clothes haphazardly shrugged back on as you drift through the living room. There’s a thin, hot pink package sitting at the door, just having slipped through the letterbox; the stark Sexuality Unleashed logo is printed on the visible side, so you have to wonder what Doyeon could have possibly ordered this time that could be so thin. The laptop is awkwardly sandwiched next to a throw pillow, barely open a crack. Jungkook retrieves it, sets it on his lap as you scamper over to the couch.

“More Phineas and Ferb?” he asks quietly. He hates it, you know he does. And still, he wants to watch it with you.

You nod. “Please.”

He isn’t so concerned with the plot as you, clicking some random episode to start. You snuggle into his side, quietly singing along to the opening. After a moment, Jungkook speaks again. “Phineas and Flirt?” he offers cheekily.

You roll your eyes. “That might’ve been your worst one yet,” you sigh, trying to drown out his indignant huff by focusing on the screen.

“I don’t exactly see you coming up with these,” he points out, obviously feeling wronged.

Without missing a beat you say, “Disney+ and bust.”

epilogue

commercial break one ; the resolution

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[kjack89]

An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 2/?)

Continuation of the E/R Bridgerton AU (chapter 1 tumblr | AO3) with all the shenanigans. And some fake marriage. Because why not.

This Author has long been of the opinion that there is nothing so dangerous during the season as a mother desperate to make a match for her daughter, especially when that daughter is plain, or comes without a substantial dowry. But this season may bring a danger even greater than a desperate mother of daughters: desperate mothers of sons, unable – or unwilling – to seal the deal.

While certainly families with daughters, no matter how titled or landed, stand to lose much if they are unable to find a suitable marriage, the prospect of title or land passing out of the family without a suitable heir is enough to drive even the most respectable of families to desperate measures. Especially in the case of the Marquess of Enjolras, who is approaching thirty without a suitable marriage match in sight.

It is rumoured that the Dowager Marchioness is at her wit’s end and determined that her son shall marry by the end of the season. She is even accused of going so far as to negotiate terms without her son’s knowledge. There were several reports of a great row coming from the elder and younger Enjolras earlier this month, with son and mother shouting at each other for the entire park to hear. 

The Dowager Marchioness finds herself in good company, at the least: the Duchess de Courfeyrac has long despaired to any who will listen that her eldest will never settle down, and the rumour is that the Baron of Pontmercy has proclaimed he is refusing to marry any girl save for young lady he caught glimpse of for but a moment at the Thénardiers’ ball (and whom he has never seen since, assuming she does exist). And of course, the landed gentry without titles find themselves in similar straits. Just take Mr. Grantaire, who, despite owning one of the largest houses bordering the park, has yet to find a wife, and as he is well past the age one would expect, his father has all but given up on him and retired out of the country.

Of course, with the exception of Baron Pontmercy, it is well known that neither Lord Courfeyrac nor Mr. Grantaire, nor most other young rakes who have yet to settle down, finds himself short of unsuitable women, but our gentle readers will know that unscrupulous women might warm a bed but will rarely walk down an aisle. And on a contrary note, the Marquess may well be a monk – there is not a single rumour that this Author has heard of any woman, suitable or otherwise, who has warmed his bed.

Then again, there is none who would ever think to bat the term ‘rake’ in the direction of Lord Enjolras.

But speaking of our notable rakes, this Author has learned that the Marquess of Enjolras has called upon Mr. Grantaire this past week. And our readers may remember that despite several seasons’ worth of acquaintance under their belts that neither man would consider the other friend, which causes this Author to wonder just what those two have to discuss.

Whatever they may be up to, this Author is certain it will bring nothing but more despair to their poor guardians. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 18  APRIL 1831

Grantaire blinked. "I beg your pardon?" he said, and Enjolras thought it was too his credit that he sounded only mildly baffled.

Still, Enjolras could not help the flush that rose in his cheeks at the absurdity of his request. "I am fairly certain that you heard me perfectly well," he said, a little stiffly.

"Heard you, certainly, but..." Grantaire trailed off. "You wish for me to help you get married."

"Correct."

"But you need that marriage..."

Again he trailed off, and Enjolras cleared his throat delicately. "To not be real, correct," he finished in what he hoped was a helpful way.

Judging by the look Grantaire gave him, it had not been. Still, Grantaire was silent for a long moment, taking several sips of whiskey before telling Enjolras, "I will not claim to be anyone's first choice to ask for help with any variety of matters, but I still never thought I would see the day when I would be asked by a marquess to assist him in committing fraud."

"And yet if memory serves, once upon a time, you offered me your help with anything," Enjolras said. "You even offered to black my boots."

Grantaire looked momentarily surprised. "I did not think you would remember that."

Enjolras shrugged. "It was not I who drank my weight in wine that evening."

Grantaire smirked. "True enough." His smile faded slightly and he finished his second glass of whiskey before standing and crossing again to the drink cart. "While my offer of assistance still stands, there is something I must know first."

Enjolras eyed him warily. "What's that?" he asked.

"Why," Grantaire said simply, pouring himself another glass. "If you wish for my help, I need to understand the circumstances that have driven you to this most desperate – and patently absurd – endeavor."

Enjolras scowled, though he had certainly assumed that Grantaire would not just blindly assist him without asking why. "Fine," he snapped. "If it will move this conversation along, then I will tell you." 

He waited for Grantaire to return to his seat with his whiskey before sighing and telling him grudgingly, "It's my mother."

"Your mother," Grantaire repeated.

"Yes," Enjolras said stiffly. "Do you intend on repeating everything I say? Because if so, this tale may never be finished."

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. "Forgive me, my lord," he said coolly. "Your statement merely took me by surprise, as I did not expect you to be a man who is cowed by anyone, let alone his own mother."

Enjolras sighed and drew a hand across his face. "No, it's you who must forgive me," he said, even more grudgingly than before. "I should not have snapped at you, but my mother..." He sighed again. "There is none who vexes me like she does.
"

"Not even I?" Grantaire asked, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"Well," Enjolras allowed, "perhaps one other who vexes me like she does." Grantaire smiled, but it was too soft to be his usual smirk, and there was something in his expression that Enjolras could not quite place, but made him flush again, and he looked away, busying himself by pouring another cup of tea. "In any case, my mother is insisting that I get married so that my future bride's dowry can support the lavish lifestyle to which she has become accustomed."

Grantaire took a sip of whiskey. "And I suppose telling her no is off the table?"

"I have told her no many times," Enjolras said with a sigh. "And cut her off from the money I control to boot. But her only other assets come from some land she inherited in her own right, and she is threatening to raise levies on the poor people who work that land if she does not receive any additional funds."

"Like the fiefdoms of old," Grantaire murmured, a dark looking crossing his face. 

Enjolras nodded. "Precisely."

It took a moment for Grantaire's expression to even out, and he gave his head a swift shake. "So then, give her more of your money," he suggested.

"I cannot."

Grantaire's brow furrowed. "Why ever not?"

This, honestly, had been what he had been looking forward to least about having this conversation with Grantaire, in large part because he knew the man was liable to mock him with the reminder that the road to hell was paved with good intentions. "Most of my money is tied into trusts and investments to maintain the houses and lands, and to support infrastructure improvements in the village," Enjolras said. "And what remains is held in a trust by my solicitor that only I can draw on, and for specific purposes only."

"And let me guess, supporting your mother is not one of those specific purposes?"

Grantaire's tone was wry, and Enjolras sighed. "Indeed it is not. In fact, when I wrote the trust covenant, I deliberately chose to strictly forbid that type of use."

It looked as though Grantaire was trying very hard not to roll his eyes, but for once, Enjolras couldn’t really find it in himself to blame him. “So if you can’t use the money already under an existing trust, then you need new money, and the easiest way for that is…”

Grantaire trailed off and Enjolras nodded, relieved that Grantaire had finally caught up. “Some poor girl’s dowry,” he finished.

Grantaire pursed his lips, his expression skeptical. “You truly believe your mother would not just sell some jewels or something if the situation were truly that dire?”

“She might eventually,” Enjolras allowed, but his tone turned grim. “But I know my mother, and purposefully cruel is the kindest way to describe her. She would sooner squeeze every cent from her workers than suffer even a minor inconvenience, no matter the pain or destruction she leaves in her stead.”

“And you’re certain this is not simply a ploy to try to get you married off?” Enjolras looked affronted at the question and Grantaire held his hands up defensively. “I beg your pardon, but it had to be asked. Mothers are known for resorting to extreme measures in their desperation to see their children married off...or so Lady Whistledown would have us all believe.”

Enjolras wet his lips with his tongue as he contemplated his answer. “She might,” he said honestly. “I certainly wouldn’t put it past her. But I believe that if that were her true motive, she would’ve tried to force me into marriage through guilt over wanting grandchildren or a daughter-in-law, not going straight to the money angle.”

Grantaired nodded. “Well,” he said, “it’s good to know that you come by your manipulation tactics honestly, at least.” Enjolras gave him a withering look that Grantaire blithely ignored, asking instead, “What if you used some money from your trust to make a large purchase, a house or a tract of land, and then sold it quickly? Surely the profits from the sale would not fall under the terms of the trust.”

“They would not, but the trust—”

Grantaire groaned. “Do not tell me that you set up the trust so that you could not use it to expand your lands or holdings.”

Enjolras threw his hands up in frustration. “You know damn well I wish to be rid of these things!” he half-shouted, his irritation at the entire situation getting to the better of him. “Why would I allow myself the right to purchase more of that which I wish to depart from?”

“Because you really should have foreseen this becoming an issue,” Grantaire sighed, rubbing his forehead. He drained his glass of whiskey but to Enjolras’s relief, set it down on the table instead of getting up to pour himself another. “May I ask a question you will certainly find foolish?”

“Have you ever asked for my permission before?” Enjolras returned.

Grantaire half-smiled. “A fair question,” he said. “And I suppose I should not get in the habit now. Very well.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why can’t you just get married? Most marriages of your social strata are loveless, or at least start out that way, more business arrangements than unions, and most if not all have at least financial motivation.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “I would not do that to any poor woman,” he said, his voice low. “Even if they imagine they would be stuck in a loveless marriage, I would not take from them the chance at one, or at having a family of their own, neither of which they would get from me.”

For a moment, Grantaire’s expression was almost soft as he gazed at him. “I see,” he said slowly, and Enjolras frowned at his sudden change in tone.

“What?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Here I thought you might be waiting for true love.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes again. “Hilarious,” he said dryly.

But Grantaire just gave him a small smile. “I would suggest you do not dismiss the idea until you have tried it.: 

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Is that why you’re not wed?” he asked snidely. “Are you waiting for ‘true love’?”

Grantaire’s expression didn’t so much as twitch but Enjolras still immediately regretted his words, or at least the tone with which he delivered them. “I am not wed because I do not wish to be. Now forgive me, but I believe we were here to talk about your nuptial problems, not my own.”

Enjolras nodded stiffly, not quite willing to apologize yet again for the crime of sticking his foot in his mouth, but luckily, Grantaire moved on quickly. “So then borrow money from one of us,” he suggested, tracing a finger idly over the brocade fabric of his chair. “Certainly I can give you the equivalent of a good dowry.”

“And explain it to my mother how?” Enjolras asked. “A dowry is a one-time cash injection that my mother knows will not come again, and she can plan accordingly. If she knows or suspects that I have borrowed money, she will not stop until I have bled my friends dry.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “I did not know that I was counted as one of your friends.”

“Do you really think I would ask this of someone I did not consider friend?”

Grantaire looked away, his expression unreadable. “Well,” he said, his voice a little strange, “in fairness, you do let Marius join us at the Musain, so.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he snapped. “I will not let my mother bleed dry my friends, acquaintances and occasional nemeses, then.”

Grantaire looked back at Enjolras, his usual smirk back in full force. “Occasional nemeses,” he repeated. “Oh, I do like the sound of that.”

“Are you going to help me or not?” Enjolras asked impatiently.

Grantaire stood abruptly, but he didn’t return to the drink cart. Instead, he wandered over to the window, tucking his hands in his pockets as he stared out the window overlooking the park. Enjolras knew him well enough to know that he was thinking, and he stayed quiet despite everything in his nature wanting him to ask what was going through Grantaire’s mind.

After a long moment, Grantaire gave his head a little shake, still staring out the window. “It’ll be tricky,” he murmured, almost solely to himself, as if he had forgotten Enjolras was in the room. “We will need a plausible explanation, a suitable scandal...and of course, long-term…”

He broke off and stared out the window in silence for one long before turning back around, his troubled expression replaced by something like resolution. “Adélaïde,” he said, and Enjolras stared at him.

“I’m sorry, who?” he asked blankly.

“My sister,” Grantaire said firmly. “She is the solution. You will marry my sister for her dowry.”

Enjolras opened his mouth and promptly closed it again, completely taken aback by how this conversation had suddenly turned. “And dare I ask what you will say if I tell you that I have absolutely no desire to marry your sister, for her dowry or for any other reason?”

Grantaire didn’t look remotely deterred. “I can’t imagine she’d be too thrilled with the match either, but seeing as how she has no say in the matter…”

He trailed off as Enjolras recoiled, his expression darkening. “I did not think you the kind of gentleman who would think so little of his own sister’s consent.”

To his surprise, Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I think a great deal of her consent,” he said impatiently. “But she gets no say because she has been dead for almost twenty years.”

“Oh.”

Enjolras barely breathed the syllable, the word more an instinctive response less to what Grantaire had said and more to the pain he could see painted across Grantaire’s expression, even as his brusque tone tried to hide it.

Grantaire just jerked his head in what may have been a nod, a muscle working in his jaw, and Enjolras hesitated before saying, tentatively, “I am sorry. I did not know.”

“No one does,” Grantaire said quietly. “I…” He trailed off before shaking his head. “She and I were quite close when we were children, and after she died, it was simply easier to not speak of her.” He did not wait for any additional sounds of sympathy from Enjolras, instead straightening his shoulders as his tone turned businesslike. “But that works in our favor, as it means that no one in London knows that she is dead. It will not be difficult to tell a few key people about her, that I indulge my sister for nothing and that she has fallen in love with someone back in the country, the vicar’s son or something. And why should I subject her to the marriage market when her hand is already spoken for?”

He delivered this scenario as if it was one he had thought about before, and Enjolras shook his head slowly. But Grantaire did not let him interrupt. “Then you can come visit me,” he continued. “Just a friendly visit out to the country for a few days, mid-season. But we can stage a scandalous encounter between you and my ‘sister’ and leak the details to Lady Whistledown. A quick marriage without any of your family in attendance will be the best way to settle the scandal, and you can be ‘married’ with none the wiser.”

“Save for you,” Enjolras said faintly.

Grantaire considered it and nodded. “Myself, and likely my butler and housekeeper. I cannot imagine pulling this off without their assistance.” He looked at Enjolras expectantly. “So what do you think?”

Enjolras shook his head again. “It seems almost insane enough to work,” he said slowly, because he could not think of anything else to say. “But it’s also a ruse I cannot imagine keeping up for long, and while I might pray every day that my mother drops dead, I doubt this ruse would outlive her.”

“Ah, but you are missing the beauty of it,” Grantaire said. “As my sister is already dead, it’s easy enough to stage an illness and then her death.” Enjolras made an unconvinced noise and Grantaire added, “And besides, because of the nature of the scandal, it would make it only natural that she would not wish to subject herself to London, giving you plenty of time before she needs to grow sickly for you to carry on without any concern.”

“It certainly seems like you’ve thought this through,” Enjolras said, scrambling for some protest that would make Grantaire stop and listen, that would get him to reconsider this almost certainly asinine plan.

Grantaire smirked slightly. “I have,” he said simply.

Enjolras gave him a look. “Then I know beyond doubt that it will not work.”

Grantaire just shrugged unconcernedly. “It may not,” he said. “But what have you to lose in trying? And what other options do you possibly have?”

None, was the answer, and it was all that Enjolras could tell Grantaire, a little helplessly. “None. And I have nothing left to lose.”

“Good,” Grantaire said. “Then we have a plan.”

[metanoiamorii]

❛Maybe we are not meant to be, not yet. Maybe we’re stars, waiting to collide in another life.❜

♧ Title: Be Still My Foolish Heart [BSMFH]

♧ Status: Brainstorming & Drafting

♧ Point of View: Third

♧ Genre: Fantasy, Action, Drama, Romance

♧ Warnings: Violence, War, Death of major and minor characters, nudity, past abuse, generational trauma, generational healing, racism, transphobia, homophobia, character corruption arcs, ethics vs morals, star crossed lovers, tragic endings, codependent and complicated relationships.

♧ Featuring: Diverse LGBTQ+ characters, enemies to friends to allies to lovers slowburn, complex and complicated characters, fantasy religions, plenty of symbolism, complex world building, ethics vs morals, a whole lot of moral grey can be fit into this bad boy, character redemption and corruption arcs, some found family, learning to separate one from their family's trouble and taking control of their life, soulmate trope, setting the groundwork for future generations.

♧ Setting: An Ancient Chinese inspired, fantasy setting

♧ Synopsis:

In Oidien there has always been a defined split against the Heavens and Ghost City. No one can remember what sparked the feud between them, it's possible after all these years of the fighting and endless war... they don't even remember themselves. They know it's tradition to keep fighting, to ensure the cycle of violence continues. So that is what they do; they keep fighting.

