#opposite: abel thomas

[juancarlos-ortiz]

Harder - Chibs Telford x Reader

Requested by: @telfords-genderfluid-prospect

A/N: Here you go, angel! I'm so sorry for the tardiness of this one. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope cosmetology school is looking up for you. Thank you for requesting <3

Warnings: fluff, crude humour (I think that's it)

Word Count: 1361 words

"Ok, so if everyone could please, take their clients over to an available station, and begin to set up your kits, I will come around and inspect everyone is ready to begin and then we will start," your cosmetology teacher instructed. Everyone around you rose from their seats and began to move to the outlying vanity stations bordering the classroom. You sat awkwardly in your chair, drumming your fingertips against the surface of the desk, waiting to catch your teachers attention. Once everyone had moved, your teacher spotted you. "Is everything ok?" they asked. You nodded, your lips pulling into a tight smile. "I actually didn't bring a client with me today," you explained. Your teacher cocked their head. "Did you miss the notice we sent in your orientation package? You need to provide your own clients for all practical lessons," they said, obviously trying to hide their frustration.

"No, no, I did receive it. I just didn't have anyone available this time around. It won’t be an issue going forward but, today is an exception unfortunately. I was hoping maybe I could share with someone, or just watch for today?" you asked. Your teacher frowned as they pondered your words. "I definitely want everyone up and participating for this lesson. It’s important to get hands on with the learning quickly," they said. You felt your heart sink in your chest. You had asked everyone and anyone who would suit the brief - hair long enough to shampoo at the basin and then blow dry - but no one had been available. You had even been as desperate to ask Gemma but she was looking after Abel and Thomas. Your throat felt tight and your skin burned as you felt tears sting your eyes.

You had been so excited to begin cosmetology school. It had finally felt like you had found your path in life after so much time of indecision and trying different things. And now it felt like you were starting off as a failure. You blinked back tears, not wanting to cry in front of someone who was still a stranger to you - who you thought would no doubt find your tears an annoyance. Your teacher watched as you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, swallowing away the lump in your throat. "Let me go and get everyone else started, and then I'll come back to you and we will work something out," they said, their tone softer and their smile genuine. "There might be another teacher with a free couple of hours who can step in for you today." You smiled wobbly, and nodded your head. "Thank you so much."

Your teacher left to inspect the stations of the other students. You let out a shaky breath, staring down at your hands on the table. You began to talk yourself through it. Everything would be ok. It was one class, and it was a small thing. This wouldn't be the end of the road for you and the next class you would make sure you would ace without any setbacks. You were so engrossed in your thoughts you didn’t notice anyone coming your way until a set of hands rested on your desk opposite you. You looked up, your eyes widening and your brain trying to rationalise why your Old Man was standing in front of you. "Hello, sweetheart," Chibs Telford said, smiling sweetly down at you. You huffed out a breath of disbelief. "What-- wait, what are you doing here?" you asked, placing both of your hands over the top of his and squeezing.

He flipped his hands under yours, clutching when your palms met. "I'm here for my blow out," he said, dramatically flipping his chin length hair, making you laugh. He smiled, leaning down to press his lips against your forehead. "You are?" you asked. "Here to be my client?" He nodded, running his thumbs over the back of your hands comfortingly, occasionally skimming up to pass over the ring that sat on your left hand. "Of course," he shrugged. "Ye' said ye' needed someone, and I could tell how upset it made ye' that no one could help out. So here I am." You grinned up at him, wishing you could run around the table and plant one on him, but didn't think that would be overly appropriate in the classroom. "Hello," your teacher said as they approached, smiling as their eyes darted between you and Chibs.

"Good morning," Chibs greeted. "I'm here to get my hair washed and blow dried by this very talented student, right here," he motioned to you and you flushed, half embarrassed half preening under his words. "This is my fiancée", you explained. "He's come in to be my client. Is that ok?" Your teacher did a quick once over of Chibs' hair, lips pursed, before nodding in approval. "Looks like you can get a round brush in there to me. Go and set up, and call me over when you're ready." Ten minutes later, you had Chibs laid back at the basin, listening to your teacher as they explained how to handle the hose and drench the hair without giving your client a surprise shower, and how to shampoo and rinse before they left to go and check in with another student. Turning on the taps you tested the water and adjusted once it was a nice temperature. Slowly, you pulled the hose over and began to wet Chibs' hair. "Is that an ok temperature?" you asked, remembering your teacher telling you to keep checking in with your client.

"Perfect, my love," he hummed, closing his eyes and sinking further into the chair. You laughed, shaking your head. "I think we're meant to pretend that you're someone who isn't my Old Man," you teased. "There's no chance on this Earth that I would ever pretend to be someone not in love with you," he objected. You rolled your eyes, your stomach flip flopping at his words. You turned the tap off once his hair was saturated and pumped some shampoo into your hand. You rubbed it between your palms and began to lather his hair up. Digging your fingertips into his scalp you asked, "is this pressure ok?" He hummed deep within his chest. "Harder, darlin'. Don't hold back. I never do when you ask for it harder," he baited. You scoffed, looking around to make sure no one was in earshot. "Can you not right now, I'm trying to learn here," you chastised, almost considering turning on the hose and spraying down his face purposefully. He laughed and held his hands up to feign innocence. "Ok, ok, I'm sorry. I'll be serious from now on." You rinsed the shampoo before repeating the process, following your teachers instructions to double shampoo. After being guided on how to apply conditioner and do a final rinse and towel off, you began to massage the conditioner into Chibs' hair.

He groaned softly, the tension in his face fading as you continued to apply the product. You smiled down at him, your heart filling as you watched him relax. You had never really done anything like this with him. You showered together often, and while he had washed your hair for you on occasion you had never returned the intimacy. You concentrated on the feeling of his hair gliding through your fingers, the connection of skin to skin while you massaged his scalp. You would of kept going had you not looked at the clock and realise you had been at it for nearly 15 minutes. You rinsed out the last of the product, before towelling off the excess wetness and helping him lean out of the chair. Sitting him down at your station you gave him another towel off before running a brush through his hair in preparation for blow drying. "I really appreciate this you know," you murmured, meeting his eyes in the mirror. He smiled softly, reaching up to hold one of your hands in his. "I know, my love," he said, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. "I got ye'. Ye' know that."

[bookoformon]

Helaman Chapter 6, Part 6. "The Author of All Sin."

The roles have been reversed: the Lamanites are growing wise through faith and acts of self-government, and the Nephites are becoming more corrupt as their Secret Combination bears fruit.

The Book of Mormon says the Combination causes the government to falter and sin and wickedness take over the country. Notice the Prophet says none of these things they do are detailed on the Plates. Quite the opposite.

In fact covenants that work against the prescriptions named in the Decrees are forbidden, they are blasphemy. SO how did the Gadianton, the "coverers" convince themselves they should mint weapons, lie, cheat, steal, murder, rape, and pillage, and still remain in power in the governmnet and within the favor of God?

22 And it came to pass that they did have their signs, yea, their secret signs, and their secret words; and this that they might distinguish a brother who had entered into the covenant, that whatsoever wickedness his brother should do he should not be injured by his brother, nor by those who did belong to his band, who had taken this covenant.

23 And thus they might murder, and plunder, and steal, and commit whoredoms and all manner of wickedness, contrary to the laws of their country and also the laws of their God.

24 And whosoever of those who belonged to their band should reveal unto the world of their wickedness and their abominations, should be tried, not according to the laws of their country, but according to the laws of their wickedness, which had been given by Gadianton and Kishkumen "to cover and steal the faith from the people."

25 Now behold, it is these secret oaths and covenants which Alma commanded his son should not go forth unto the world, lest they should be a means of bringing down the people unto destruction.

There are laws against Secret Combinations in this country. Church and State, State and Industry, the State and private persons cannot collude in a manner that is prohibited by law. Yet US politicians do this all the time.

All this Pro-Life and antigay shit is promoted by politicians with ties to religious extremists. This means their behavior is Unconstitutional:

"Separation of church and state" is a metaphor paraphrased from Thomas Jefferson and used by others in discussions regarding the Establishment Clause and Free Exercise Clause of the First Amendment to the United States Constitution which reads: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof..."

26 Now behold, those secret oaths and covenants did not come forth unto Gadianton from the records which were delivered unto Helaman; but behold, they were put into the heart of Gadianton by that dsame being who did entice our first parents to partake of the forbidden fruit—

27 Yea, that same being who did plot with Cain, that if he would murder his brother Abel it should not be known unto the world. And he did plot with Cain and his followers from that time forth.

28 And also it is that same being who put it into the hearts of the people to build a tower sufficiently high that they might get to heaven. And it was that same being who led on the people who came from that tower into this land; who spread the works of darkness and abominations over all the face of the land, until he dragged the people down to an entire destruction, and to an everlasting hell.

29 Yea, it is that same being who put it into the heart of Gadianton to still carry on the work of darkness, and of secret murder; and he has brought it forth from the beginning of man even down to this time.

30 And behold, it is he who is the author of all sin. And behold, he doth carry on his works of darkness and secret murder, and doth hand down their plots, and their oaths, and their covenants, and their plans of awful wickedness, from generation to generation according as he can get hold upon the hearts of the children of men.

31 And now behold, he had got great hold upon the hearts of the Nephites; yea, insomuch that they had become exceedingly wicked; yea, the more part of them had turned out of the away of righteousness, and did trample under their feet the commandments of God, and did turn unto their own ways, and did build up unto themselves cidols of their gold and their silver.

32 And it came to pass that all these iniquities did come unto them in the space of not many years, insomuch that a more part of it had come unto them in the sixty and seventh year of the reign of the judges over the people of Nephi.

33 And they did grow in their iniquities in the sixty and eighth year also, to the great sorrow and lamentation of the righteous.

34 And thus we see that the Nephites did begin to dwindle in unbelief, and grow in wickedness and abominations, while the Lamanites began to grow exceedingly in the knowledge of their God; yea, they did begin to keep his statutes and commandments, and to walk in truth and uprightness before him.

35 And thus we see that the Spirit of the Lord began to awithdraw from the Nephites, because of the wickedness and the hardness of their hearts.

36 And thus we see that the Lord began to pour out his Spirit upon the Lamanites, because of their easiness and willingness to believe in his words.

37 And it came to pass that the Lamanites did hunt the band of robbers of Gadianton; and they did preach the word of God among the more wicked part of them, insomuch that this band of robbers was utterly destroyed from among the Lamanites.