In recent years, the King of Ghost City has drawn back from the fields off battles and distants himself from politics. He leaves the affairs in his eldest children: Lianhauzi holds the crown, Lutaizi knows his way around the court, Suming’qiu is gifted with the army, and Taixuan is there to ensure everyone takes a break, to take care of her family.

A fight against children is how the Heavens view it... To their surprise, these children are more than gifted than their father. This isn't a game to them, it's a livelihood. They know how to secure a victory within minimum casualties, and they know how to balance one another's weakness.

The Heavens cannot take another loss. No matter how many battles they have lost, they have always managed to win this war. Each time. But on this account? They're afraid to admit they've been beat. So they come to a resolution: they have to take out one of the links. Take out one and the rest should crumble.

It's...

Not as easy as one would imagine. Or so their spies in court relay. The four know to keep their distance in public, and if they meet in private no one knows. They handpick their servants carefully, and they ensure each servant knows their tasks and do not overstep. They've taken every precaution necessary.

Even when it works, when one of their spies is welcomed inside that well guarded, hidden court... no one expects the game of cat and mouse to transpire. Their spy is humored until she's willing to change her allegiance and eventually is brought into the family by marriage... In the very least, she offers the weakest link to exploit to destroy the family.

♧ Tease

Of all I have done,

Forgettable they to none;

Has it now begun?

No, not forgiveness.

That I would never ask for, love.

I wish, regret comes.

You know as I do,

Games I once played, have turned you,

A pretty face blue.

I made no mistake,

You know as I do, the stakes

Required; played.

Once, for you, my rule

To survive, I broke, for you;

That forsaken dual.

My conscious it haunts;

My sleep, in dreams it will taunts

And it brings your scorn.

Pour me a wine glass,

For my sanity to last

And my wrath? To trap.

For me, preform; dance

Distract me with your nice laugh

Until I collapse.

And leave, in silence,

See to it, quiet your lips

Of the truth won't slip.

Allow me my sleep,

Don't be cruel, do not slight, cheat

You ugly she-beast.

A single night, peace,

That is all I ask for, please...

Better, just leave.

I have discovered,

Regret? No, I now confessed

Not for you, coward.

♧ Excerpt:

Her booted feet pattered against the puddles of rain droplets as she hugged the umbrella close to her shoulder, protecting herself from the storm. In a hurry she rounded the corner, following after the image of a soaked cat that had caught her attention and ran before she could approach it properly. It had been the first time in awhile since she had taken to sprinting, to follow the cat. Around the corner Xihuli came, brought to an abrupt halt when she turned into another person, as insane as she was to be out in the midst of a storm.

Her umbrella clattered to the floor, dropped as she staggered back a pace. The bright red silk was out of place, spinning upon the rain soaked ground. She gained her footing, no longer staggering to place distance between them. Her head threw back, an angry look quick to find purchase upon her features. Having yet to reach for her umbrella, the rain begun to soak the bright red and white silks she wore, drenched and sticking to her figure. "Watch—"

Her protests are so abruptly cut off. She watches the man tilt back his own umbrella, dark as the stormy sky with red spider lilies imprinted upon the fabric; the hanging tassels brush against his form, parting to expose his face. A youthful face that should have been smiling, with those eyes— so red to match the spider lilies upon his umbrella— staring at her as if she were a lesser being. The umbrella sits back upon his shoulder, head tilted forward with his chin forward, a sign he was in fact superior to her.

"Don't you know better, Zhuque?" The tone he speaks in, it's unlike that rambunctious voice he's known for, full of laughter that becomes too obnoxious for the ears. How serious it is, no jest spoken, no room for his games. He stares her down, staring through the dangling tassels of his umbrella. And how unkind that look is, a look that's no better than a wolf staring at a lamb. "You should never be out so late."

The two men, another prince and his own dog. Wine and lilac gives him away, wearing the golden lotus crown in his hair. Face unfriendly, a natural scowl he had been born with. He stands beneath the umbrella held above his head, keeping him dry from the rain. Held by that fucking bastard, smug and vain, with the bones acting as hair pins. He's uncaring if he gets wet, of course he is. When he controls the ocean why would he care about a little storm?

Lianhauzi pulls back his hood as he now stands blocking the last exit, Lutaizi and An Huli keeping the woman pinned in. He takes a step forward, Xieyuan moves with him, holding the umbrella in place. When he steps forward they all watch Xihuli push herself back, struggling to press her back into the wall, able to stare in each direction where one was coming from. "The fear in your eyes betray you... You know why we are here."

♧ Characters:

Love Interests

Shenguai Suming’qiu; Heizhao-jun

Amab • Agender • He/Him • Asexual • Reciproromantic

The Fourth Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of Black Sinister Claws. Said to be cursed from birth, as he has come to age and stepped into the politics and warfare, he has come to be their lucky charm. A conniving young man with a sharp intellect, and a shaper wit. For his family, he has taken up the role as master of intelligence and handles all correspondence, planning, and diplomacy. As a front, he appears an apathetic man, detached and void of all emotions, only hellbent on his work; only his siblings and a selected handful are able to see another side of him.

Yi Xianzi; Courtesy Name Ke’ai

Afab • Genderfluid • She/They • Pansexual • Demiromantic

The Young Mistress of the Yi Manor is a woman with high and strong morals, and lives to maintain peace for the Heavens, and secure a future for the younger generations. She bears conflicted emotions of supporting her mistress’ less than moral ambition, but often does not speak of them and turns a blind eye instead; she tries to justify these actions for the greater good, despite knowing better. Often at times, she is torn between her loyalty to her household, and her own sense of justice and morality.

━━━━━━━━━━

Phantom Paradise

Shenguai Bixie’e; Guiwang

Amab • Nonbinary • He/They • Pansexual • Apothiromantic

The King of Ghost City. Despite years and generations of war with the Heavens, he remains undefeated and stays alive. Defying the odds, many believe he is unkillable, and quite well, untouchable. He has retired, for the most part, from the battlefield, and remains within the Phantom Palace, allowing his children to helm the war. He spends his time with his concubines, or with his council. Few see his face, fewer are able to gain an audience with him.

Shenguai Lutaizi; Heige-jun

Transmasc • Genderfluid • He/They • Omnisexual • Demi-Homoromantic

The unorthodox First Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Lord of the Black Song. First in line to the throne, he has conceded his right to it, and would concede his own royalty if not for his siblings. Despite being a Prince of Ghost City, he is nothing like his father. Carefree and reckless, he would prefer to spend his days drinking, goofing off, and living life to the fullest, uncaring of a familia grudge that makes little sense to him.

Shenguai Taixuan; Duandaojian-jun

Transfem • Nonbinary • She/They • Demisexual • Panromantic

The Second Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Princess With A Broken Blade. She takes greatly after her elder brother, and refuses to partake in a war that has not personally done her wrong. Despite her heritage, she is a woman with a strong sense of justice, morals, and honour. She protects her family from harm, and she will not turn away someone in need, no matter their origins. Opposed to being a sister and a daughter in her family, she fills the role of mother and acts as the woman of the household.

Shenguai Lianhauzi; Baoli’jífeng-jun

Amab • Agender • He/They • Asexual • Akioromantic

The Third Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Violent Tempest. Pressed by his elder siblings, he has taken up as their father’s heir to the throne; the Crowned Prince. He is known for his bad temper and strict nature. At heart, he has good intentions, he lacks the best judgement to execute his intentions.

Shenguai Kuangre Ai Du De; Dubo'mogui-jun

Amab • Genderfluid • They/He/She • Pansexual • Cupioromantic

The Sixth Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the title of the Gambling Demon. He is a man unaffected by grudges, politics, responsibilities. He prefers to take a page from his brother, Lutaizi’s, book and spend his time enjoying life to its fullest. He is very much a hedonist, and a compulsive gambler. Everyone he meets, he is obligated to gamble with them, at least once. The catch? He’s capricious, he’s erratic, and he will always change the game and stakes with every person.

Shenguai Jiaxiu; Mei-jun

Amab • Genderfluid • He/She/They • Pansexual • Frayromantic

The Seventh Master of the Phantom Palace; that has earned the name of the Beauty Lord. Arrogant and narcissistic, he is a very conceited man. He enjoys simple flattery and having others fawn over him, being the center of attention. Out of admiration he has taken after his brother, Suming’qiu’s, footsteps and assists him with his tasks. Himself, he carries out the more… darker duties called for, and gathering information; assassinations and spying tends to be his expertise.

━━━━━━━━━━

The Four Calamities

An Huli; Chui Feihong

Transfem • Agender • She/They • Homosexual • Homoromantic

Little Fox, as she’s called, is the favored of Prince Lutaizi, and the oldest of the Great Calamities. She is a woman who knows what she desires, what she is determined to do, and she refuses to allow anything or anyone to stand in her way. She comes off to be blunt, spiteful, angry; a she-devil, some claim in kinder terms than a bitch. Ahead of her time, she refuses to hide herself behind a mask, to be perceived as a gentle woman when, in truth, she is a walking storm, and for that, many frown upon her.

He Ruxie; Hei Xieyuan

Amab • Agender • He/They • Demisexual • Gyneromantic

Lord Black Water, as he is called, is the favored of Prince Lianhauzi, and the second of the Great Calamities. Formally a scholar in his past life, he experienced a string of bad luck, costing him his family, his wife, his daughter, his livelihood, his freedom, and soon his sanity. When he perished in his mortal life, he returned as a malicious spirit, and soon came into the service of the Shenguai family and serves loyally and viciously

Da Chen; Nitu Guiguai

Transfem • Nonbinary • They/She • Asexual • Demiromantic

The Enlighted One, as they are called, are the favored of Princess Taixuan, and is the third of the Great Calamities. In their previous life, they lived the life of an honest priest, surrounded by corruption and sin. When they met their end, their resentment for their peers remained and thus they rose to power to root out the corruption and seek retribution. Of the four, they are the amicable. They often forgo emotions and act only in rationality. Their mind is never clouded, and each act they make are in good conscious. Good will is shown to those that live an honest life, no matter their origins; ruin is shown to those are decide to live a dishonest life.

Wusi Linghun; Bai Wulian

Closeted Transmasc • Agender • He/They • Akiosexual • Demi-Akioromantic

The White Devil, as he is called, is the favored of Prince Suming’qiu, and the youngest of the Great Calamities. Formally a young lord in the Heavens, he turned his back on a betrothed he held no affection for. Openly, he cast aside his previous life, to serve the Shenguai family, and became a quick aid to the Fourth Prince. He is said to be two-faced, in some encounters being ruthless and apathetic, and other times he is genuine and compassionate; a toss up upon which side someone will see when their paths cross with him.

━━━━━━━━━━

The Heavenly Host

Meng Zhang; Courtesy Name Amnizha

Transfem • She/Her • Demisexual • Demiromantic

The First Master of Dongbu, and the acting Qinglong. Kindness is the one rule she lives by: kindness to her family, kindness to her allies, kindness to a stranger, kindness to her foes. She sees no reason to rule with fear and hatred, and actively will not promote negative emotions. She is a stern and serious woman, she takes pride in her knowledge, her power, and securing the truth. Behind closed doors, she opposes Xihuli and the Emperor, knowing both have secrets they would prefer to keep buried, in public she maintains an appearance of being a close ally.

Ling Guang; Courtesy Name Xihuli

Cis-female • She/Her • Demisexual • Apothiromantic

The First Master of Nanfang, and the acting Zhuque. Openly, she is perceived as a compassionate woman, who puts the needs of her people before herself, and acts selfless; in truth, she is surprisingly violent and vulgar. She continues to fuel the war, slandering and starting rumors of false deeds to rile the public, and gain the support of her supposed allies. There is nothing she is not willing to do to gain fame, support, and what she desires.

Jian Bing; Courtesy Name Cixia

Afab • Genderfluid • She/They • Asexual • Demiromantic

The First Master of Xibian, and the acting Baihu. She is known for being a compassionate woman, she wears her heart upon her sleeves, and acts out of the goodness of her heart. She openly encourages peace, to cease endless war and bloodshed; to make amends. For which, she is seen as an enemy to Xihuli, but is a close friend to Amnizha. Her only downfall are her chronic illnesses that have left her sickly since birth.

Zhi Ming; Courtesy Name Lu'yongshi

Amab • Agender • He/They • Closeted Homosexual • Homoromantic

The First Master of Beifang, and the acting Xuanxu. He has a reputation that precedes him as an honorable gentleman. He is a man of his word, he acts in accordance to justice and honor, and rarely strays from it. At heart, he is a warrior, and lacks the delicacies for social greetings; he comes off as blunt, uninterested, distant, and often lacking a heart to care.

Zhi Shi; Courtesy Name Yansbi

Cis-female • She/Her • Asexual • Aromantic

The younger sister of Lu'yongshi, the Second Master of Beifang, and acting Xuanshe. She happens to be her brother’s polar opposite. She is less than honest, she lacks honour, she craves power, she will use blackmail to get what she desires. As, she is not above blackmailing and guilting her own brother to act in accordance to her own agenda. She is also a close associate to Xihuli.

Long Jianhong; Courtesy Name Canren

Cis-male • He/Him • Bisexual • Apothiromantic

The current Emperor of Zhongxin, and the acting Honglong. A prideful man that cares more of his own person than his own people. Often, he turns a blind eye to all suffering, and allows Xihuli to do as she pleases. He is a womanizer, with various concubines’ , and elicit affairs with others. He was loveless to his wife, as there are rumors he was behind her untimely death. Whether these rumors are true or not are unproven, and few challenge them out of fear.

Long Shisan; Courtesy Name Li Busengren

Amab • Genderfluid • He/She • Quoisexual • Quioromantic

The Fourteenth Prince of Zhongxin. With twelve siblings in line of succession to the throne, Li Busengren acknowledges the chances for him to be the heir are little to none; this is added by the factor of being, from birth, his father’s least favorite child. With a will to prove his father wrong, and desperate for his father’s approval, he’s ready to do anything for an ounce of recognition.

Taglist

BSMFH: @writings-of-a-narwhal, @kittensartswriting, @inkflight, @qelizhus,

General: @endlesshourglass, @writerray, @poore-choice-of-words, @alexwritesfiction, @primusesgiantmetalballbearings

Both: @cecilsstorycorner, @little-boats-writes, @hazard-writes, @egg-shark

[ladylouoflothlorien]

One of the boys

summary: Hobbits are terribly sexist and have incredibly traditional views on gender roles. Bilba Baggins is a female Hobbit – who by normal standards should have married 10 years ago – and she’s just about done with The Shire and everyone in it. Gandalf gives her an out, and it’s an out she was never going to refuse, no matter how dangerous it may prove to be. Alternatively: my excuse to make Bilbo and Thorin lesbians. 

pairing: fem!bilbo x fem!thorin

warnings: I just want to give a little warning for themes like sexism, misogyny etc. I also just want to say that there is unintentional misgendering on the part of the female dwarves. I want to clarify that in this fic, the gender-swapped dwarves are all cisgender, and the dwarves perpetuate the idea that they’re all male when they’re in the company of outsiders (but I still thought it worth mentioning just in case this could trigger someone ❤️)

word count: 3135

Bilba Baggins shifted uncomfortably on her pony. She still wasn’t used to riding Myrtle, and she certainly wasn’t used to life on the road. The Company had only been travelling for a week and a half, but the female Hobbit already found herself missing her bed and her armchair and her bookshelf and her pantry. Despite her sore behind and empty stomach, Bilba was glad to be with Thorin and his company of dwarves, and the Hobbit was proud to join them on their quest to reclaim their homeland.

When Bilba looked ahead to the horizon she noticed with some surprise that the sky was getting dark. Well, that explained the relative quiet – the dwarves were always less rowdy when they were hungry and ready to rest for the night, though she highly doubted that any of them ever felt as bone-shatteringly exhausted at the end of the day as she did. Her gaze shifted from the skyline to the two dwarves riding in front of her, and Bilba smiled to herself as she thought back to when the dwarves had first tumbled into her Smial.

-

Bilba collapsed against the inside of her front door as soon as she’d shut it. A sigh escaped her as she dropped the heavy basket she’d been carrying on the floor. The only thing that had given her enough strength to stay at the market long enough to complete all her shopping had been Gandalf’s promise of strange guests to her Smial that night. Gandalf. She’d hardly recognised him at first, but she knew he’d been her mother’s close friend, and it was nice to see him again after such a long time. Even if her memories of him were a little faded.

A  groan left her lips as she pushed herself off the door and bent down to pick up her basket once again, and despite her best efforts to keep her mind blank she began to replay the interactions she’d had at the market that day.

“My dearest Bilba-”

“I’ve already asked you not to call me that.”

They continued, unperturbed.

“My dearest Bilba, you haven’t invited me to dinner yet, and I-”

“Please, call me Mistress Baggins.”

“- I would be most disappointed if you didn’t.”

There was a short silence, and Bilba, desperate to be left alone with her shopping, had decided to swallow her pride for the sake of peace.

“Y-yes, well… I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.”

He seemed – regrettably – highly encouraged by her lack of scathing denial, and seemed to think her reply somehow invited further conversation.