38 And it came to pass on the other hand, that the Nephites did build them up and support them, beginning at the more wicked part of them, until they had overspread all the land of the Nephites, and had seduced the more part of the righteous until they had come down to believe in their works and partake of their spoils, and to join with them in their secret murders and combinations.

39 And thus they did obtain the sole management of the government, insomuch that they did trample under their feet and smite and rend and turn their backs upon the apoor and the meek, and the humble followers of God.

40 And thus we see that they were in an awful state, and ripening for an everlasting destruction.

41 And it came to pass that thus ended the sixty and eighth year of the reign of the judges over the people of Nephi.

Our government provides us with not one hint it is concerned with the poor, the undereducated, underemployed, or who are being persecuted by the Republicans and Evangelical Christians and Mormons who are engaged in a crusade against the rest of the civilized world.

Mention abortion, the world turns. Dare to discuss food prices and perstitently impoverished classes of people and nothing will happen.

These kinds of unholy juxtapositions between the government and the polity have always been the bane of human existence. Fortunately, they can be addressed with the application of Religion to the issues.

We are our own brothers' keepers. We depend on each other for food and shelter and to trust our neighbors they will not seek state power for the purposes of germinating hate, minting weapons, causing harm, making war, or to make money.

The secular government is in charge of making sure it is not repurposed for these things, to enable the purposes of the devil and this it has done and it must be held accountable.

Joe Biden is allowing the demons to run hell and this has to be stopped. Even he must not be permitted to own to retake the White House or consider it while the Republican Party and its members continue to share air and soil with normal human beings. They have to pay and pay dearly for what they have done.

As for the Gematria, a few select verses will hightlight the meaning of the other verses whose meanings are fairly obvious:

The sixty and seventh year of the reign of the judges over the people of Nephi: The Value in Gematria is 5202, הבאֶפֶסב‎, the bafesb, "satisfied with food from Ba'al.'

The sixty and eighth year of the reign of the judges over the people of Nephi: The Value in Gematria is 4391, dagta, "to increase understanding by the Lampstand."

[finalities]

⏤ 10 DAYS MISSING.

Nervous fingers fumbled with stubborn edges of the aluminum foil covering the casserole in Monika’s hand as she made her way up the path to the Thomas house. Under the cover of night, the sun finally setting beyond the trees, the coastal neighborhood looked perfectly normal��⏤ streetlights illuminated, houses humming with activity, dogs barking in backyards ⏤ though in the preceding days, it had been anything but. News of Ava Thomas’ disappearance had rocked Magnolia Gardens. People didn’t go missing here, in this suburban enclave of affluent and influential families. And Ava Thomas wasn’t just anyone. She and her husband were prominent names in the community for his music career and their shared charitable efforts; they were the picture of domestic bliss, or so they’d seemed over the years.

Appearances seemed so trivial to fret over at a time like this, but maintaining an image was at the forefront of Monika’s mind in the days following the police press conference announcing Ava’s disappearance. She and Abel shared a history they’d buried over the years ⏤ one that she was desperate to keep out of the wretched grip of the gossips in the community, but it was impossible for her to keep her distance from him. She couldn’t imagine what he was going through, and with a young child to care for. Life had continued on after the news initially broke, as it had to for everyone on the outside of the investigation, but a dark cloud of suspicion had settled over the area, driving virulent whispers among neighbors. Some were staunch believers that Abel was involved in his wife’s disappearance, others decried his innocence, citing the causes he and Ava supported, and the appearance of a healthy marriage. Some were indifferent about the matter, if only because the absence of his wife meant that he would be “back on the market” at some point. Monika wasn’t one for gossip; she couldn’t stomach the cattiness and rumors. 

The fear of getting caught up in the local chatter was what had kept her from walking these familiar steps leading up to the front door of the home he shared with his wife. With her husband working extra hours at the hospital, she’d spent the evening alone, drinking wine in her kitchen and thinking about the ordeal. Ultimately, she’d decided to make something to bring over ⏤ she had to imagine he hadn’t been doing much cooking and thought it rude to show up on his doorstep empty-handed. Especially at this hour. Ten o’clock wasn’t an appropriate hour to be knocking at someone’s door, but Abel was a friend, and the extra glass of white wine after her solo dinner had emboldened her. If she knew him as well as she believed she did, she knew he wouldn’t be sleeping. The only concern that crossed her mind was waking his infant son as she raised a trembling hand to knock. Rapping lightly, she took a half-step back, adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder, mindful of its contents, and smoothed down the front of her dress, unsure what to expect when he opened the door.

[the-hopeless-haze]

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

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A-fucking-men.

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

Nothing changes. Everything stays the same.

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

Pray for what? No one was listening.

But he came here to be heard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking a deep breath, he walks behind the curtain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you enacted revenge.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do, exactly?”

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

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

“That’s what you do? Absolve me?”

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

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

"Sorrow is half the battle, my child."

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

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

"It was a crime."

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

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

"I pray."

"Lot of good that does."

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

"What you're telling me is bullshit."

"Did you hit your wife?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I killed a bad man."

"You killed a man," the priest corrects.

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

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

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

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

A-fucking-men.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he watches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She told you?”

“Everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen. Your feelings are justified—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you I needed space, Bruce.”

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

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

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

You aren’t terrified of being alive anymore.

He did the right thing.

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

“Bruce….”

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

“I still need more time.”

“Okay. And I said I would be here.”

“I don’t expect you to wait, Bruce.”

“Why? Why wouldn’t you?”

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

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

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

“Then… okay. I can wait.”

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

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

“I took them away.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not paying anything.”

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

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

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

“That’s the spirit.”

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

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

“How logical."

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

You roll your eyes. "Maybe actual therapy?"

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

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

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

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

God be damned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

[cloudberry-sims]

A Decade Through Time: The Alderberg Legacy: Year 1586

Birthdays and birthdays galore! 

From the Beginning I Currently

It was near the end of summer on the first months of 1586.

William along side Griffyn and Audrey tended to the crops, William teaching his son the basics of farming. The boy was patient , watched and learned by his fathers side.

Tristram the cat continue to live his life as a barn cat , though a very lazy old one. He has no interest to hunt the mischief of rats or dray of squirrels who made a nest near. 

But his main job was not to catch rodents , but to keep his mistress company. It has been many years now since Audrey was woeful little girl 9 years back , but a grown responsible lady. 

She helped her sister-in-law raise the little ones , tend to her stall at the marketplace and enjoying the peace and quite. 

Because Audrey was the youngest out of her siblings and declared “a little dim”by most sims around her  , it came to a surprise that now in her 20th had learned how to read and even enjoyed books. William did allow her to have pocket money so she could enjoy a new book now and again. 

It was not only Audrey who grown up , but Eleanor Horthall’s second born son and his fathers heir , Abel , that celebrated his 13th birthday. 

Abel could be described in many words: He was handsome and kindhearted , yet cowardly and clumsy.  Eleanor fears that hubris and vanity will rule her sons decisions in life , but Arthur reassures her that Abel will do fine. 

One day in 1586 , Audrey was task to buy bread and flour from the new bakery that has been open in Outland. 

The baker , a young man about the age Elizabeth would have been if she lived  , was named Thomas Mildmay . 

Thomas was charming , oh so very charming as he asked her to tast the bread he just baked as a “free sample” and it was delicious. They talked for what seemed like hours but she didn’t mind it at all, quite the opposite she enjoyed it.

She enjoyed the talk with him so much that when it was time to go back home she forgot about buying the bread completely  and was scolded by Rebecca! To make up for her mistake she didn’t eat dinner that night to make sure the kids had enough food and went direct to the bakery the next day. 

And the kids indeed needed the food , as both Margery and the twins had grown up. The oldest daughter of her parents, Margery was a proper older sister. She did any and all chores her parents asked for and for a 6 year old she seemed to quite enjoy doing them.

Perhaps it was because it gave her an excuse to be alone, since alone time was spares in a household of 7 sims. Even if she did enjoy cleaning ,would describe herself as lazy. 

Philip and Olive turned 2 years old , and was perhaps the most delightful set of twins anyone have met in all of Outland. 

Philip was a good brother to his twin sister , yet seem to have a trouble falling asleep at night while Olive was happy and excitable , so easily impressed by everyone or everything like her older brother Noah was. All three of them enjoyed playing together. 

Abel is rolled a marriage roll! If he lives the 1592 plague event he will get married at 20 years old in 1593! Since I also roll baby tries when a sims ages up , cause that is what I’m most excited about and he is going to have 4 children ^-^

Audrey is getting married in 1588 and sadly will only have 1 baby , so I’m planning on making her wait until 1590 for her baby try. 1588 as well as 1589 will be scary rolls since there is a chance that either William  , Rebecca or both will die. 

[piratewithvigor]

Journey Out Of Darkness: The History Of Kane

Chapter 5: Life's A Witch, Then You Fry

Abel meets some really really old people and one who isn't so old

Last Chapter ~ AO3

Taglist: @the--blackdahlia @coffee-n-bagels-comic-universe @wendigoruble @old-no7

Melissa Vick became an everyday visitor to Abel’s room, sometimes coming in the morning before starting her appointments of the day, sometimes at night on her way home, sometimes both, if he’d seemed particularly despondent in the morning. She wanted to establish a routine with him, maybe even a rapport. Let him see her as a friend.

He was a tough nut to crack.

There were books and toys she brought over and left for him that looked like they remained untouched. He did watch a fair amount of TV, but didn’t seem to be needing her company for it. She prodded him with questions about school, about his likes, his dislikes, what he might want to do once he got out of the hospital. It was as if she was talking to a wall instead of a child– he didn’t offer much more than shrugs or one-word answers, if he gave a response at all. The boy had a lot on his mind, though. He was conscious and aware, even if he wasn’t always indicating it. He was living in his mind, she could see, in his own private little heaven– or, more likely, hell.

When the doctors or nurses would come into his room to poke and prod him for a never-ending parade of tests and shots, he didn’t blink. Whether they stuck him with a needle, performed scar massages or forced him through the rehabilitation procedures, his complaints, if he had any, were only that he was tired. He went through it all with a stoic face, slept through treatments that made grown adults whimper in agony.

His condition helped with a lot of his– the HSAN. But still… he was just seven, the same age as her Katie. Even if she couldn’t have felt a thing, Katie would have been scared. Might have cried, might not, but would have certainly been curious. Would have asked about every test, shot and treatment, made friends with every kid on the floor and probably a good chunk of the staff. That was Katie’s gift, making friends. She had a knack for it that Melissa didn’t understand, but was never going to question. She was just a perpetually happy kid who made everyone around her feel better. Abel, somehow, seemed like he was about as close to the opposite as a kid could get. She didn’t blame him, of course, but the longer he went on without saying anything, the more she worried.