“Ah, my dear, I understand. You must have so much to do without a man about Bag End, but never you fear! I am sure the situation will be sorted soon.”

Bilba blinked owlishly at him. He apparently thought he was being charming. She clutched her basket tighter, knuckles whitening, and could not help but feel repulsed.

“Right… well, forgive me, but I must be getting on. My pantry is rather bare.”

“Of course! It is admirable that you take your womanly duties so seriously. Good day, Bilba!”

An invitation to a private meal; the first stage in Hobbit courting where the one being courted reciprocated the attentions they were being shown. Apparently, a long time ago, the courting hadn’t been gender-specific, but now the cooking of the private meal was entirely the domain of female hobbits.

“Disgraceful, is what it is.” Bilba muttered to herself as she shuffled to her pantry to put away her purchases.

Bilba had been approached by no less than three male Hobbits at the market asking when they would be invited over to Bag End of an evening. A fourth had approached in an attempt to present her with a frankly gaudy bouquet of flowers that she’d artfully dodged. As if that hadn’t been enough, she’d also received near countless comments from older, married Hobbits – both male and female alike – telling her how lucky she was at her time of life to have so many suitors, but that she’d better not wait too long to finally accept one. The biological clock was ticking, and all that.

Those were the comments that really got under her skin. Bilba was no fool. She knew that most eligible female Hobbits were married by the time they reached forty. Bilba had already reached fifty. Still, she didn’t think that gave anyone the right to comment on the apparent lack of use she was making of her womb. Just because having children was the done thing didn’t mean that she had any intention of doing it. Still, it was safer to let them think what they would, and say what they wanted with no corrections. The longer they all believed she actually wanted to mother children, the longer they’d believe she actually had any interest in marrying – which she did not. In fact, Bilba Baggins had no interest in men at all.

Bilba reached the pantry, and she scowled as she set the food out on the correct shelves. There was another reason, she knew, as to why at 50 she still had so many eager suitors – other than the love they all professed to feel. Bilba was a Baggins. The Baggins of Bag End, and that came with reputation, social status, and wealth, which no doubt all of her suitors couldn’t wait to get their grubby little hands on.

Yes, Bilba thought, hands on hips, I think I should like an adventure very much. Anything to get away from The Shire for a time.

Four hours later, her first guest arrived. A dwarf? Gandalf hadn’t mentioned anything about dwarves. Still, she welcomed this ‘Dwalin’ as politely as she could. He was eyeing her up, like he wasn’t sure what to make of her, but when she led him through to the dining room – where the table was laden with a spread fit for a Hobbit feast – his standoffish aura had completely melted away.

Eleven more showed up in quick succession, and when Gandalf greeted her she’d jokingly told him he was lucky his companions were arriving under the cover of darkness.

“I’m not sure I’d be quite able to explain away the scandal if my neighbours caught sight of twelve male dwarves turning up on my doorstep.”

Some of the dwarves exchanged looks at that, which she caught but didn’t understand. Perhaps dwarven culture was so different that they didn’t understand why there would possibly be a scandal.

Bilba hung back a little as the dwarves in her home ate, drank, and talked rather boisterously. She didn’t begrudge them their merriment, in fact she enjoyed watching so many people so happy all together, but it was a little too much for her to take when she’d essentially been living in self-imposed isolation since her parents had passed.

Rather lost in her thoughts, Bilba didn’t immediately register that there had been yet another knock on her door. The sudden, startling silence of her present company dragged her back to reality, and when Gandalf helpfully – albeit rather dramatically – announced ‘he is here’ she was able to infer that there was someone at the door and she went to open it.

The door swung open and oh, but if that wasn’t the most glorious mane of dark and silver hair she’d ever set eyes upon. Bilba could hardly be surprised by the more than slightly disappointed twist in her stomach when one of the younger-looking dwarves yelled ‘uncle’ from behind her.

So this is also a male dwarf. She was disappointed, but made sure to keep her expression clear. It wouldn’t do to accidentally offend her guest just because she’d hoped he might actually be a female dwarf.

As Bilba stepped aside to allow her newest guest to enter, she remembered what she’d been told about female dwarves - that for other races they were sometimes considered indistinguishable from men, as both men and women grew facial hair. It occurred to the Hobbit that she should not have assumed all her guests were male, but then again none of them had corrected her, and she had also overheard them all calling each other ‘he’ and ‘brother’. It seemed she’d been spared the embarrassment of mistaking their gender, for which she silently sent a prayer of thanks to her Lady Yavanna.  

This new dwarf ignored the call of what must be his nephew and passed through the doorway into Bag End, addressing Gandalf first before anyone – which Bilba found rather rude, as she was the host, and therefore was owed an introduction.

“Gandalf. I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. Wouldn’t’ve found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”

Bilba was struck by his words, and instantly rose to the defence of her home as any self-respecting Hobbit would.

“Ma- There’s no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!”

“There is a mark, I put it there myself.”

She turned to look at Gandalf, mouth hanging open for a moment. In her stunned silence, Gandalf snatched the opportunity to introduce her to her guest, the sneak, for he knew she would not risk being impolite to a stranger. Still, she would definitely be having words with Gandalf when she got the chance, very strong words in fact, about why you should never deface the door of a Hobbit Hole… or any door for that matter! A wizard should certainly know better!

“Bilba Baggins. Allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“So, this is the Hobbit.”

Dear lord, Bilba thanked the stars this dwarf was male, for she would surely otherwise have swooned under the intensity of that gaze… and he called her ‘Hobbit’! She was used to hearing tell of outsiders only knowing to use the word ‘Halfling’, unaware of quite how rude they were being. She was rather glad she wouldn’t have to correct him.

Then, unfortunately, the dwarf had to go and ruin her first impression by thoroughly intimidating and interrogating her, even going as far as walking around her in a slow circle – the nerve – and then he and his company completely ignored her! They were in her home. She had prepared a feast for them, the least she deserved was the typical respect shown to a hostess. Honestly, if she wasn’t so desperate to leave The Shire, and if they didn’t come with Gandalf’s personal recommendation, she would’ve been seriously reconsidering accompanying them on whatever little adventure they were going on.

Bilba avoided them for a little while, allowing their apparent leader to settle in and eat his fill. She finally re-joined them when they started talking about their quest, although she stayed hovering behind Gandalf and not actually sitting down with them at the table. Not that there were any free seats left for her, had she decided she wanted to.

It was all very dramatic, especially when Gandalf somehow pulled an old key from who knows where. She knew she should’ve been paying more attention to what exactly was being said, but it was a little difficult when she felt so thoroughly excluded from the conversation. Still, one sentence stuck out to her more than most, and she found herself answering it without thinking.

“That’s why we need a burglar.”

“Hmm. A good one, too. An expert, I’d imagine.”

“And are you?”

Bilba physically turned to look behind her at that, because this dwarf couldn’t possibly be implying that she, Bilba Baggins, was a burglar.

“Am I what?” She asked, giving this ungrateful guest a chance to explain himself, for she was nothing but civil and she was determined to remain so.

Unfortunately, another dwarf who – bless him – had an ear trumpet and therefore could not be blamed for his confusion, cried out in gladness.

“She said she’s an expert!”

Bilba had to set things straight.

“Me? N-no, no no no no, I’m not a burglar. I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!”

Unless you counted the conkers she’d taken from someone else’s garden at age 18 and never been blamed for, or the last cookie from her mother’s plate when she was 20 – which her father had been blamed for, at least initially – or the poor flowers that Lobelia had planted in her front garden in entirely the wrong place. The sweet things were never going to survive like that, Bilba was merely rescuing them…. well, perhaps she had stolen a few things, but never anything substantial, and she certainly wanted these strangers to know it. What fantastical lies had Gandalf been feeding them about her?

Balin – she remembered his name because he had been one of the more polite members of the party -  seemed disappointed.

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Miss Baggins, she’s hardly burglar material.”

Well now, that should have been a compliment… so why did it sound like the reverse?

Another dwarf, Dwalin, spoke next. She remembered his name only because he had been the first to show up at her door.

“Ay, the wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves.”

Bilba felt suddenly cold. Was her place on their adventure only secure if she was to be their burglar? Would they leave her behind now they knew she wasn’t? The dwarves around the table started bickering amongst themselves, and Bilba could not catch a word any of them were saying. She had no idea what to do, but it seemed that Gandalf did. The room darkened suddenly and Gandalf – already so much taller than everyone present – seemed to grow taller still.

“Enough! If I say Bilba Baggins is a Burglar, then a Burglar she is!”

Whatever strange power he had called upon melted away once he had everyone’s attention, but still he continued, and Bilba had to admit his reasoning did make sense as to why a Hobbit would be a good choice, which meant his reasoning for choosing her was also sensible, as she very much doubted that Gandalf would easily find another Hobbit who would even consider going on an adventure.

“Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most, if they choose. And while the Dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of Hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage. You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Miss Baggins. There is a lot more to her than appearances suggest.”

Once again that evening what should have been a compliment felt like an insult, and Bilba was rather beginning to dislike the manners of her present company, Gandalf included. She was still seething about the mark on her freshly painted door.

“And she’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know!”

Well, that was more like a true compliment. Perhaps Bilba could endeavour to forgive the wizard. In time.

“Including herself.”

No, he had once again disgraced himself. How dare he? He had no idea the strength she had to possess to get through even a single day in The Shire whilst trying to be true to who she was. Bilba Baggins knew her own worth, thank you very much.

“You must trust me on this.”

Bilba looked from Gandalf to Thorin, who seemed to be weighing the wizard’s words carefully. After a pause, he leant back in his chair and shook his head once.

“No Gandalf. I will not be responsible for Miss Baggins in the wild. She has no experience, no skill with a blade or with burglary. I do not want her death on my hands, for die she surely will. She will be of no use to us, we must find some other burglar for our quest.”

Bilba’s mouth hung open, and she stared at the back of Thorin’s head in stunned silence for just long enough that he had settled his position in his chair again and seemed to be preparing to move on to another topic when she finally found her voice.

“How dare you?”

Her first words were barely louder than a whisper, but the outrage they bore carried across the room. Every dwarf turned to look at her.

“Did you not hear everything Gandalf has said? You need a Hobbit, and you won’t find another willing to go with you, that I can guarantee.”

Bilba’s eyes glanced to Gandalf, who was looking at her with an amused twinkle in his eyes, which only served to irritate her further. He shouldn’t find amusement in her distress, the nerve of it.

“I could be of great use to you, not that you’ve bothered to find out anything about me other than that I have a well-stocked pantry!”

Some of the dwarves already looked vaguely chastised as she stared them down, hands moving to her hips, but she was by no means done. Bilba finally had an outlet for all of the aggravation she’d built up over the course of the day, and by golly she was going to let them have it all.

“I have taught myself many things here with my father’s books! I can speak and read Sindarin, I can heal many different ailments, I am a very learned Hobbit! But perhaps this will make you want to take me even less! I have heard it all, had all the old quotes used against me by family members who expected me to have mothered at least 4 young Hobbits by now; ‘when a woman has scholarly inclinations there is usually something wrong with her sexual organs.’ I’ve caught aunts trying to smuggle away some of my father’s books to prevent my learning!”

(side note, that’s a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche. I’m serious.)

She paused to catch her breath, which had quickened both from her anger and from her rapidity of speech.

“I refuse to stay in The Shire to suffer more and more unwanted offers of marriage from Hobbit men I have no intention of accepting. I refuse to limit my experiences as I am expected simply because I am in possession of a womb. If you will not accept me as one of you, I shall be coming along anyway, for I’m sure Gandalf will be accompanying you, and I shall be accompanying Gandalf!”

Her eye’s met Thorin’s, and her anger threatened to crumble and give way to embarrassment at her own outburst, but she held her ground. After a moment of silence, Thorin seemed to smile very slightly, which confused her somewhat.

“Give her a contract.” Forever Tags: @sweeticedtea @cd1242 @strongandfreedc @pixierox101 @jotink78​ @luna-xial​ @underthemoon-n​ Thorin Tags: @dark-angel-is-back​

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Tuesday 10 April 1838: SH:7/ML/E/21/0074

7 25

12 10

finish morning – high wind – F41° at 8 40 – somehow I think more of A- than she deserves I wish I was well rid of her – Looking into Backwell and De la Beche (Geology) till 9 – then breakfast and sat downstairs talking till 10 – soon afterwards sat down at my desk and wrote 3pp. and under seal (of ½ sheet) to Lady S. de R- and wrote over again (to date my letter today) what I wrote to Lady S- on Sunday writing it now in 4pp. of ½ sheet and 1 p. of envelope – then wrote 4pp. (letter paper) to Lady V.C- chitchat to Lady S- and thanks for her letter and congratulations on the birth of the little Sibbella – delighted and exulting to have waited till practice has made perfect that my Sibbella may not be behindhand with the little people her predecessors – Lady S- writes ‘tho a daughter she is the finest child she has’ – offer to put myself at Lady S-‘s disposal for 2 or 3 weeks anytime after the end of this month – shall want only my maid – will send my carriage to the coach maker to have what done may be necessary for a longer journey and will send my manservant home – wrote the substance of all this to Lady S. de R- adding that a very unexpected circumstance but not  a windfall had upset my plans and that I now thought I should not be able to get quite off before near or after Xmas – wrote congratulations to Lady V.C- hope she did not feel the effects of her fall (just before her confinement) beyond the moment – mention having purchased the 2 books she recommended (Combe and Dr. Birgham) ‘much for us all to profit by, especially your mothers, whose olive-branches spring up, and thrive so pleasurably’ – ‘Surely you will condole with me on my being still here – I had arranged a plan of northern tour, and fixed the day for being in London; but a very unexpected circumstance upset my schemes once more; and I am waiting as patiently as I can – But I shall never go far without telling you – at this moment, I fear I cannot be absent for long together of some months to come – nous verrons – but I think I could manage a short while, and have just written to dear Lady Stuart, and offered to put myself at her disposal for 2 or 3 weeks’ then mention Breadalbanes’ asking my subscription to Mr. Robertsons’ work of travels and her ‘alluding with regret to his having published some foolish history of the Mclean family – of this I, of course, took no notice, as I really knew nothing about it – but considered Breadalbane’s request a sufficient reason for my taking two copies – she told me, too, of York being thought of as a place of residence for the Hugh Macleans, and that she herself, and the premier-lit girls were to spend the summer at her cottage, and talked of living together – why York for the Hugh Macleans? Is any part of England particularly cheap? Give a kiss for me to my little Sibbella, and to little Louisa, too, who behaved so beautifully at Leamington, and believe me always affectionately yours A. Lister’ – at 1 40 had just written so far of today and copied my letter to Lady S. de R- - then A- came to me all in the dolefuls about a handkerchief frill tried to get her right she had been very hardly used twice by me and now by her aunt  never thought of going to Cliff hill as she had done   could not bear    when she came here thought of going abroad and when I said I had offered her to go away to any friends or do anything I could she said she did not like to go with my servants  I said she had the whole management    I said I had nobody to advise with might I write to her sister  no it would be very hard  well said if I could but have my own way I should not fear  indeed but she did not like to be an automation I was very calm and quiet and said by and by she must forgive me if I did not forget the word automation I would not break her heart nor use her hardly nor make her an automaton  these things could be easily settled but every sensible kept up appearances as well as they could – she sat all the while on my knee  I begrudged the time and said I must seal my letters and go out she had before declined reading them she now said as she had waited so long she might as well read them her curiosity got the bette[r]  she made no remark nor did I – I hope I shall be rid of her by and by had I not be better remain a little with Lady Stuart if I can with any comfort? – at least I had best not return to A- sealed my letters (A- with me till 2 40) and wrote the last 17 lines till 3 – then in about ¾ hour wrote 3 pp. and ends to M- ‘Shibden hall. Tuesday 10  April 1838. It pothers me, my dearest Mary, to see amid my