Since he wasn’t talking, she went over to Marfa Elementary and had a sitdown with his teacher. Mrs. Prescott told her all about the boy she had known. A bright boy who was almost painfully shy, capable of good grades, but more prone to average ones for reasons that continued to escape her. A loner. He didn’t play much with the other children. Not at all like his older brother.

Thomas Carrion, on the other hand, was smart and strong, a head taller than most in his grade and the top athlete in his class. Had the tendency of dominating teamwork scenarios and group activities, but Thomas had a real bright future, in her opinion. She had fond memories of having him in second grade a couple of years ago and had only heard good things from his current teacher in the lounge gossip. What happened to him…

“A shame,” Mrs. Prescott decided. A terrible, terrible shame.

Melissa tried to steer the conversation back to Abel, but required a handful of attempts. Mrs. Prescott seemed like she had far less to say about the younger brother, but went along reluctantly. Abel had none of the self-assurance that was Thomas’s hallmark at such an early age. He did, she noted, seem to come out of his shell more when he was around Thomas, almost like he was drawing strength from him. Together, Abel almost seemed like any other kid. Apart, he blended into the shadows with ease.

Of course, Melissa knew that. Mrs. Prescott was no help.

She did, at least, provide Melissa with the class list. Summer vacation had begun a few days previously, but many of the parents were still home when Melissa called, hunting for anyone who might have been friendly with Abel at school. She had the idea if she could get one or two of them to visit him in the hospital, the boy might open up to her a little. Apparently, though, Abel had no close friends in the class. Nor could they offer any names of anyone in other classes who might be. Nobody had anything bad to say about him, everyone was sorry for what had happened, but they just didn’t see how they could help.

Melissa hung up the phone and crossed the final name off the bottom of the list, sighing. What could she do? She had to get to know the boy. She had to understand him better before she could think about placing him with a family or putting him up for adoption. He was a good kid inside, she knew that much. Even though he didn’t say much, he was unfailingly polite. In his darkest of moods, he may let slip a slightly more rude word, but they were rare. He didn’t fight the doctors when he was instructed to do things, no matter how unpleasant some of the things sounded. She imagined him as a good son and a good sibling, the type of child who always did what he was told, obeyed his parents and teachers. Just like her Katie.

It was at that moment, in her office, that Melissa got an idea.

“So, honey, I was wondering,” she said over dinner that night, nudging a forkful of mashed potatoes around her plate. “Do you think you might want to help me at work a little tomorrow?”

Katie’s eyes lit up immediately. Ever since summer vacation had started, she’d been missing her Mama constantly. She’d been having fun out of school, but being alone with the babysitter all day was getting tedious. “Me? Help you? Could I really?”

“I think maybe you could. See, there’s this boy at the hospital– he’s about your age– and I just have the feeling that he needs someone to talk to real bad.”

“Isn’t that what you do, Mama?”

“I do. I try to do that, but sometimes… people– especially kids– they might not want to talk to a grownup.”

“But they might talk to a kid instead?”

“He might.”

“I can do that, Mama… you’ll tell me what to do, right?”

“You just have to talk to him, honey. It could be tricky, but I know you’ll come up with something in common.”

“I could bring in my dolls. We can play with them together and then we’ll have lots to talk about.”

“You can bring ‘em if you want, but don’t be surprised if he doesn’t want to play right away.” She hesitated a second, remembering the sight of Abel as she’d left him a few hours ago. The burns on his face, the tubes coming out of his body, the machines that surrounded them as if a fortress…

“There’s something else that’s real important. This boy… he was in a real bad accident– a fire. His whole family was killed and he was hurt pretty badly.”

Katie covered her mouth, her heart breaking for this boy already. “Oh, Mama…”

“Oh yes. So he might look a little scary to you, honey. Just remember that inside, he’s probably every bit as scared. Scared about what already happened and scared about what will happen.”

“I won’t be scared, Mama, I promise… but what is gonna happen to him?”

Melissa sighed. “I don’t know just yet, honey. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I can’t find the right place for him if I don’t really know him. That’s why I need your help.”

“I’ll help you, Mama. Whatever you need.” Katie smiled.

Melissa Vick reached across the table and patted her daughter’s hand. “That’s my girl.”

–

Nurse Efram was his nurse this morning, which Abel was happy about not because he liked her but because she, unlike the older nurses like Nurse Hunt or Nurse Somozi, wasn’t always asking him a lot of questions like how are you feeling or do you think you’d like a book from the library or a special treat. Nurse Efram was change the IV and go, take his temperature and go, take the breakfast tray and go. All business, like Dad used to say, which was fine with Abel. The last thing he wanted this morning was to analyze why he hadn’t eaten and why he hadn’t slept. He knew why; he wasn’t hungry and he’d had a bad dream. He didn’t want to talk about either.

It was the same dream he’d been having for a couple nights now, the dream where he was running down the highway, hunting for Thomas, but only finding other people. Paul Bearer, James Dean the actor, and last night, his Ma’s father, Abel’s grandfather, who he only knew from the picture in the Kane family scrapbook.

The dream had begun ordinarily enough, with Grandfather taking him out for fishing and ice cream, like Dad used to sometimes, then a walk around old Fort Marfa, which still had signs up, but was pretty much deserted. Except in the dream, it wasn’t deserted at all. There was a crowd as big as Easter church in the middle of the camp, all standing around a big wooden stake that had been nailed into the ground. It must have been in there pretty deep, because the girl who was tied to it was thrashing around and screaming and crying and carrying on like there was no tomorrow. 

Getting closer, Abel could see that everyone in the crowd was dressed in old fashioned clothes. Pilgrim clothes. Just like the pictures in the book Mrs. Prescott had read the day before Thanksgiving.

“Now that ain’t funny,” his grandfather said, although neither of them were laughing. “There’s your great-great-great-great-great-great- (he said great more times than Abel could count) grandmother, son. We ought to say hello.”

Grandfather cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. “Hey, Grandma! How are you?”

The girl tied to the stake quit screaming. She looked up at the both of them and stared Abel down. “How am I? How do you think I am? I’m cursed is how I am!”

There were dozens of people between them, but she kept her gaze steady, looking Abel right in the eye.

“We’re all cursed! All of us Kanes are cursed, but especially you, boy! Especially you!”

Abel managed to wake up to the sound of one of the machines beeping rapidly. The one that watched his heart rate.

Once he was awake and calming down, the dream didn’t seem quite as scary, the way dreams are when you think about them long and hard afterwards. Where you wonder why you were ever scared at all. It was nowhere near as scary as the dreams where he’d run into Paul Bearer and get his arm grabbed. Paul Bearer was alive, whereas the woman in the dream he’d just had had been dead for hundreds of years. Her name, he knew, was Rebecca Kane. She was a witch.

Supposedly, the Kane curse started with her. Ma was pretty certain, but Thomas said she was only so sure because she couldn’t find information about Rebecca Kane’s parents. Ma had told him plenty of stories of the family members and the curse the summer that he’d broken his arm falling out of a tree and wasn’t allowed to go outside or do much of anything. He’d brushed them off as ghost stories designed to keep his imagination active while he was inside over the summer. He didn’t believe them then, but now…

What Abel was wondering now, as he stared at the eggs on his tray, was if he was somehow a witch too and just didn’t know it. It’d explain why the fire didn’t kill him, why nothing ever made him hurt. The doctors called it all a miracle. If he was a witch, then it wasn’t a miracle at all because miracles came from God and witches got their power from…

Someone knocked on the door.

“I’m all done,” Abel called, placing his fork on top of the uneaten eggs. The door opened and he looked up, expecting Nurse Efram, but seeing two people instead.

The blonde woman who kept coming to see him had brought a little blonde girl.

–

Melissa’s heart leapt into her throat.

Abel looked exhausted. The bags under his eyes were darker and bigger, enough so that she could see it poking out from underneath the bandage on his bad eye. He’d barely eaten anything either.

“Abel, are you alright?”

“Fine.” “You’ve barely eaten.” “I’m fine.”

Any other day, she would push things. Encourage him to eat a little more, at least. But not today. Not when Katie was here. She didn’t want to have her fight through one of his worse moods. So she let it drop and placed her hands on Katie’s shoulders, moving her closer to the bed.

“Abel, this is my daughter. I thought you might want a fresh face to talk to today.”

His expression didn’t shift, not even when Katie took a step forward and held out her hand.

“Hi, I’m Katie.”

She smiled, the same smile that Melissa had that lit up the room just like Ma’s used to.

Abel’s expression didn’t change.

“I can’t get up to shake your hand, cause they got this in right now,” he nodded towards the IV. It was more words at once than Melissa had ever heard him say. Katie didn’t seem to mind. 

Abel didn’t seem to know what to make of her. He hadn’t had much great experience with other kids thus far. But he hadn’t been rude to Katie yet, so that was a start. He just needed a little push.

Melissa made a show of looking into her briefcase and frowning. “Where is my head this morning– I forgot some papers in the car. Would you excuse me a minute, you two? You don’t mind if Katie stays in here with you, do you, Abel?”

He just shrugged.

“Good, I’ll be right back.”

She stepped out of the room and shut the door, leaning back against it to listen in.

It took a moment, but she eventually heard talking. No specific words; the hospital doors were too thick for that, but definitely talking. Katie had broken the ice, at least, so she felt okay leaving them alone for a while. Get a cup of coffee at the nurse’s station, maybe find Beverly and go over a few things with her about Abel’s status– his release date, any long-term problems he may be facing– now that she thought about it, one of the doctors had flagged some bruising and smoke damage on his vocal cords that might present a problem down the road. She wanted the story on that in as much detail as possible. She’d take care of all that, then see how the kids were doing.

There was a policeman standing at the nurse’s station, talking to the nurse behind the desk who Melissa recognized, but didn’t know by name. She glanced up and pointed at Melissa.

“That’s her now,” she said.

The policeman nodded grimly and started walking towards her.

[razrbladekiss]

Tyrants | Chapter Two - Gutless

WORD COUNT: 4k

WARNINGS: Death (murder), brief descriptions of gore, Isla and Jax doing something very illegal

MASTERLIST

The morning sun was beating down upon the pair a little bit harsher now, inducing a sheen of sweat to coat over Jax's forehead.

But the perspiration could've formed as a result of coming to the realization that he'd just blown the brains out of an ATF agent, left his body to decompose on Tara's bathroom floor, and spilled his guts--not even twenty-four hours later--to Isla.