SH:7/ML/E/21/0075

heap of unanswered letters one from you received Tuesday 27 February’ six weeks ago – not long compared with the term of my delinquencies to many other people, but longer than my custom is to youwards [towards you]– I let you take your own time, of late generally eked out to many weeks; but it is never my intention to let my pen be dilatorily to you, and I think it seldom is so, in fact – one reason of my waiting, I meant my date to have been from elsewhere – all was arranged and the day fixed for our begin off, when a very unexpected circumstance upset all; and here we are, and are likely to be off, at this moment, I cannot guess how much longer – I do not pretend to enter into any sort of explanation on paper – it would be too tiresome to say, or, rather to write, more than that poor Mrs. Walker imagines herself within some short while of that bourne from which no traveller returns; and we are lookers on – if you chance to come this way, you will, of course, come and see us – if not, you will take it for granted, as I do, that ‘all things work together for good’ ..... glad to hear so good an account of her mother no wonder at M-‘s bad cold..... ‘when is Lawton to be finished? your comfort is at stake; and therefore I am anxious for the completion – as far as Shibden is concerned, I have got over all impatience – my care about the finishing is reduced is reduced to very comfortable dimensions – I am so engrossed with other things, I have little time for musing about my house – but, I do assure you, I seriously meditate making my escape by and by – your account of Mr. Lawton is so excellent, it seems as if he, like many others who have been ailing for many years, may survive many of the stronger and junior ones of our day – what you allude to, may, with his own common care, be of little nuisance or danger – I cannot help hoping you might slip away for 5 or 6 weeks well enough, if such should be recommended by your own inclination, and more especially by your medical advisers – I have not time to run into the minutiae of Rhine expense – my rough calculation was 25fr. ie. one pound English sterling per day – taking very little luggage – no servant (you and Mrs. M- would not want one) and travelling by steam – the fares are very moderate – I dare not say I myself ever travelled exactly at this rate; but I know that it has been done – there is no difficulty or disparagement in dining for 3fr. having breakfast and supper for 3fr. and bed for 2fr. = 8fr. and one fr. for the servants will suffice, leaving 16fr. out of the 25fr. for steaming and etc. quite enough si les voyageurs le veulent – It is travelling en milord that is expensive – 4 horses and 2 postboys not only entail your own expense but double everything else’ – as M- regrets gently leaving Leamington ‘I abate my own sorrow – I still however wish you well backed out of all your scholastic troubles’ – conclude she is still at Moreton – no doubt I should much approve all your alterations – your description vivâ voce would be more agreeable than any other means of bringing them before me, except in situ – I hope the prince with a long name has along enough purse’........who has just married Mr. W. Crewes’ cousin – ‘Perhaps  you are busier than I – it may be so – but it does not take long to write me enough to inform me how you are, and where you are – However, I am always satisfied – come what may, there ought to be a never failing spring of happiness within us all – as touching those I am interested about, I always believe all right, till I am credibly informed to the contrary – I anticipate no [disagrees] – I dream but little – yet the little is carefully selected from what is pleasantest – I never saw any good in moody musings – God bless you Mary! you or your letters will find me here, and always faithfully and affectionately yours AL’ – at 4 10 had just written the last line of p. 137, the whole of the last p. and so far of this – then sealed my letter to ‘Mrs. Lawton hall, Lawton, Cheshire’ and left also ready for the bad tonight my letter to ‘the honourable Lady Stuart Whitehall’ and to ‘The Lady Stuart de Rothesay undercover to ‘Lord Stuart de Rothesay, Carlton terrace, London’ and my letter to ‘The Lady Vere Cameron Achnacarry Fort William Invernesshire’ went out at 4 20 – a few minutes with Robert Mann + 5 levelling at the meer in the morning and in the afternoon in the garden George Naylors’ horses carting clay from the flower garden to the great sycamore, and my own cart bringing clay from the Laundry road side to cover over the turret passage – the 2 teams carts in the morning bringing necessary stuff from Hx- on to the land – then to Listerwick pit walked there with Joseph Mann – told him the engine would be a £700 business – I had no choice – I must either let the colliery or settle about it someway – then to John Oates – laid up with an inflammation in his right hand and about the wrist – Mr. Swallow came and I went out while he was there – then returned and was an hour at John’s told him about the engine – he still inclines to an endless chain – and thinks the engine will cost little more working their ginning with horses would have done for 2 horses could hardly have done the work – said what I had said to Holt about knowing what the coal would make me clean per acre – said I only wanted £150 per acre for the coal (very fair said John) and 10pc. on outlay – but this would be near £6000 – say £5500 at the least – say 3 acres per annum £450 + £550 = £1000 – John thought it could not clean so much – but said he thought it really would clear me £300 per acre - .:. if 4 acres – could be sold per annum it would pay – there will be a deal of straight work but this will leave something – In fact, John says, I must go on now – and only wait a little and the Dove house coal will be bought reasonably and then I can go on without incurring any more expense in looses as long as I live – John says he thinks we can sell 3 acres if the coal is as good as that got at [Ship] Inn pit, the quality will sell – none like it hereabouts – well! I must go on, and if I can weather out [of] the storm a little longer perhaps I shall do pretty well at last – I think I can manage – at all rates, I will not despair – came in at 6 ¾ - gave A- my letter to M- to read – went into the cellar – 1 port 1 marsala – dinner at 7 10 – A- poorly – could not see Joseph Mann who came at 8 about Landymere – went to bed at 8 ½ - I made my own coffee and sat reading

SH:7/ML/E/21/0076

the h-x Guardian till 10 ½ - then 5 minutes in the west tower – the cupboard above the stairs ceiling put up – then wrote the last 25 lines till now 10 55 pm at which hour F50° finish afternoon and evening dampish in the morning with highish wind – and whistling wind tonight – I looked very grave at dinner A- had a headache temper-sick so I let her go off to bed and have taken no notice  I must be rid of her be it as it may hear bad temper vulgar pride and littleness of mind   would be an insupportable drag upon me for the rest of my life – surely I shall get some way I dread the loneliness most but heaven will provide me even against this in some way  had A- been barely tolerable I could have go ton perhaps I am obliged to her aunt for making me this opportunity of getting off does A- suspect my thought of not returning to her?  cunning and suspicious as she is does she think that I hope not to trouble her long? – had Booth tonight till near 7 – told him JO. was still for the endless chair – that Garforth was to send plans of with and without; and we would all meet at John Oates’s at 3pm on Friday instead of here – has A- thought much of losing the forget-me-not ring I gave her? then read Bakewells’ geology for 10 minutes till 11 35

[kentuckywrites]

And I Will Proclaim The End

Zanza installed an emergency protocol into Alvis, should he ever fail in his mission. He failed, and Alvis has no choice but to enact His will.

Light enveloped Shulk as his Monado pierced through Zanza’s armor, straight through to the skin. Zanza proclaimed in a desperate whisper that he was fading, but his parting words fell on deaf ears. All Shulk had on his mind was ridding this world - his home - of this vengeful god. And when the light surrounded him, he knew that he’d won.

His feet found purchase on the holographic ground of space once again, and with a quick glance over his right shoulder, he saw his friends, all wide eyed and tense. Shulk gave them all a tired smile. This fight was more than they’d expected, but they’d all made it out alive. Victory was theirs to share, victory was theirs to revel in. 

As Shulk turned around to face where Zanza had once stood, he saw both of the other Monados floating in the air, their blades touching at the tips. A third form joined them, a teal-green glow that took the shape of a diamond. While the two Monados circled each other in time, the diamond was out of sync, moving faster for some unknown reason. He gazed down at the blue Monado in his hand, a testament to his will and perseverance, glowing faintly in the void of space. It was only fatigue he could blame for how his hand quivered. 

A question came to his lips, but only a name was brought to fruition. 

“Alvis?”

The silver haired Homs had told him only moments before that it was time for him to choose, and he’d made his decision without regret. In the silence, every question he had about Alvis began to bubble back to the surface, but Alvis was nowhere to be seen. At least, the form that Shulk was accustomed to wasn’t there. Some foreign feeling in his gut prompted him to stare at the green diamond amongst the two Monados in the air. Again, he called out, more sure of himself this time.

“Alvis?”

“Forgive me, Shulk.”

And there was his voice, stoic and calm, echoing from the diamond. Shulk went to ask why, why was he apologizing, but when he blinked, the diamond had turned red. Shulk stepped back, his heart racing under his jacket, and he clutched the hilt of his Monado tighter, tighter, until his knuckles had turned white. 

“What’s happening?” Fiora asked, a curious fear evident in her voice. Her swords were still drawn, but with this new development she prepared a fighting stance once again. 

“Executing File 12, Program 17.”

The diamond floated downwards towards the unseen floor, spinning faster and faster until its shape was indeterminable. From the midst of its light, Alvis’s laughter pierced through, but it grew into something maniacal, something dark and twisted. And from the light, a new shape began to take form. Shulk watched as arms, legs, a body grew - Alvis’s body, it had to be. But where there had been simple layers of clothing before, there was now armor that gave him structure. The light began to fade, and Alvis’s details grew clearer. The armor he now adorned was reminiscent of Zanza’s, circular and shining, though where gold had adorned Zanza, red now complemented the crystal on Alvis’s necklace. Lines of energy cascaded down his arms, legs and chest, pulsating with what Shulk could only assume was ether. A new crown had formed around his forehead, and across parts of his body, there were glowing fragments similar to a Telethia’s wings.

Alvis’s stare found Shulk first, a new contempt hidden behind his familiar silver eyes. A crooked smile adorned his lips, and in that smile Shulk saw Zanza, and only Zanza.

“My apologies, Shulk, but I’m afraid your journey will have to end here,” Alvis said, and his voice was warmer now, full of a seething hatred Shulk hadn’t realized he was capable of.

“Alvis? What is the meaning of this nonsense?” Melia piped up, trying to act dignified in the face of this uncertainty, “What’s happened to you?”

“Your Highness, isn’t it quite obvious?” Alvis chuckled, “Lord Zanza programmed me to undertake His responsibilities, in the event of His demise. An emergency protocol, really, but it would seem that in this case, it was better to be safe than sorry.”

“Programmed? You’re talking like you’re a machine for Zanza to control!” Shulk said.

“Precisely, Shulk. I exist only to serve Lord Zanza and perpetuate his will upon this forsaken world. Once you have been removed, He will rise again to complete the cycle of destruction and creation.”

“Shulk just killed Zanza! He ain’t comin’ back!” Reyn cried out, “Yer fightin’ a battle for a dead guy! Just admit you’ve lost, ya filthy traitor!”

Again, Alvis chuckled, pressing his fist to his chin as if he was in deep thought. “So long as you speak His name, Lord Zanza remains alive, though without corporeal form. In due time He will return, and until that time is upon us, I shall set out to finish what He could not.”

Reyn hissed as he sucked in air through his clenched teeth. He took a step forward, acting as though he was ready to fight. But a katana blocked his path; Dunban had extended his blade into Reyn’s path, staring at Alvis with a cold and unblinking stare. Shulk couldn’t begin to imagine what was going through his mind, but all he knew was that they wouldn’t be able to fight for much longer. Everyone was exhausted - Zanza had been a formidable opponent a nearly omnipotent god facing seven mortals of his own design.

“I can’t claim to understand what’s going on,” Dunban told the group, his voice hoarse, “But it looks as though a fight is unavoidable.”

“But Alvis is friend!” Riki bounced up and down in protest, “Riki cannot hurt his friend!”

“He is not our friend anymore, Riki,” Melia said, resigned to this new fate. “And I will not hesitate to strike him down, as he stands in the way of our futures!”

Shulk trembled - this was not what he had planned for. He agreed with Riki in that Alvis was a friend. He’d been there to push Shulk forward, venerating his ability to choose his own fate. But Melia was right, too. They’d come too far to stop now. Everyone on Bionis depended on him and his friends. Hell, his friends were depending on him. Everything fell onto Shulk’s shoulders, in the end, and he would carry that weight for as long as he needed. 

Confused, scared, betrayed, he pointed his Monado at Alvis. There was a flash of something hidden in his gaze, something that Shulk realized too late was regret. “So you wish to fight? Then I shall entertain you, Shulk, one last time.”

Alvis summoned both Zanza and Meyneth’s Monados in the second that Shulk blinked, and he tossed Shulk a wicked smile as if it were a cheap birthday gift. Shulk tried to calm his nerves by telling himself that this couldn’t be Alvis - no, it wasn’t Alvis, it was Zanza’s will, Zanza controlling the puppet’s strings even in death. He’d had fate tied around his fingers, twisted in perfect knots, and now they wrapped around Alvis’s body and mind and soul. 

But Shulk had cut those strings before. He knew he had, because Zanza never expected to die. But how many more times would he have to cut the strings of fate before they couldn’t tie themselves back together?

Gripping his Monado in both hands, his knuckles went white with stress. Behind him, Shulk heard Fiora’s ether cannons firing up, and Sharla reloading her ether rifle. His friends had his back, and that he knew for a fact. 

“Alright everyone,” He said, “We’ve beat a god once...what’s one more?”

Chapter 2 

[lady-plantagenet]

A Bygone Era- Chapter 5

A fictional account of Isabel Neville’s told through her point of view and those who knew her.

Points of view written so far include Anne Beauchamp 16th Countess of Warwick, Anne Neville, George Duke of Clarence, Richard Neville 16th Earl of Warwick and Isabel Neville herself.

7th July 1469 - Richard Neville the 16th Earl of Warwick

It was in their dingiest castle at St Omer some leagues from Richard’s own Calais residence that the Duke and Duchess of Burgundy chose to hold their repast. The southern summer gleamed duller and heavier here than at Middleham and even at high none, the angry sun would only but greet the earth feebly in orange tawny blazes. The heavy sea clouds that passed swiftly, cast the maroon room in either rich shade or splendid light whenever it seemed to catch their fancies. The interchangeability marked the intervals of time which, here in the presence of the Duke seemed to Richard to grow longer with every uneasy glance exchanged between them.

His recollection of Margaret from one year past were that of a girl curious, impatient and anxious all in equal measure. It was rather Anthony Woodville with whom she passed most of the days leading up to her marriage to the Duke. The kinship he felt with Cecily’s girls always lacked in comparison with that towards her sons. For the better part of the journey he played the nursemaid watching as the queen’s insufferable brother was humouring the impressionable girl with fanciful recitals of Burgundian poetry, what this new generation dubbed humanist.

As much as she without a doubt enjoyed playing at cards with the Woodville boy and picking her trousseau with the witch, she is George’s sister in more than blood and when the hour comes, she will not be spared from partisanship. God knows I had to endure the ugly ordeal, though George appears to have never felt any qualms in this regard.

Margaret of York was presently with his daughters in the grand hall, no doubt dazzling them with her collection of hangings, among which was the latest unicorn tapestry. The needlework pronounced him finally killed and brought to the castle, though Richard doubted it would be the last in this seemingly never ending series, so beloved by Anne and his two girls.

She herself appeared a unicorn when he finally caught sight of her. She bowed under the square doorway when entering as to make space for her headdress, a gesture that his two daughters repeated despite their far slighter heights.

Charles chuckled and added ‘Our Carolingan ancestors doubtless never foresaw such fashions when they built those fortresses. I apologise to my wife for their shortsightedness on their behalf.

His accented English made it difficult for Richard to know if he was being sardonic or if his words were solely meant in jest. If the former, even he himself had to agree, the heights those deformed hats have begun to reach beggared all belief.

Taking her seat beside him she gaily retorted, ‘Now now husband, we need only be glad to be cleansed of the barbarism of that bygone age. Warfare does not advance as much as it regresses’, now turning to face all, she proudly added, ‘That is what my brother Edward and I were always ad idem. He avenged father where necessary, but now am I glad to see our two countries peaceably leading the northern continents into a true prosperous age of beauty and art’.

Anne, wide-eyed, appeared bewitched by the Duchess’ imaginings but Richard saw that Isabel shrunk in her chair, directing him an awkward stare undesiring in subtlety. Thank the Lord she had the good sense not to talk. He glanced at her bare white finger where George’s ring was placed these few days past and was once more reassured that at least one of his blood had inherited more than just nobility.

‘Your grace seems to have taken easily to your new land’ said Isabel politely

‘Why yes indeed! Flemish has proved a challenge, however, I am pleased to report that I have noticed a remarkable sharing of spirit between the English and the Burgundians. For this I find loving my husband’s people an easy task’

‘How so Duchess?’ asked Anne with the customary curiosity of her voice

‘For one, they are not tempestuous like the hot-blooded spaniards and the proud french. There is a determined industriousness in them. They are masters in art as they are in trade’. Richard noticed a twinkle break in the wide-set grey eyes of her father. From the hairline visible beneath the wimple and marengo headdress, he was reminded of her father’s pale yellow hair too. Her height she shared with Edward, but now gregarious as he had never seen her, he saw George plain and clear. A Plantagenet if there ever was one , he had to begrudgingly admit.

‘Dear wife, surely you do not speak so kindly of the bourgeoisie?’, Charles finally spoke. It was unclear whether he meant to ask her or tell her. ‘It is they, that seek to undo all that I and father had fought for and devolve the power back unto their petty provinces’

‘Ah the tis only the inevitable, I admire them but I never said I do not secretly ill-wish them. For you, wise as you are do too. Brother Edward was as much spurred by his desire to placate the English traders as he did to protect England from the French and allegedly now-‘ Margaret suddenly stopped and beneath the composure Richard could see her dig her thumbnail into her palm in self-chastisement. If only her face had matched her gesture. To protect England from the Kingmaker you meant .

‘Forgive me my Lord of Warwick, I meant no-‘ Yes you did. Your brothers did tell me how clever you were.

‘...no offence was given by your grace’ Richard said gingerly and a little too loudly. ‘I pray only that the king find’s his new mercenary alliances fruitful come warfare’.

Silence tumbled through the room, its gusts robbing the room of its rich hotness leaving it bony and stale with the passing of a stormcloud. Isabel attempted to relieve the room of its tautness by pointing out the intricacy of the wood-panelling to Anne, the floral brocades on her primrose sleeve straightening with each movement. Richard simply repositioned his legs in silence before pinching another morsel of munster from the trencher.

‘Something can indeed be said against a man who purchases a product at one price and sells it at another at greater cost but no greater value’ Charles once again mercifully interjected ‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God’, he quoted with a flourish.