Jax knew that he could trust her with anything--he always had been able to trust her with anything. But there was something telling him that she didn't exactly feel too wonderful about his revelation.

Her arm lifted to run across her forehead, ridding the skin of a few salty droplets.

"What do you mean--"

"I mean I put a bullet through his fuckin' skull and blew his brains out, Isla! That's what I mean."

He ran a thumb over his lips, realizing that he should've kept his tone subdued so close to the main doors of the clubhouse.

"Jesus, Jax." She breathed out, pinching the bridge of her nose as he started to pace quietly. "I--I can't believe you're telling me this."

Well, she could. Really, there wasn't anything she could've put past Jax anymore. And when it came to Tara...The man was an idiot. Always had been.

"Why was Kohn even at her place?"

Jax was fidgety. Uneasy. She couldn't blame him for that, could she? Because he'd just fucking killed a man--but still.

He wasn't even trying to hide it.

"Or did you lure him there or something--"

"Shut up." He growled, grabbing her bicep with his left hand as he pulled her to the side of the building. "Just listen to me."

"I'm listening, Jax, but you don't seem to be telling me a lot."

Realizing that he wasn't offering very much explanation, he nodded. Jax let go of her and beckoned her closer, pleading eyes melting her fucking heart.

"Isla, please." He wrapped his arms around her, minding the bloodied shirt.

"What do you want me to do?"

Ringed fingers splayed over her cheek, pushing stray blonde hairs out of her face. He sighed hard. Exasperated.

"Help me get rid of him--"

"Jackson--"

"I'm not asking you to lug his dead body to the creek and throw him in. I'm just asking you to offer a helping hand and be a lookout or something."

Isla searched his features for a morsel of something that'd indicate Jax was messing with her. But he was dead serious--his face set to neutral, eyes glazed over.

"But--I--what about Cameron?"

"Tara and Chibs have it covered." He murmured, heeding the apprehension sail over her.

She was as strong and willing as she possibly could've been. Isla was consistently the person that Jax and Opie would turn to for advice when it came to their girls, or when they needed to be pointed in the right direction.

But he'd never asked her to do such a thing before.

Her loyalty outweighed her nervousness, however. He knew she'd never say no to helping him with such a matter--but it was still asking too much.

Chibs would've been furious that Jax felt it necessary to beg Isla for assistance during such a time, too. Hell, Gemma would've admonished him for it.

"Where is he?" She mumbled, hearing the clubhouse door open and an irritated grunt sounding from the front of the lot.

Jax held her close to his chest, a hand tracing over the skin of her shoulder that'd been exposed as the shirt fell to the middle of her arm.

"Tara's place." His whisper was monotonous, bordering on lifeless.

"Okay--when do you need to do this?"

He eyed Tig storming from the building and toward his motorcycle, completely unaware of the two conspiring.

"Tonight." His voice came low and gravely. "I'll ride to her place now, and you go home, get yourself cleaned up, do whatever you've gotta do today, and we'll head there--"

"I'm not cleaning myself up. I'm already covered in blood--I don't think I need to destroy another shirt."

"Okay." Jax's lips rubbed together, almost turning upward into a smile. "But don't follow me out, alright? Go tell Gemma that you don't know where I went, and then you take it from there."

"And if Tara asks..."

A gentle kiss against her forehead almost forced tears to collate in her eyes.

"She won't ask--she knows I've gotta do this."

Isla silenced herself, though she nodded and watched as Tig--pissed as hell--rode out of the lot and onto the street.

She guessed that he was still piqued after she and Chibs yelled at him.

And she was still pissed at Jax, but for a different reason now.

This time, she wanted to slap the shit out of the blonde idiot standing before her, requesting help with disposing of a literal dead body.

Isla couldn't quite believe that Jax had turned to her and not somebody like Opie--somebody who would be able to help a little more physically--but she could only assume that it was more of a trust thing.

He had a lot of faith in her and she lauded that. But it also saw her get thrust into some questionable situations.

"You look like you're gonna puke." Juice stifled a laugh as Isla padded in, the bottom of her shirt wrenched between bloodied fingers. "Are you good?"

"Yeah." Instantly, she responded. "I'm fine. I just need to get my purse."

Clay was nowhere to be seen--possibly in the back room with Chibs and Tara--but Gemma's eyes focused on the blonde's form as she strolled across the wood.

"You don't look fine. Come sit for a little while."

"I'm gonna head home--"

"Where'd Jax go?" Gemma cut in, lifting an eyebrow conspicuously.

Tell Gemma that you don't know where I went.

"I don't know." She frowned, sitting on the barstool opposite the woman. "We shared a cigarette, talked about Abel, and then he told me he had to go--where, I don't know."

Did she feel bad about roping his child into their little lie? Yeah, a bit. But it was foolproof. Gemma never would've suspected anything to do with Abel because, really, Jax brought him up to everyone whenever he got the chance to.

"Ah. He's probably headed over to see him. I'll go--"

"I wouldn't." Isla pushed. "He's trying to get some alone time with him. He said that he hasn't really been able to spend one-on-one time with Abel all too much."

Which wasn't a lie. Jax needed to spend those rare solitary moments with his baby because his mother couldn't seem to leave St. Thomas for more than three hours at a time.

Gemma just hummed, turning away.