‘If bare wealth be a sin than all our souls are damned’ retorted Richard ‘At least the old kind follows the commandments and treats their tenants fairly and cares for them as God would. Greed is as unnatural to descendants of Gaunt as selflessness is to the likes of the traders and the Woodvilles though they fancy themselves gentry.

‘If you say so my lord’ huffed Margaret disaffected by the course her well-meaning remarks did take.

Sensing the room grow darker with the sun’s ending journey Isabel asked ‘your grace was exceedingly kind to have recieved us here. Despite passing much of my girlhood in Calais, a tinge of saudade never eludes me when England is out of sight. Do you never miss home?’

Isabel’s roses and honey did much to sweeten Margaret in her dour humour. ‘Home is felt with the company one keeps, not the place and insofar as I have been fortunate in this regard...’ Margaret confided as she gazed at the Duke with gentle kindness ‘... I reminisce and when my lord husband was away quelling the revolts in Liége I felt my brother George’s absence keenly. When we were children Edward, Edmund and Richard would band together and play at war in the hills of Fortheringhay, while George and I would visit the markets and put on plays for our mother with the trinkets we had bought. Mine and mother’s darling but now I shall never know when I may see him again. Our agents in Rome do tell us a dispensation has been granted for him to wed though sadly not to our Petite Marie ’

Richard arched an eyebrow in retiscence at that. ‘Then to whom Duchess?’

‘Oh but wouldn’t you know, my lord of Warwick?’ flatly retorted Margaret.

11th July 1469 - Isabel Neville Duchess of Clarence

Damp air was rising from the sea, obscuring the lines of the Calais city streets to a mosaic-like delirium. The bride’s verdigris silk clung to her like moss to castle-stone casting off her jasmine scent even more strongly, the blue of purity and green of young love mingling with each movement but constrained under a wide golden belt. The heavy train trailing behind the svelte figure made many an onlooker recollect the legends of Mélusine risen from the Lusignan waters, pure and phantasmagoric in equal measure.

‘Oh Izzy, how beautiful you are!’ cooed Anne as she matched her granular steps to her sister’s long-strides. The Nevilles did not expect their prized flower to be lead to her wedding in a sorry procession made up of minor retainers and servants up a cobbled church street. They would have her carried in a gilded litter, surrounded by praises sung in English of queenly grace, not French silence and murmurs. Her father promised her grandeur but she felt like a village darling off to marry a apple-cheeked lad with two cows as her dowry more than anything else. ‘George will be besotted with you’

‘Of course he will Anne. He already is’ she wryly boasted as the modest journeyers came into the presence of L’Église Notre-Dame. A need for prayer precipitated over her, but she knew not for what. For father or for George perhaps? For them to not return defeated and spiteful at each other? Or for myself, and for George, for his destiny not to fail us? For this wedding night and pleasures not got with pain?

Yesterday, her mother’s natural prejudice led her to believe that Margaret bastardly-born, as she was, had already exposed her virtuous daughter to the salacious facts of what passed between man and wife. Availed of the unpleasant duty, she instead set on instructing her on childbearing matters, about which, (because, as life’s poetic ironic would have it) she was exceedingly knowledgeable in. Little did she know that Margaret was innocent entirely and the real transgressor was none but George. Isabel felt a shameful blush creeping over her cheeks for allowing such thoughts to permeate her attempt of prayer, but before she could communicate her penitence to god, she caught side of the two Georges, Plotting as ever.

‘Why Isabel, to think to find you already in prayer’, George gested at her clasped hands.

‘Why with only god to sanctify our marriage, how else?’ She smiled, drawing closer to the great door. ‘Why, how drôle that our wedding bans be posted in French’, her fingers traced the haggard letters of the parchment. ‘Have they been changed thrice?’

‘What difference would it make, niece?’ asked her bearded uncle the Archbishop of York ‘Here in Calais, your father’s just as a king, and as for those dissenting in England, well why trouble oneself?’

George nodded, ‘Why indeed?’. He offered Isabel his hand as a King would assist a queen in ascending the perilous stairs of a throne and the fabrics of their dress, so alike, mingled in one pluvious river. She now stood at his left as the rib that made Eve placed in Adam.

Five knights of the garter, among them John Tiptoft Earl of Worcester, assembled. French and English nobility united and her uncle George rattled off the customary inquiries - Were they of age? Did their parents consent? Is this union consanguineous? The latter to which her father had to respond by presenting the papal dispensation.

George presented her with a gold purse, pressing its weight confidently in her palm before the sermon was performed. Isabel deflected her gaze to the pleasant greenery of the tufts of grass. For such an old proud church, there were mounds of soil where burrowing rabbits tread, the brightest coloured pigments she had ever seen flashed beneath her eyes as the spiced breeze from the herber whisked the butterflies up in perfect frenzy. Every part of the tableaux that moved, even the clouds, appeared to conjure a whistful tune that more than made up for the absence of song. Many, her mother among them, would declare such a moment of beauty as a revelation of god in nature. But this day it seemed that the beauty of such providence took root in her heart before her perception admitted it in the surrounding nature, for she knew that such joy would never again be felt nor seen. Mayhaps George was right and god elevates such a marriage as this that would seek to establish his natural order. No love in any romance may rival this.

When it turned to her to make the vow, she freely expressed much of what she had just thought and to both her relief and anxious expectation, she saw George gold-tinged and affected.

Following a quick sermon and the perfunctionary exchanging of rings, Isabel knelt distributing the coins to the poor folk who accepted them graciously with whispery french prayers said behind wind-blown linen whimples. A particularly brave girl presented her a dozen poppies plucked off the opal coasts. With that they forsook the romantic for the angular confinement of the chapel.

The mass that ensued presented the giddy Isabel with another opportunity to beseech god to guide her through all the concerns, which earlier clouded her thoughts. Having all come apart like the seams of an unkept book, she chose to give thanks instead. The canopy George and her were under, obscured what little coloured strained light there was such that they could recognise none but one other as if in a catacomb. They were now Duke and Duchess of Clarence.

Far more eagerly than when receiving the kiss of peace from her uncle, George it his upon his bride. Cheers could be heard from all around her, they bent off curved walls in echoes so fierce that they resonated as strongly as if the guests numbered in the hundreds. Anne’s unusually trebled voice could be singled out and before the party hastened back to her father’s castle, Isabel slid off her ruby studded gold bangle from her wrist and showed it to her sister.

She held it in her small hands, confusion showing in her large brown eyes. ‘I would that you have it Annie. I know we have not been the closest of sisters at late, do forgive me’.

‘There is nothing to forgive Issy, you and father were occupied, I have learned to know my place’ replied a voice tinged a little too sadly for Isabel’s comfort.

‘Your place will be with me for the coming weeks’ Isabel smiled gently offering a hand. The girls’ arms were now linked and they were once again the bestest of friends, ‘So you see, I am not stolen from you just yet!’ joked Isabel. She saw questions taking root as Anne’s thin lips began to tremble and laughed ‘Oh yes’ I heard what you uttered to Richard when George came to Middleham that year. Oh Annie, your have a voice like father, no matter how quiet, it is always heard’

At their castle, news reached her father th at his dear friend King Louis and his brother Le Duc de Berry, were detained at court and would offer them their well-wishes tommorow. This was clearly to be what father planned would bring the requisite grandeur to this royal celebration. She fingered the strands of the braided gold belt and held up an opal rose pendant set in tiny sapphires, delighting in it like a satisfied magpie. I see George and Father shall revel with kings, hunt, make merry to their heart’s content to carry them through the fortnights of inescapable blood stench and I shall play at being Queen once the spider king arrives.

Nonetheless, lilies and white roses in their hundreds were strewn across the floor obscuring the rushes below, their fragrances filling the air as they were trod on by guests.

Fifty Anjou pigeons, 4 boar heads and five hundred manchet loaves were arranged on the longtable with a large cockentrice as the centrepiece. Astride it, a helmeted dwarf-like rooster bore the bear and the ragged staff spliced with the sunne in splendour.

When sliced into by her father, the whiff of saffron, powdered ginger and garlic mingled with that of the rushes in such an assault of the senses that Isabel brushed her veil over her shoulder as if to guard it from the smell. The white silk was so fine that while not concealing, it obfuscated the raven strands making her hair take on the form of a thin dark tower shrouded in fog.

By the time the minstrels had arrived, the night had itself become a murky pot of emotions, senses and wine. Isabel herself revelled in the Carola, where she joined hands with her father and husband and led the merry-makers in song jubilantly fancying herself Enide, and George the knightly Eric in the tale of sir Percival. More Enide the queen crowned at Nantes than Enide the pauper, of course.

Love within marriage, tests not conjured by it but borne through its strength, woman’s forbidden word offering salvation not peril. This shall be my life’s verse.

The night was advancing and Isabel shot a pleading glance towards her father, but to no avail. Her mother, in spite of her own experiences stared down at her goblet averting her eyes from the suppliant. It became clear to Isabel that the bedding ceremony was to happen.

A string of the minstrel’s lute was plucked, its twinge heralding a change in tune and bawdier lyrics. The wine loosened its grip over her senses and Isabel determined to retain her composure throughout. Her veil was clawed off by a ruddy laughing girl and her companions, freeing her hair from its confines, which to her dismay had developed kinks and irregular curls throughout the day. George was far more pliable and when his cape was snagged off his back he feigned falling back, which elicited a roses of laughter. By the time the party made it to the stairs, none placed as much interest in George’s blue garter as much as in claiming her matching one. After enough displays of modesty she surrendered it to a young gentleman who appeared to be the beau of the girl who snatched her veil. After much hullabaloo, tousled hairs and slipping clothes they were placed in bed. It was a mercy that after the sanctification of the marriage bed, all departed.

George’s cheeks were flushed and when he kissed her she found that wine dwelled in him still and let out a shiver. ‘Now Isabel, as good Christian people we may not have enacted tonight but I do know you do not come here a tight-lipped cold-blooded maiden’, to her relief there was focus in his large eyes and exactitude in his enunciation. ‘I do know you are eager, you have shown me as much’

‘Now husband’ she said in an imitating tone ‘I am not seasoned as you in this deed, I do not feign shyness as I do hide my anxiousness’. Not that I know of any women, not that he would tell me. But with a brother like Edward one could only infer.

He did not confirm nor refute and after she pulled her chemise over her head, he remarked the tightness of her waist and smoothness of her skin, for complements were never accepted as gladly by any as she. Feeling her curious and eager nature take over she wrapped her hand around his member and easily aroused as customary of a maiden and a young boy, it took not time before she willingly found herself ready and beneath him. Romantic notions, stolen kisses or caresses of times passed, however, did not prepare her for the unusual pain that followed. She whimpered holding her tears within for as long as she could. An odd assortment of thoughts on the prospective pains of childbirth clashed with what were forming to be unprecedented pleasant sensations. To her relief, she soon abandoned all notions of thought and pushing back against him, he willingly lau back enjoying her as she straddled him.

After they were both spent, Isabel headed her mother’s advice and slid a cushion under her hips. She then took to incessantly dabbing wet linen on the stains of the sheet, it was a futile task for hands that have never known greater strained than turning the pages of an illuminated manuscript.

George’s hands stopped hers, ‘Your prudishness will not bode well with queenship I dare say’ laughing at her dismayed face, ‘Edward’s wife gives birth surrounded by an audience of women’

‘Then it is a blessing that our son shall be born at one of my father’s castles in dignified privacy’ she said relieved and letting go of the cloth, letting him hold her in an embrace and indulge her in kisses. As the hours passed she let him pour her a goblet of the malmsey wine left for them and they joked and told stories of future kings with the naïve certainty that could only afflict thus, young newly-weds on their wedding night.

You may find the rest of the chapters on here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268239/chapters/53175664

[sommerstessa]

at the sommers family home ft. tessa and her emotions

─── thanksgiving day, 2019.

Thanksgiving was always one of Tessa’s favorite holidays growing up. Too much turkey, not enough pumpkin pie, and embarrassing stories told around the dinner table earning bouts of laughter from all. Suffice it to say, she was excited to get back to those traditions now that she was in Wilmington again. She’d woken earlier than usual that morning, eager to squeeze in her morning practice - one hour of yoga followed by meditation, as always - before heading to her parents’ house. Upon arrival, Tessa was pleasantly surprised to see that Freddie had beaten her to the home, already donning his matching pajamas which the Sommers insisted on wearing that particular year, now that they were all together again. She had to admit, the bright orange color was more forgiving than she’d imagined upon first hearing of the design her mom had chosen.

“Freddie, you look absolutely adorable now, don’t you?” Tessa teased, leaning down at his side to give a kiss to his cheek. She was happy to see that he was there - early, too - rather than staring down some bottle of alcohol alone in his bedroom like he had been doing much too often these last couple of months. Although Tessa knew the breakup was hard for him, she was not at all prepared to handle two Beaus in her life; one was heartbreaking enough. “Thank you for noticing, Tess,” Freddie joked back, appearing much more like himself than she had seen in months. It was good. It was a positive. Things were finally turning up for them, it seemed.

“Where’s mom?” she asked her brother, glancing over her shoulder. Her father answered instead, his voice carrying from the other room, growing louder as he came out of hiding. “She ran to the store. Last minute Thanksgiving shopping, you know how she is. Forgot her pecans for her pecan pie, can you believe it?” Tessa’s dad asked, his tone of voice mildly sarcastic, as if making fun of her mother with a warm fondness. She had to give it to him - she’d seen her mother stressed as can be and it was not an easy version of her to handle. Tessa couldn’t imagine the situation Alan had been in all morning. As he approached her, Tessa stretched out her arms for a hug and pressed her lips to his cheek with a kiss. “Good to see you, kid.” “Good to see you, dad.”

two hours later.

Susan had arrived home much later than anticipated and in desperate need of additional help in the kitchen. Although Tessa couldn’t fathom why her mother insisted on cooking so much food for five people, she couldn’t dare point out the illogical ways of her mother, instead offering assistance when necessary. At this point in time, she was making the very pecan pie her mother had been unable to earlier that day, all thanks to the missing bag of pecans. “I could have sworn I purchased them, too. Makes me wonder if I walked away and left a whole bag of items at the cash. Now, wouldn’t that be something?” Susan laughed, though it was more hysterical than entertained. Tessa’s eyes drifted across the kitchen island to meet those of her brother who sat at a barstool, picking at mashed potatoes, somehow without capturing the focus of Susan. Otherwise, there would have been much more chiding taking place.

“That’s alright, mom. Everything you’ve made looks - and smells - delicious.”

“-Sure does, Mrs. S.,” came the voice of none other than Beau Haywood, his smile lighting up the room as he waltzed into the kitchen, seemingly unannounced. Tessa had to guess that Alan had let him in; then again, none of them would have minded if Beau let himself in. He was practically family at this point, at least to her, and because of that, to her family, as well.

“Beau! We’re so glad you could make it,” Susan glanced up from her candied yams, a wide grin spreading across her face. Tessa had a feeling that Beau was one of Susan’s favorites out of Tessa’s male friends. Partly because of his good looks, but mostly because of his ability to charm her like no other. Most of the time, Tessa had to remind her of her boundaries.

Following Susan’s lead, Tessa wiped off her hands and walked around to give Beau a proper greeting, reaching up on her tippy-toes as she wrapped her arms tightly around him. “I’m especially glad you’re here,” she insisted, giving him a final squeeze before pulling back, resting at his side. A small part of her continued to worry that he was mad at her, upset about what she’d said to him at her house the other night. It was her guilt, continuing to eat away at her despite everything being perfectly fine for them. Clearly, it was, otherwise he wouldn’t have been there that evening. So, Tessa took a deep breath and tried her hardest to let any negative feelings go, solely focused on enjoying a nice Thanksgiving dinner with her family and best friend.

three and a half hours later.

Time had passed, slowly but surely. Beau managed to get in his fair share of jokes regarding the Sommers’ matching pajamas and also managed to snap a few family portraits for them. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade was consumed with intensely trained eyes and one too many ciders were shared among them (non-alcoholic, of course). It was nearing supper time now and Tessa wandered into the kitchen to check on the turkey. It was in the moment that she was bent at the waist, eyes watching rays of heat emanate from the bird, that her mother came up behind her, an envelope in her hand. “I almost forgot, Tessa,” she held the envelope up, and Tessa stood to take it from her.

“What’s this?” Tessa asked, clearly confused. Her eyebrows pulled together as she glanced down at the envelope, reading the name of the sender.

Lindsey Benz, M.D. 5546 E. 2nd St. Wilmington, NC 28402

Suddenly, the room began to move, throwing Tessa off-balance entirely. She was relieved by the fact that the envelope remained intact, clearly hadn’t been opened by either of her parents, but she was equally anxious to be the one to open the envelope herself. She was growing increasingly dizzy, her mind rushing with possibilities. Right on time, Tessa began to notice her body warming up, and she desperately wanted to fan herself. But if she did, it would tip off her mom. It would let her know that she wasn’t okay. That she was nervous about whatever was in that envelope. That she was keeping something from her.

Because she was. Susan had no idea that Tessa was considering undergoing genetic testing, least of all that she actually went through with it already. Nor did Tessa want Susan to know. Lord knew her mother wouldn’t be able to handle any of this. Plus, she’d be full of opinions, none of which Tessa wanted to hear until she’d made up her own mind about what she wanted to do depending on the results.

“Who’s Dr. Benz?” Susan asked, already looking worried.

Thinking quickly, Tessa responded, “my gynecologist. I was due for a yearly and they sent me to someone new this time. It’s probably just a bill.”

There. That seemed to do it. Susan appeared convinced and had walked away, leaving Tessa alone in the kitchen. Her fingers toyed with the edges of the envelope, her brain flipping back and forth as to whether to go forward with reading it now. She, of course, didn’t want to ruin the holiday, but she was desperate for closure, whatever that may have meant for her.

“Tess! How’s the turkey?”

Shaken by Freddie’s voice, Tessa quickly folded the envelope in half and tucked it into her back pocket. “It’s almost ready!”

twenty-eight minutes later.

“Alright, who’s hungry?” Alan said, carrying the turkey into the dining room and setting it down on the table. He began carving and doling out pieces to the empty plates on the table. Hands moved quickly, reaching for various food items and serving dishes to complete plates, turning them into a medley of various colors. Silence took over the room as the family chowed down, each one with their own ‘mmms’ coming together in a harmony resembling gratitude for a home-cooked holiday meal.

It wasn’t until the group was finished eating and Susan excused them for clearing of the table before dessert that Tessa took the opportunity to escape upstairs to her former bedroom, where she closed the door quietly behind her and tugged the envelope out from her back pocket. It had taken every ounce of strength in her body not to tear the damn thing open at the dinner table; she was too eager to find out her results, but she didn’t want to alarm anyone else. Somehow, she managed to make it through the meal acting completely normal, so that she didn’t tip anyone off. But now, well... now she wasn’t so sure about dessert.

Inhaling and exhaling a few times in a row, Tessa stared at the envelope, before slowly closing her eyes over. “Here goes nothing,” she breathed out in a whisper, eyes opening once more as she ripped off the side of the envelope. Sticking her fingers into the folds, she pulled out the thin piece of paper inside. That was it. A folded piece of paper was about to tell her her future. Whether she would be okay, have the same risk of developing breast cancer as the general population. Or whether she was a higher risk. Whether she’d wind up like her aunt Erin. Whether she’d have to make additional decisions after this, decisions that would alter her future forever. Decisions that would leave lasting effects, both physically and mentally. Somehow, she felt as though it should have been more than just a piece of paper. Like, somehow, the fact that her future was contained in writing on paper wasn’t enough.

She was already crying, despite having not unfolded the piece of paper yet. It was the anticipation, the simple thought of what would happen to her if the results were not in her favor. She wasn’t that strong. She wouldn’t know what to do. She wouldn’t be able to handle it, even if she did know what to do. Was there anyone who could handle it? If so, Tessa wanted to meet them. Maybe they’d be able to walk her through this.

Inhaling and exhaling again, Tessa’s fingers toyed with the edges of the paper, until she finally unfolded it. Of course, it took another long moment for her eyes to actually commit to reading the page, and when she finally did, she could barely make out the words thanks to the blurred vision her tears had caused. But there it was, spelled out for her in big, bold letters. Her future.

TESSA SOMMERS BRCA 1: abnormal results, see details below BRCA 2: abnormal results, see details below

“No. No...,” Tessa muttered helplessly, her eyes scanning the words she certainly didn’t understand. It was all beyond her, the science and medicine of it all. But it was there clear as day. Abnormal results. And not just for one of the genes, but for both. She was a carrier of both the BRCA 1 and BRCA 2 gene mutations. The chances of her developing breast cancer at some point in her life was much, much greater than before she’d opened the envelope.

She gripped the tear-stained paper in her hand and allowed her arm to fall to her side, suddenly feeling a loss of control and a mountain of emotions. The shock had set in, so much so that she barely recognized the sound of her own sobbing screams as they came from the back of her throat. Her back slid down the wall until she landed with a loud ‘plop’ on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest, all the while the sound of her cries carrying through the house. She wasn’t sure at what point she had truly began crying, but there was no finish line in sight. It was uncontrollable; she had completely let go, given in to her emotions. For someone like Tessa, someone who was typically so reserved and well put-together, it was easy to completely fall apart at the drop of a hat. She was so used to playing the role of the helpful friend, but it when it came to her own problems, her own wellbeing, she had come undone entirely.

In the background, she could barely make out the faint sound of Beau’s voice. “Tess?” He asked, knuckles sounding against the door. “Are you okay?” But she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to see him or anyone, for that matter, because then she’d have to explain. And right now, she just wanted to cry.

[untilthenextencore]

Kashmir Saga Bit: Robert (Count K) and Morganna (Moira)~

A little bit on Count K & Morganna.

Pardon my Welsh it was all I could find on the web to help me for this scene as I do not speak it.

Please be kind.

Enjoy~!

...

It was half past 2 in the afternoon on a lovely mid May day. Robert had just had a meeting regarding expenses related to the running & switching ownership of Wolverhampton Manor from his uncle Percy's hands to his. His uncle had made a gift of it to him over the holidays but even now there were loose ends to tie up. Such was life with Uncle Percy, or Lord Percival Anthony Cain of Wolverhampton. Aka Lord Anthony. (Wolverhampton proper that is.) Nothing ever went as expected. Especially now that his uncle was headed to London for an extended period. That only amplified it all. Exacerbated it.

The tying of and dealing with loose ends wasn't only financial, however. Not entirely. As a matter of fact he heard the signs of one such loose end down the hall in the music room.

It was her.

Her...

Morganna...

Morganna Mair Seren.

His uncle's lil experiment. His charge. The young maiden he assumed to be of Irish & Welsh stock or roots judging by the name. A spirited young lass she was too.

Too spirited...

Or so some stuffed shirts around the young angel had seemed to think thereby entrusting her to their highly regarded peer & friend THE Lord Anthony himself. She was passed over to him to see if Lord Anthony could "do something about her". "Make her a lady". Whatever that meant...

Lord Anthony was considered by many to be among THE HIGHEST of the high. The best of the best across the board. Breeding. Class. Manners. Social graces. Propriety. Gentlemanliness. All of this was hoped to in one way or another rub off on the spirited young miss. She already had the class, well enough breeding, good enough manners and a charmingly sweet disposition. She just needed a bit more polishing. She was still thought by this circle of guardians to be a bit too wild. A bit too untamed. A bit too unruly. A bit too freespirited & freewheeling. A bit too headstrong. A bit too much of everything for their tastes, Robert supposed.

Robert even went as far as to suppose that what frightened them even more so was that the young girl was...

A bit too human...

Or perhaps a bit too sprightly.

But this sprightly nature was what drew Robert to her. It was what made him vow to protect her & especially that part of her. Her humanity. That was why his uncle was having such a hard go of training his young charge. For whatever he attempted to change, eradicate & remove from within her, Robert secretly cherished, sought to protect & help her keep & maintain. Covertly thwarting his uncle every step of the way.

It was also what led Robert to believe that her name fit her only too well. Morganna. Like Morgan Le Fay. The Sorceress / Enchantress Fay. Or as he called her after stumbling around the words "Morganna Le Fay" after one too many spirits with her out in the fields around Wolverhampton Manor leading to something like "Moirae" falling from his lips.

Moira.

Just Moira.

Simply Moira.

His Moira.

Moirae Le Fay.

Moira Le Fay.

At long last Robert found himself pushing the heavy, ornate doors open to the music room open. She was perched at the piano, back to the large window, curtains open to warm her with the mid afternoon spring sunshine. Her strawberry blonde curls shone in the light, seeming to glitter, the sunlight seeming to halo her entirely as her dainty, delicate little fingers scampered about the keys bringing to life Beethoven's Fur Elise.

His uncle's idea to have her cultivate her mind with classical music no doubt.

But the sheer talent & the delicacy of - the delicacy that was her playing! - was all hers.

Coming closer Robert saw that she had on a lovely creamy white silk & muslin gown that shimmered in the sun. He crept up closer just in time to catch her eyes lift off of the sheet music to him. A soft smile graced her lips as she greeted him in a smooth voice. "Lord Kidderminster. How nice to see you. You're looking well today. I trust your meeting with your uncle went well."

Robert grinned, bowing to the beauty before him. "Very well indeed, my lady. I see that your lessons have been going marvelously as well. Both in music & elocution yes? A credit to both your tutors and this house is what you are."

She nodded in appreciation. "Thank you, Lord Kidderminster. You are too kind."

"Not at all." Robert shook his head, waving her off before leaning his elbows on the edge of the piano.

"I do feel I must inform you, however..." He took a quick glance behind him at the door before turning back. "Lord Wolverhampton has unfortunately been called off to London on business. He is gone & there's no telling when he'll be back. As such we are alone, my dear. And you and your care have been entrusted to me. Any qualms, Lady Seren?" He tilted his head, lips perking in a soft smile edging on the verge of a jaunty grin.

The grin intensified as he saw her undergo a transformation. Her soft smile also transformed into a playful grin of her own as her previously cool voice warmed considerably into what he considered an endearing & charming teasing little precocious lilt as she replied simply.

"Nage~... None at all~... Cariad~..."

"No~... None at all~... Darling~..."

His response was similarly simple & in a similarly warmer tone.

"Moira bach~... Fy mach i~..."

"Beloved Moira~... My little one~..."

Robert pushed off of his elbows & slowly made his way over to where his Moira now stood, placing the cover gently down over the keys. Her music lesson was done for the day but class was still in session. And Robert had no shortage of things that he wanted to teach her. His mind was filled, absolutely swimming with possibilities.

Moira grinned up at him as he stalked closer, gasping as his arms suddenly stretched out, hands finding purchase on her waist as he just about pinned her back to the antique piano, claiming her mouth in a sudden passionate kiss. She responded by cupping his face in her two little hands & kissing him back just as passionately.

Seeing how eager his little pet was, a perhaps a bit too presumptuous Robert then slipped his hands back from around her waist, beginning to unbutton his breeches which had become painfully tight and tighter still with each second. Visions of taking her for the first time against this piano or of her straddling him on this plush, quilted piano bench were now flickering through his mind.

He had only the 1st button undone however when with a girlish squeal his little "Moira bach" took his having removed his hands from her waist as her cue for an exit & began scampering about the room.

Ah, so it was a chase his precious little filly of a girl wanted?

Then it was a chase she'd get.

Challenge accepted.

Only if Robert had anything to say about it it'd be a short chase.

Right over to the nearest flat, accommodating & hopefully soft & forgiving surface.

She darted this way & that around the piano & he followed her every step of the way. At times she was fast enough to be able to put the piano in between them but not for long. He'd fake like he was about to step on the bench or just playfully lunge at her which would elicit another giddy, girlish squeal as she'd scamper off from behind it. There were a few more laps around the piano and the room - during which he had pulled the ties to the drapes undone, dimming the room, shadows edging the corners of the room as if it were dusk.

This startled Moira, leading her to pause suddenly, momentarily by the side of a chaise lounge, back to the foot rest as she got her bearings. This moment was all that Robert needed. He pounced. "Aha!" He cried wrapping his arms around her waist & playfully tackling her & pinning her down between the chaise lounge & his muscular form. His curls rained down over his face & over hers as well as he laughed triumphantly at her rather shocked look & gasp. "Got you!" He announced, dimples popping at the corners of his mouth as he grinned with no small amount of chest puffing pride.

Moira herself disolved into giggles as she conceeded defeat gracefully, albeit with a deliberately thicker than usual accent & affectation to her voice. "Aye. So you have, Robert Bach. Ye have won the match. And to the victor go the spoils as they say. Ye deserve a prize. What shall yer prize be?"

Robert chuckled before cutting his eyes to her. They pierced her like the blue steel they were as he pet her hair, brushing peachy blonde hued tendrils back from her face, hushing a simple one word response. No accent. No affectation. No nonsense. No nothing. Just simply one word. Just...

"You..."

And with that he yet again leant in to capture her lips in a molten hot & richly passionate kiss. The kiss was a kiss that warmed her from the inside out, singeing her senses, alighting her nerves & making her toes curl & her fingers do the same in his mess of blonde ringlet curls, spiraling them around her fingers just as he made her spiral around his like no one else had before or since.

As Robert distracted her with kisses his arms slid out from under her & his hands found their way to lift her skirts and petticoats high up over her creamy thighs which were very thinly veiled by her pantalettes. He very quickly unlaced & slid her pantalettes down, revealing her rapidly dampening core. The sheer lace undergarment fell to the ground discarded & forgotten as Robert ran his fingers gingerly over the reddish blonde patch of hair framing her tiny pink slit. Moira moaned, head falling back onto the plush pillow behind her making Kidderminster's dimples pop at the corners of his rakish, proud grin. As he caressed her, his fingers gathered her wetness & rubbed some on her clit earning a quick gasping moan which led to a second longer & more drawn out one as he smeared the rest around her slit, preparing her for what was to come next.

Next he pressed his middle finger into her in one slow, smooth motion. Moira dissolved into the comfort of the chaise as he began thrusting it in & out. Her right hand held loosely onto the curved armrest to the chaise as her left hand he moved from limply laying over her chest to helping to hold her gown in place just so. Watching as the young miss indeed gathered & held her skirts just below her navel Robert couldn't help but grin, praising her.

"That's it, darling. That's it. Hold 'em up for me, love. Hold them up. Just like that. Mmmm... Such a good girl you are. Such a good girl..." He then pressed a second finger inside, working both of them in & out a little faster & making her mewl, right hand coming off of the arm rest to grip his arm tightly.

...

~ Fin for now~

[andybondurant]

New Post has been published on Andy Bondurant

New Post has been published on https://andybondurant.com/2021/08/17/communion-graham-crackers-and-juice-boxes/

Communion: Graham Crackers and Juice Boxes?

So many things separate the different denominations within the Church. We disagree about many matters of theology. However, it is the things that most every Christian agrees on are that bind us together. These beliefs are much stronger than what divides us.

The ties that bind

The sacraments are one of these “sticky” items. To be fair, churches even debate the term sacrament. Some denominations don’t like the word sacrament. Other denominations are okay with the term, but don’t agree on what makes a sacrament.

Most commonly, sacraments are known as an outward or physical act that leads to inward grace. Universally, most denominations agree that both communion (the Lord’s Supper) and Baptism are sacraments. Other segments add things like marriage and confession to this list (up to a total of 7).

Communion + Covenant

For now, I want to focus on communion. 

The average church goer thinks of communion in terms of bread and wine or juice and crackers (or maybe graham crackers and juice boxes if you’re in a pinch). If you really want to understand the depth behind the Lord’s Supper, you need go beyond the bread and wine. The importance of communion lies in the word “covenant.”

Contract vs Covenant

We live in a contractual culture. We understand signing a contract. You may have a contract for your job. You may have signed a contract when purchasing a home or car. A contract is legally binding. It ties me to that job, house or car…usually from a financial perspective. But there is one important key when we think about a contract…

We break contracts.

It may cost me financially. We may lose actual dollars. Our credit score may decline (a long-term financial cost). I may lose out on future work. We sign a contract to protect both parties in case the contract is broken…because we break contracts.

Covenant is ancient.

We confuse covenant with contract because we inherently understand contract.  In fact, many times when we refer to covenant within the church, we interchange the word covenant with contract. And while covenant and contract are similar, the implications are vastly different. 

Covenant is ancient. One of the first covenants made is between God and Noah (in essence all of humanity) after the worldwide flood. God promised or made a covenant to never again flood the entire earth (Genesis 8).

However, the next covenant God made maybe the most important ever (excluding what Jesus did, which we will get to in a moment). God and Abraham “cut” covenant after Abraham left his home and took his small family to an unknown location displaying his faith in God (Genesis 15). God appeared to Abraham and reaffirmed the promise to make Abraham into a great nation. Then God literally cuts in half several animals and walks between the pieces to establish this covenant between Him and Abraham (hence the term “cut” covenant). It’s a bloody picture for sure, but the meaning is immense for Abraham, his lineage, the Jewish people, and even you and me.

Covenants are forever.

God’s promise in this covenant with Abraham was forever. Humans cannot break a covenant with God. Abraham and his descendants could (and did) attempt to break the covenant, but God wouldn’t. Abraham and his descendants would belong to God. God would be their God.

God would be with them.

The Old Testament is the story of this covenant God made with Abraham. It’s the story of His people both keeping and breaking the covenant. It’s a story of God’s faithfulness to His covenant even in the midst of their unfaithfulness. This covenant remained until the time of Jesus. 

A new covenant

And then Jesus ushered in a new covenant.

What makes the Lord’s Supper so important, both at that time, today and into the future is the symbolism of God’s new covenant. Blood is integral to creating covenant (circumcision was originally a reminder of God’s covenant with Abraham). Abraham sacrificed several animals at that first covenant. God sacrificed his own Son for this covenant. The act of communion recreates this covenant, hence the reason it is a sacrament (and outward act dispensing inward grace) to all who partake.

When you eat the bread and drink the wine, you physically reaffirm the covenant God made 2000 years ago. You admit your short coming. Partaking in the bread and wine declares you are a sinner. You remind yourself of your need for a savior. But just as importantly, you identify with Jesus as a child of God.

You cut covenant with God.

The amazing thing is God now sees you as his child…forever. This covenant between you and Him can not end. You may make mistakes. You may…no you will…sin again (and again…and again). The covenant will remain between you and God. Short of walking away…forever…there is nothing you can do to break God’s covenant. And even then, God will continue to chase you, longing to keep the covenant He has made with you.

But communion is more than covenant. It IS about the bread and the wine. There is a reason Jesus kept the meal simple. The bread means something. The wine is important. Jesus is speaking to use in these two simple elements.

Communion: the Bread

In the book of John, there is the famous story of Jesus feeding 5,000+ people with only 5 loaves of bread and a couple of fish. The next day, a large group of people gather around Jesus, demanding another miracle. In their demands, they refer all the way back to Moses feeding the Israelites in the wilderness. God miraculously sent manna or bread from heaven daily to the Israelites as they wandered the desert for 40 years.

The people ask Jesus to give them this type of bread again…daily. Jesus replies, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry again. Whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” (John 6:35)

When Jesus passes the bread around the table on the night he was betrayed for his last meal with his friends he refers back to this encounter. Jesus says, “This is my body, which is given for you.” (Luke 22:19)

Jesus is the sustenance we are looking for. He sustains us spiritually, emotionally, and even physically (his body was broken on his road to the cross and on the cross itself, so we can experience healing. The full healing is complete upon our death and resurrection with Jesus in eternity). We look for help and support all over the place, and many of those support systems are a great supplement, but Jesus is enough. 

Jesus is the bread of life.

Communion: the wine.

Next, Jesus passes around a cup of wine and says, “This cup is the new covenant between God and his people — an agreement confirmed with my blood, which is poured out as a sacrifice for you.” (Luke 22:20)

Ah, do you see it now? Jesus made a covenant between us and God. Jesus used his own blood to confirm this covenant. The wine or juice we drink at communion is a reminder of what happened 2,000 years ago. I am in an unbreakable covenant with God. Despite my own unfaithfulness, God remains faithful.

Again, looking back to Moses, on the night of the first Passover, a lamb was sacrificed in every Jewish household as a sign of the forgiveness of their sins. A bit of the blood was then painted on the door frame of every house so the angel of death would pass-over that house.

Every time you partake in the Lord’s Supper, you reconfirm the covenant between yourself and God. But in addition to all of that, when you drink the juice, you are now made whole and clean through this sacrifice of Jesus. God forgave your sins. The ultimate destruction will pass-over your life.

Communion: Don’t forget.

When Jesus hands the bread to his friends, he adds these few words, “Do this in remembrance of me.” (Luke 22:19). Communion is an act of remembering. We remember the covenant God has made with us. Communion reminds us Jesus is enough. We remember our sins are forgiven. We are reminded we are now God’s children.

With this perspective, communion is so much more than just a cracker and juice while it is still all about the bread and the wine. It is indeed a sacrament. So don’t forget, God dispensed grace to you. Remember, God forgave you. Be reminded of who you belong to. You are a child of God. 

Forever.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

The Great Sacrifice

a prayer by Charles Spurgeon

O God our Father, we do remember well when we were called to Thee, with many sweet and wooing voices we were bidden to return. Thou didst Thyself hang out the lights of mercy that we might know the way home and Thy dear Son Himself came down to seek us. But we wandered still. It brings the tears to our eyes to think that we should have been so foolish and so wicked, for we often extinguished the light within and conscience we tried to harden and we sinned against light and knowledge with a high hand against our God.

Thou hast often brought us very low even to our knees and we cried for mercy, but we rose to sin again. Blessed was that day when Thou didst strike the blow of grace—the effectual blow. Then didst Thou wither up our comeliness and all our perfection was rolled in the dust. We saw ourselves to be slain by the law, to be lost, ruined, and undone, and then we rolled to and fro in the tempests of our thoughts and staggered like drunken men and were at our wits’ end—then did we cry unto Thee in our trouble, and blessed be Thy name forever, Thou didst deliver us.

O happy day that sealed our pardon with the precious blood of Jesus accepted by faith. We would recall the memory of that blessed season by repeating it. We come again now to the cross whereon the Savior bled. We give another look of faith to Him. We trust we never take away our eyes off Him, but if we have done so, we would look anew. We would gaze into the body of the Son of God, pierced with nails, parched with thirst, bleeding, dying, because “It pleased the Father to bruise Him; He hath put Him to grief.”

Lord God, we see in Thy crucified Son a sacrifice for sin. We see how Thou hast made Him to be sin for us that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him and we do over again accept Him to be everything to us. This is the victim by whose blood the covenant is made through faith. This is that Paschal Lamb by the sprinkling of whose blood all Israel is secured, for Thou hast said, “When I see the blood I will pass over you.” This is the blood which gives us access into that which is within the veil. This is the blood which now to our souls is drink indeed and we do rejoice in the joy which this new wine of the covenant hath given unto our spirits.

We would take afresh the cup of salvation and call upon the name of the Lord. We would pay our vows now in the midst of all the Lord’s people and in the courts of His house, and this is a part payment of our vow that we bless the Lord Jesus who hath put away our sin. We bless Him that He hath redeemed us unto Himself not with corruptible things as silver and gold, but with His own precious blood and we do avow ourselves today to be the Lord’s.

We are not our own. We are bought with a price. Lord Jesus, renew Thy grasp of us, take us over again, for we do even with greater alacrity than ever before surrender ourselves to Thee, and so “Bind the sacrifice with cords, even with cords to the horns of the altar.” O Lord, I am Thy servant and the son of Thine handmaid. Thou hast loosed my bonds. The Lord liveth, and blessed be my Rock. Henceforth within that Rock I hide myself. For Him I live. The Lord enable all His people with sincere hearts, with undivided hearts, thus again to give themselves up to Jesus, and do Thou set in them anew the marks and tokens of Thy possession till every one of us shall say as many of us can say, “From henceforth let no man trouble me; for I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

We bless Thee, Lord, for that mark to which some of us can look back with much joy. It is not in our hand, nor in our forehead, nor on our foot, nor on our heart alone. Our whole body has been buried with Christ in baptism unto death and now the whole body, soul, and spirit, by our willing consecration, belong unto Christ henceforth and forever.

Our Father, there is one prayer which has kept rising to our lip even while we have been thus speaking to Thee. It comes from our very heart. It is, Bring others to Thyself. Hast Thou not said, O God of Jacob, “Yet will I gather others unto Him that have not been gathered?” Hast Thou not given to Thy Son the heathen for His inheritance and the uttermost parts of the earth for His possession? Lord, give Thy Son the reward of His travail. Give Him a part of that reward this day wherever He is preached. Oh! that some might be moved with the love of Christ.

Lord, some know not who Thou art. Convince them of Thy deity and Thy power to save. Lord, many of them do not think. They live as if they were to die and there would be an end of them. O divine Spirit, convince them of judgment to come. Set before each careless eye that day of terrible pomp when for every idle word that men shall speak they must give an account. O divine Spirit, teach unreasonable men true reason. Teach the obdurate sensitiveness. Look upon them, Jesus, just as Thou didst on those of the synagogue, not with anger, but still being grieved because of the hardness of their hearts. “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do,” and bring many, many, many this very day to the dear feet that were nailed to the cross. Oh! how we long for it. Deny us what Thou wilt, only bring sinners to Thyself.

Lord Jesus, Thou art gone from us. We rejoice that this is the fact, for Thou hast taught us that it is expedient for us that Thou shouldest go and that the Comforter should be with us, but oh! let us not miss that promised presence of the Comforter. May He be here to help and succor in all works of faith and labors of love, and may we feel that He has come among us and is dwelling with us because He is convincing the world of sin, of righteousness, and of judgment to come.

O Spirit of God, bring men to accept the great propitiation, to see their sin washed away in the purple flood whose fount was opened when the heart of Christ was pierced, and may blood-washed sinners begin to sing on earth that everlasting anthem which shall be sung by all the redeemed in heaven.

We beseech Thee now, Lord, to look upon all Thy people and grant everyone a blessing. Some are in great trouble. Deliver them, we pray Thee. Others may be in great peril, though they have no trouble. The Lord save His people from the evils of prosperity. It may be some of Thine own people find it hard to worship because of cares. May they be able, like Abraham, when the birds came down upon the sacrifice, to drive them away.

O Spirit of God, make us all more holy. Work in us more completely the image of Christ. We do long to be as the Lord Jesus Christ in spirit and temper, and in unselfishness of life. Give us the character of Christ, we pray Thee. Redemption from the power of sin is purchased with His blood and we crave for it, and pray that we may daily receive it. Let the whole militant Church of Christ be blessed. Put power into all faithful ministries. Convert this country. Save it from abounding sin. Let all the nations of the earth know the Lord, but especially bless those nations that speak our own dear mother tongue, where our same Lord and Christ is worshipped this day after the same fashion.

The Lord bless His people. Bring the Church to break down all bonds of nationality, all limits of sects, and may we feel the blessed unity which is the very glory of the Church of Christ. Yea, let the whole earth be filled with His glory. Our prayer can never cease until we reach this point, “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” Nothing less than this can we ask for. And now hear us as we pray for the Sovereign and all in authority, and ask Thy blessing to rest upon this land, and let Thy blessing extend over all the family of man. We ask it for Christ’s sake. Amen.

[jpaulfontan]

Living in Grace

and I just want to say you are free! Hello, you’ve found the Senior Adult Sunday School Class of Corinth Baptist Church in Singleton, Ms. The title of our lesson for today is: Living in Grace

This will be our 3rd

In a 5-lesson series under the general heading of:

Facing Adversity

We’ll be drawing Scripture from the Book of Philemon

Let’s start this lesson off with a question:

What is your initial

response to the word,

slavery?

Does that word dredge up an emotional response in you

at all?

If so, why?

Well, that really depends

on a number of factors,

now, doesn't it?

Here in the United States

in the 21st century,

most people would associate slavery with that

evil and racist institution that was in place in this country

during the era of the

Civil War and the two

centuries that led up to it.

It is for this very reason,

as we look at Paul's letter to Philemon, we need to be

careful with our understanding

of slavery in this book of

the Bible.

It's important to understand the context of the words as well as the

context of the culture

as much as possible

when interpreting Scripture.

Though some things about humanity never changes, we need to understand that life in the time of the Apostles was very different when compared to today.

Slavery in the first century

was based primarily on economics, not skin color.

When Paul wrote his letter

to Philemon,

roughly a quarter of the population of the Roman Empire were slaves of one sort or another…. as the economy of Rome was based on

slave labor.

People were enslaved for

a number of reasons:

being prisoners of war,

defaulting on a debt,

being born into a slave

family,

and some people even voluntarily

indentured themselves to

make ends meet.

But, freedom for slaves was possible... and common,

being granted by masters

or purchased through

personal savings.

Seems to me the slavery that so many of us look

back to 150 years ago in this land was considerably different

than in Roman days.

I've never heard of slaves

being able to earn any money at all

during the slave days

of the Americas.

It really was an entirely different

world during Roman days.

Paul was under house arrest

in Rome when he wrote this

letter to Philemon.

Philemon was a wealthy man and a

believer in the gospel of Jesus Christ, and obviously

a friend of Paul's.

I don't know how many

slaves Philemon owned.

But, one of them, a man

named Onesimus, (OH-nes-e-mus), had run

away from Philemon, his

master.

I've read in other places

that Onesimus had robbed Philemon in order to have

the funds he'd need to

flee as far away from his

master as possible.

I've also read that there

was a good chance that Onesimus could have possibly stumbled across

Epaphroditus, (EE-pie-froh-die-tus), en route to

Rome.

Epaphroditus was an envoy of the Philippian church who traveled to Rome to assist the Apostle Paul while he awaited his audience with Caesar.

And, it's entirely possible

that Epaphroditus may have encouraged the run-away slave to seek out Paul in order to gain advice.

Regardless of how he found

his way to Paul, he also found his way to Jesus,

for Paul calls him "his son" in this letter.

Onesimus became a Christian

while in the company of Paul.

Under his tutelage

Onesimus became convicted of

his own wrongdoing toward

his master and was willing

to go back to Colossae.

It was 1200 miles from Rome

to Colossae.

Onesimus had it made as he could have easily concealed himself in the population

of Rome; there were over

a million people there at that time. With this understanding, let’s get into the 1st section of our lesson for today.

Section 1: God’s People are Compelled by Love

Philemon 8-14;

8. For this reason, although I have great boldness in Christ to command you to do what is right,

9. I appeal to you, instead, on the basis of love. I, Paul, as an elderly man and now also as a prisoner of Christ Jesus,

10. appeal to you for my son, Onesimus.

I fathered him while I was in chains.

11. Once he was useless to you, but now he is useful both to you and to me.

12. I am sending him back to you as a part of myself. Receive him as a part of myself.

13. I wanted to keep him with me, so that in my imprisonment for the gospel he might serve me in your place.

14. But I didn’t want to do anything without your consent, so that your good deed might not be out of obligation, but of your own free will.

What we're seeing here

is another example of

God working all things

for the good of believers.

We have no way of

knowing for sure that Onesimus robbed his master when he ran away.

What we do know

is that Philemon

now had the opportunity

to receive something back

that was much more than a slave.

Onesimus, through faith in

Jesus Christ,

had become a brother in Christ to his master.

In verse 10,

Paul used the descriptive

terms, "son" and "father"

in a spiritual sense to show his deep affection for Onesimus, and to show that their relationship was more as that of

family.

It's obvious in his letter to Philemon that Paul and Onesimus had become

especially close.

And, this is reflected

in the tone of Paul's

letter to Philemon;

that Paul wished for Philemon to now treat Onesimus as a family member in Christ.

Paul, thanks to his own

"Damascus moment,"

knew first hand about

the transforming power

of God to take even enemies and make them

family.

Paul had had a front-row seat seeing what God could do and

how His grace triumphs over sin.

God had taken Paul,

a persecutor of the church,

and made him a son,

a brother with Christ,

a brother in the church,

and now,

a father in the faith

to others, including

both Philemon and Onesimus.

We Christians are described

in the Bible as

"the people of God."

As the people of God,

we're brothers and sisters

in Christ; we are family!

Because of the atoning death of Christ on the cross,

the church was created for

both Jews and Gentiles to become this single

"people of God."

We are a people who strive to live under

God's ruling care

while we're protected and

cared for by Him.

Now, how was Philemon

going to receive

Onesimus when he returned

to his master?

His options were to follow that gracious and forgiving

option that Paul presented to him

in the letter,

or to deal with Onesimus

according to the harsh

societal standard that

was in place for dealing

with runaway slaves.

Here in North America,

some of the Indian tribes,

like the Souix,

would capture slaves from their neighboring tribes.

If a slave ran away and

was re-captured,

it wasn't uncommon for them

to be hobbled,

made lame,

by cutting their hamstrings.

As for the Romans

concerning slavery;

it was perfectly legal to even

sell their own children

into slavery,

(talk about an incentive

to be a good child!).

The Romans most often beat

their re-captured slaves;

but they also had a brand

that was burned into their

foreheads that marked

them for life as a runaway.

Besides that, killing a slave

wasn't considered murder.

? So don't you know how much

faith and trust Onesimus must have had to do the right thing and return to

his master, Philemon?

So, what were Paul's

views on slavery?

To understand that,

we've got to take a

closer look at the

convention of slavery

during the 1st century.

In considering the church's practice and perspective on slavery, let's look at

some things about it at the time.

Slavery was an embedded

part of the social structure,

welfare system, and

economic activity of the

ancient world.

The absence of a modern democracy made it practically impossible to launch any sort

of effective political

revolution against it.

The most effective means of

improving the life of a slave

was for the master

to treat him or her kindly

with the prospect of

future freedom.

Paul addressed the slaves

in 1st Corinthians 7:21 to pursue their freedom when

it was feasible.

He also wrote in

1st Timothy 1:9-10, that slave traders were being immoral.

In 1st Corinthians 12:13,

Galatians 3:28,

Ephesians 6:8,

and Colossians 3:11,

Paul declared that both the slave and the free were equal in Christ.

And, as we've seen in

this letter to Philemon,

Paul was gently "strong-arming"

Philemon to accept Onesimus in a radically different way than was typical between masters and

slaves.

It was descriptive of a mind-set that, when practiced

more widely,

would cultivate an

ethic and a culture

that would effectively

undermine the practice

of slavery.

Section 2:

God’s People are Related as Family

Philemon 15-17;

15. For perhaps this is why he was separated from you for a brief time, so that you might get him back permanently,

16. no longer as a slave, but more than a slave , as a dearly loved brother.

He is especially so to me, but even more to you, both in the flesh and in the Lord.

17. So if you consider me a partner, accept him as you would me.

It's obvious from

these Scriptures that

Paul had pondered....

contemplated the reasons

about why Onesimus had

been separated from

Philemon.

Paul had come to the

inescapable conclusion

that God had wanted for

Onesimus to join His family.

We don't know, for sure,

all of the details that

led Onesimus to run away

from his master.

We don't even know for a

fact that Onesimus had

robbed Philemon.

But what we do know

is that God's sovereign

grace works through

human affairs.

Though Paul understood well

this business of slavery,

he focused on the redemptive

aspect of the cross in

Onesimus's life.

Since being born again,

Onesimus was no longer

merely a slave;

now he was a brother

in Christ

among the people

of God.

Now look;

I don't know of any

direct evidence of

what Philemon did

concerning the returned

slave, Onesimus.

But wouldn't it be

reasonable to assume

that if Philemon

preserved and even

circulated that letter

among the churches,

that he did, in fact,

do as Paul had asked

him to do?

Did he set Onesimus

free?

Who knows?

But I truly believe

that the relationship

between the master and

the slave was

greatly altered.

And, in my opinion,

Philemon most likely

did grant Onesimus'

freedom.

And....And....

I also believe that

Onesimus' response to

his probable freedom,

was to stay on in the

service of Philemon....

as a brother-in-Christ.

Section 3:51

God’s People are Gracious With Each Other

Philemon 18-22;

18. And if he has wronged you in any way, or owes you anything, charge that to my account.

19. I, Paul, write this with my own hand: I will repay it, not to mention to you that you owe me even your own self.

20. Yes, brother, may I have joy from you in the Lord; refresh my heart in Christ.

21. Since I am confident of your obedience, I am writing to you, knowing that you will do even more than I say.

22. But meanwhile, also prepare a guest room for me, for I hope that through your prayers I will be restored to you.

The

"Book"

of Philemon

is the

3rd shortest book

in the Bible.

And yet,

there is a

wealth of wisdom,

teaching,

and knowledge

to be had

from it's mere

335 words.

In it,

Paul extends

a fitting ...

Christ like gesture

toward Philemon

in that,

he offers to take on

any burden

Onesimus had

caused his master.

He did this

in an effort

to reconcile

these two men

to each other.

This is

a picture of

"gospel grace!"

Paul was simply

doing exactly the

same thing

Jesus Christ did.

He was willing to

take on

the penalty for

Onesimus

just as

Jesus did for us.

In this way,

Paul's effort was

to reconcile these

men,

and Jesus...well,

He did what He did

to reconcile us to

the Father.

Like I said,

it's a picture of

gospel grace.

What Paul was doing,

essentially, was asking

Philemon to forgive

Onesimus.

Forgiveness is an

interesting thing, though.

You might ask,

"What's so hard about it?

It doesn't

cost you anything."

More often than not,

it does have a cost.

In the first place,

it means letting go

of the past.

It means letting go

of the anger.

It means letting go

of the sense of

moral superiority.

It really does

require sacrifice.

But, it IS a noble act;

and, it's expected of

Christians.

!We Christians have

received the

grace and forgiveness

of God!

For this very reason,

Paul felt confident that

Philemon would obey

his request and

welcome Onesimus home

as a beloved brother

in Christ. Now, if you’ve watched the past few lessons, you’ve watched me as I learned something about Paul’s imprisonment. A 4th missionary journey undertaken by Paul, AFTER his release from house arrest in Rome, was something I had been completely ignorant of. And yet, it did happen. Everything points to the fact that Paul did get to stand before Caesar and answer to the charges he’d been under arrest for…. for the previous four years. In fact, the final verse in this letter to Philemon, Paul even goes so far as to request that his friend prepare a guestroom for him, as he was anticipating his release from Roman custody. (Tongue-in-cheek; Now, how do you suppose he could have known that?)

In closing,

I'd just like to

point out this.

The gospel is the

story of Christ dying

in our place and

being raised for us,

and this story is to

affect

and to shape the

way Christians live.

The gospel is the

story the Holy Spirit

uses to radically

transform not only

the way we think,

but also the way we

treat others,

especially those

within the church.

Let's pray.....

[the-christian-walk]

HISTORY LESSON (PART 2)

Can I pray for you in any way?

Send any prayer requests to Gods4all@aol.com In Christ, Mark

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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The scriptures. May God bless the reading of His holy word.

“Because the patriarchs were jealous of Joseph, they sold him as a slave into Egypt. But God was with him and rescued him from all his troubles. He gave Joseph wisdom and enabled him to gain the goodwill of Pharaoh king of Egypt. So Pharaoh made him ruler over Egypt and all his palace.

“Then a famine struck all Egypt and Canaan, bringing great suffering, and our ancestors could not find food. When Jacob heard that there was grain in Egypt, he sent our forefathers on their first visit. On their second visit, Joseph told his brothers who he was, and Pharaoh learned about Joseph’s family. After this, Joseph sent for his father Jacob and his whole family, seventy-five in all. Then Jacob went down to Egypt, where he and our ancestors died. Their bodies were brought back to Shechem and placed in the tomb that Abraham had bought from the sons of Hamor at Shechem for a certain sum of money.

Acts 7:9-16

This ends today’s reading from God's holy word. Thanks be to God.

The false accusations were meant to put Stephen on the spot. The conjurers of these lies painted Stephen as an enemy of the Jewish people, never ceasing to speak against the hallowed, sacred ground of Israel and the law had given through Moses to govern it. They sought to stir up fear in the hearts of the Sanhedrin by associating Stephen with Jesus, asserting that the Christian servant had said Jesus would destroy Israel and abolish the customs handed down from Moses.

In other words, Stephen was a threat, a threat that needed to be eliminated just as the Man he follows was.

It was a moment of truth as all eyes were on Stephen to hear what he had to say. But the chief priest spoke first and simply asked Stephen,

“Are these charges true?”

Yesterday, we saw in the first message in this series how Stephen didn’t exactly answer the question he was asked. Rather, he commanded everyone to listen as he began providing a history lesson to the Sanhedrin and all others gathered, a history lesson that we are looking at in this series.

Up first was Abraham but we saw where Stephen made it clear that it was God who was in charge, not Abraham. It was God who called Abraham to leave his country and people behind, traveling to where God wanted him to go. God would go onto tell Abraham that the land he would go to would be the same land that the Israelites would be led to more than four hundred years later. Again, it would be God in charge, not the people.

But before that would happen, God would bless Abraham with a son named Isaac who would then in turn bear a son named Jacob. Then the Lord would again emerge on the scene to make sure that Jacob’s name was changed to Israel and his twelve sons would become the twelve patriarchs, each the progenitor of one of the twelve tribes of Israel. One of the sons would bear the name Joseph.

And this brings us to the second of Stephen’s history message as he commands the floor with the Sanhedrin and all present listening. In it, Peter reminds those present that Joseph had drawn the jealousy of his other eleven brothers. The scriptures tell us the resentment was over Joseph being favored by his father and so the brothers sold him into slavery in Egypt, attempting to eliminate him but not through bloodshed.

The irony of what was happening as Stephen shared this story shouldn’t be lost. Because it was now the Sanhedrin who were jealous of first Jesus and then His apostles for the success they were having in making disciples of many Jews who were once loyal to the cause of Judaism. And so they sought to eliminate their threats but unlike Joseph’s brothers, they were willing to kill in order to get their way.

In both of these instances of jealousy leading to sin, we find God in the midst of things, ensuring that His way and will were done.

The Sanhedrin believed that by sanctioning Jesus’ murder, they would cut off the head of the Christian movement. They believed wrong because they failed to realize that their actions were really part of God’s overall plan to bring salvation to all mankind and use His Son’s death and resurrection for a catalyst for the movement.

They then would stone Stephen to death after his history lesson and the stern rebuke that followed. Their intent was to drive the fear of persecution into the hearts of Christians so they would give up their faith and belief in Jesus but all the Sanhedrin accomplished was to cause the Gospel to scatter and disperse well beyond Jerusalem to Judea and Samaria before it grew further into the ends of the earth.

How did this tie to the story of Joseph so many hundreds of years before Jesus? Was there a connection?

The answer is yes and a very interesting one.

I say this because the eleven brothers who sold their brother into slavery thought they were getting rid of him for good but it was God’s plan to raise him up as their savior. In other words, their very survival would hinge on Joseph showing them mercy, grace, and forgiveness. But before that would happen, Joseph had to enter into a personal journey of his own.

First, we read where God granted Joseph the gifts of wisdom, which helped him eventually gain the favor of Pharaoh, the very king of Egypt. This favor led to Joseph being made a ruler in Egypt with oversight over Pharaoh’s palace affairs.

After this special appointment, the scriptures tells us that a great famine struck all of Egypt and Canaan, causing “great suffering” among all the people including Joseph’s father, his eleven brothers, and the rest of his family because no food could be found.

But God did not wish for His people to perish. He desired that Jacob and his sons be saved. And so, Jacob sends his sons (called the forefathers in Stephen’s history lesson) to Egypt after hearing there was grain there and the person they had to request the food from was none other than Joseph but none of his brothers knew it at first. In fact, we read where it wasn’t until their second visit to Egypt that Joseph reveals his identity and Pharaoh learned about Jacob and the others.

Happy to learn that his son was alive after believed dead, Jacob himself went to Egypt for what was an awesome, joyous family reunion with seventy-five people in attendance. And in Egypt they would remain until death, their bodies then returned to Canaan for burial in a tomb purchased by Abraham in Shechem.

The story of Joseph is one grounded in love, forgiveness, and redemption, all orchestrated by a caring God who shows He is in control, no matter how much others might try to sinfully believe they are.

In the Gospels and the Book of Acts, we are reminded that this caring God continued to be a God of love and forgiveness and redemption, willing to use His own Son as an instrument of salvation, no matter how much wickedness and evil tried to win the day.

Today, God is still the God of love, forgiveness, and redemption, not wishing for anyone to perish but rather to enjoy everlasting life with Him through placing their belief in the Son Jesus that He sent to save.

My prayer is that through Stephen’s second history lesson you have found you way to an eternal hope and victory through Jesus that never can be removed. Ever.

Tomorrow, we’ll look at the third part of this series and Moses. I hope you’ll join me then.

Amen.

In Christ,

Mark

PS: Feel free to leave a comment and please share this with anyone you feel might be blessed by it. Send any prayer requests to Gods4all@aol.com

[woodworkingpastor]

Who is worthy? -- Luke 7:1-17 -- Sunday, February 7, 2021

There is a famous scene in the movie The Godfather that really helps us understand today’s Scripture. Don Corleone is sitting at his desk listening to Amerigo Bonasera’s plea for help. Bonasera’s daughter has been brutally beaten by her boyfriend. Wanting to be good Americans, the Bonasera’s turned to the criminal justice system. But the boys involved in his daughter’s beating come from a wealthy family and are able to pull some strings to receive a suspended sentence. To add further insult to injury, as they pass by Mr. Bonasera on their way out of court they smirk at the stunned father.

This drives him to the Godfather. “For justice, we must go to Don Corleone.” The Godfather agrees to help him, telling him as he leaves his study, “Someday, I will call upon you to do a service for me.”

That scene from The Godfather is an excellent example of a patronage relationship. It’s the kind of relationship we typically look on with disapproval, because we are like Amerigo Bonasera ascribes to be: we expect that decisions will be made based on either the facts of the situation or on the qualifications of the people involved, and not through some special treatment or backdoor arrangement. We don’t leave a department store owing the owner a favor; we pay for what we purchase. And although connections and recommendations are helpful, we expect to be hired for a job because we’re the most qualified. “Under the table” sorts of deals are frowned upon and often illegal.

This was not the case in Bible times. Because resources of all kinds were scarce, knowing someone who could place you in contact with someone else who had what you needed was important information. But such favors came with a price. We get a glimpse of this in today’s Scripture. Read Luke 7:1-17.

The centurion and his slave

Centurions were people of significance in the Roman world; their’s was a position of power and respect. In many ways, centurions were the backbone of the Roman army. William Barclay says of centurions that

they must not be so much seekers after danger as men who can command, steady in action, and reliable; they ought not be over anxious to rush into the fight; but when hard pressed they must be ready to hold their ground and die at their posts (Barclay, 84).

What would likely have stood out for the early hearers of Luke’s gospel was the unusual relationship the centurion has with his slave. Our hearts are naturally inclined to expect compassion and sympathy. But this wasn’t necessarily the expectation in the first century. Roman law defined slaves as “living tools.” They had no rights; slaves could simply be disposed of when they had outlived their usefulness. But this centurion seems to be different—rather than seeking a new slave, he seeks out treatment for one whom he “valued highly.”

This is where the patronage relationship come into play. A patronage relationship has two components: the patron (someone like the Godfather who has access to something that someone else wants or needs) and a client (someone like Amerigo Bonasera who would accept help in return for a later favor). Furthermore, in Roman culture it was expected that wealthy persons would use their wealth for the public good. This Roman centurion become a patron to the local community by building a synagogue. It was a significant act that blessed that local Jewish community.

It was out of this patronage relationship that the centurion sends the Jewish elders to ask Jesus for help. Because the centurion built the synagogue he has earned the right to ask this favor—go to Jesus and ask him for help. In The Godfather, Amerigo Bonasera owned a funeral home. Later in the movie, the Godfather’s son is killed; he calls upon Bonasera to embalm his son’s body for burial.

From the perspective of the patronage relationship, the centurion is worthy. It’s a Greek word that means “tipping the scales.” The centurion’s past generosity tips the scale in his favor; therefore, his slave should be healed.

The difficulty comes when we begin thinking that we have a patronage relationship with God. The problem with this line of thinking is that we want to place ourselves in the role of the patron and God in the role of the client. Because we’re a faithful member of our church and have been generous to the poor and been faithful with our tithes, then we have earned the privilege for Jesus to show up when we need him and do for us what we ask.

We may deny ever thinking this way. But let’s look at some examples. I imagine that somewhere along the way you’ve taken one of these informal tests that asks you to answer some broad questions: “On a scale of 1 to 5, how likely are you to _________.” When you finish with the test, you add up your score and it (supposedly) tells you how much of a certain characteristic you have. Consider these questions somewhat like that: how much you might be operating in a kind of patronage relationship with God?

Consider your prayer life. Do your prayers consist more of praise or more of petition? Do you pray more when things are going well or when things are going badly?

Remember, this isn’t a hard and fast rule, it measures an attitude or a tendency. Let me offer another example: when someone is really in love, Valentine’s Day is a great joy because the lover’s focus is on the other person and what can be done for them. Buying gifts and creating special getaways are a priority. But when the relationship is falling apart you will often see the reverse happen: all the lover can do is complain about all the things the partner didn’t do for them. The focus shifts from them to me. “I’ve done all these things for them, but do you think they would lift a finger for me?”

Now apply that back to your prayer time: do you spend time with God in prayer because you love God? Or does your prayer focus on things you want God to do? Again, these aren’t absolutes; they are tendencies. What does this say about us?

We could add some more categories, like:

Does your commitment to Christ and the church change when life goes badly? Are you just as committed to Christ and the church in difficult times as you are in good times?

How do you measure your self-worth? Are you a person of significance because of your talent, or your accomplishments, or your wealth, or because Jesus has looked at you and said, “You are mine”?

Religion vs. gospel

Ultimately, what we’re talking about is the difference between religion and gospel. The basic attitude of religion is that we need to do something to earn God’s grace, and if we’ve done certain things then we deserve God’s grace. In the story of the centurion and the slave, the assumption is that the centurion was worthy of Jesus’ attention because he’d built the synagogue for the people.

Interestingly, the centurion figures out that this isn’t how things work with Jesus. He openly confesses, “I am not worthy to have you come under my roof” and yet he recognizes that Jesus does have the power to heal, which is exactly what happens. The centurion is the only one to comprehend grace.

But this isn’t all there is to the story. Luke does something extremely important here: he tells another healing story, only in this story there is no question of patronage and no question of worthiness. No one in the town of Nain asks Jesus for anything: the only sound is the mother weeping for her son on her way to his burial. Jesus’ love is only an expression of his compassion.

Here again, we need to see the story through first century eyes and recognize that this is more than the sorrow of a mother for her deceased son. Luke also tells us that she was a widow and this was her only son, meaning that she is now destitute because in a patriarchal society she had no man to care for her. She has lost everything; her circumstances are hopeless. When Jesus restores her son he restores her life, too.

The promise of the Gospel

This shows us the fundamental story of the gospel, one that is portrayed in both the Old and the New Testaments: we have lost everything; our situation is hopeless and there is nothing we can do to resolve it on our own. When the Bible talks about our hopeless state, it uses language in Hebrew and Greek that is much stronger than English translations recognize:

Isaiah 64:6. We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth. We all fade like a leaf, and our iniquities, like the wind, take us away.

Philippians 4:8. More than that, I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ.

“Filthy cloth” and “rubbish” are words that describe some of the dirtiest parts of bodily functions.

It can be difficult for successful people to hear that everything they might attempt to leverage in a patronage relationship is worthless. We are people who have good educations, good jobs; we’ve largely done well in life. The Gospel denies us our patronage relationship with God, but it gives us something much better in exchange: another story about a son who died but was restored to life so that someone else who was in a hopeless situation would know the fulness of life. We are not the Roman centurion in this story; we are the mother in Nain who has lost everything but who gets her life back because the son lives again.

Seeing this, the people proclaim, “God has looked favorably on his people!” Let us celebrate God’s favor on us by confessing our sin and asking for forgiveness:

Most merciful God,

We confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed,

           by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.

We have not loved you with our whole heart;

           we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.

We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.

For the sake of your son Jesus Christ,

           have mercy on us and forgive us;

                       that we may delight in your will and walk in your ways

                       to the glory of your name

Amen.