She knew how he felt. But she was Abel's grandma--she just wanted to know that he was safe and being looked after.

"I'm sorry, that was mean...I just think he's a little confused right now, and could use five minutes with his son."

"No, you're right." She nodded, unable to heed the trepidation flitting over Isla because she felt bad about coming down on Gemma in such a way.

That woman was a Godsend to Jax, his children, and even Isla's family. She didn't deserve to be randomly admonished for wanting to visit her baby's baby. Not after everything she'd done for them.

Well, besides trying to murder the mother of Jax's first born. That was a little fucked up--even by SAMCRO's standards.

But Isla adored her. For everything she had done for her during the time she'd resided in Charming, Gemma was regarded extremely fucking highly in her book.

"Go home, baby. Get some sleep, too--you need to rest."

Isla waved her off. "I'm not tired, just feelin' a little gross."

"I'd bet." Gemma pushed her lips together, smiling as much as she could've. "You go yourself pretty again, and swing by later for dinner."

"Yes ma'am." She mock saluted, reaching for her purse.

Goodbyes between Isla, Gemma, and Juice were uttered for a few moments before the blonde made her way to the door.

Her eyebrows raised inquisitively, urging her to turn back to the duo.

"Gem?"

"Mhm?"

"Was Tig alright?" Sincerely, she asked. Feeling a little guilty about snapping earlier.

Gemma didn't say anything but her head bobbed in confirmation, providing Isla with the answer she needed.

The Irish in her shone through during instances like those. She was brash in her actions, words, and the fact she'd always speak before she thought--but the solemnity with which she would ponder, apologize after making a mistake, was just so plainly Irish.

Isla was kind. Caring. Nurturing. She was everything that SAMCRO was not--but, at the same time, everything that Chibs was. Reliable. Loyal. Committed. A true ride or fucking die.

Everybody trusted her, and nobody second-guessed confiding in her.

And, once again, that had its reparations alongside a multitude of perks.

"Holy mother of Jesus." She cursed, the unmistakable Belfast twang flickering through her brusque tone.

Jax haphazardly pulled the bed-sheet over Kohn's lifeless frame, turning to face his little friend who was, to put it lightly, fucking stunned.

"You sound super Irish when you're mad."

"I'm glad you could recognize that I'm mad at you, Jax." Her eyes never once left the outline of that dead body half on Tara's bedroom carpet, half on the tile of her en-suite.

Getting to her knees, disregarding an incredulous amount of blood decorating the walls and carpets, Isla pulled the floral cover off of Josh.

She sighed. "Why'd you do it?"

"He was stalking Tara--"

"So you just blew his fucking brains out?!" Her shriek was guttural. "Jesus Christ, Jax. And you idiots think that Tig is the one with a trigger problem."

"He does have a problem, and you know that! This was different!" He countered, pulling her to her feet. "This was fucking restitution, Isla!"

"No." Calmly, she stated. Her glare piercing. "This was fucking stupid. Possibly the most idiotic thing that you've ever done, Jackson."

His head shook as he sneered, towering over her. Isla felt intimidated. For the first time ever, she felt an unwavering sensation of overawe whilst in the presence of her best friend.

"He was a bad guy. He had to die."

"But he was fucking ATF! Hale is gonna get your ass, and there's nothing Unser will be able to help you with once he gets wind of this--"

Isla's voice cracked around a small sob. She wasn't even aware of the tears welling in her eyes, but they were there the entire time.

It was the thought of Jax making one incredible life altering fuck up--one that he wasn't going to save himself with a bribe, or the simple luck of a good connection to Charming PD--that was maiming her uncomfortably.

Jax's arms wound around her trembling waist, hugging her tightly against his palpitating chest.

The sheer terror visible in her mannerisms was what frightened him. Isla never seemed to scare very easily--or, at least, she didn't show it.

She was fearless, but she was still human. And he had only seen her crack twice. Both times because of the club, too.

"He was stalking Tara." He reinstated, circling his fingers over Isla's svelte spine. "They dated when she was in Chicago, she broke things off but he was a clingy motherfucker and he wouldn't leave her alone."

"She should've gotten a restraining order or something." She mumbled into his chest, sniffing back tears.

"That's the thing. She did. But he broke it by coming back to Charming, pretending to be setting up shop at the PD with Hale, but he followed her around town for a couple weeks instead."

"And nobody questioned why he wasn't getting anything done?"

Jax's head shook. "He was still working for Chicago--or so he said, anyway--so Hale just assumed any intel for whatever the fuck it was he'd been workin' on was going straight back to the big bosses."

She was struggling to follow on.

It was such a convoluted scenario that Isla never thought she'd become entwined with--though, with Jax and Charming being, well, Jax and Charming, she didn't know why she ruled something of the sort out.

"Are you gonna tell Gemma and Clay--"

"No. This is between us, and Tara."

Isla didn't have the energy to bicker with him again. She didn't want to bicker with him again, truthfully.

"Alright, what's the next move, then? 'Cuz this pig can't stay wrapped up in a sheet for too much longer or else he's gonna start to stink this place out."

Jax situated both hands against crimson coated shoulders, lightly pushing her backward so she could look up to meet his gaze.

"I got a plan. But I don't think you're gonna like it."

His eyes went straight to the lighter atop Tara's bedside table, right next to the pineapple scented candle, and she sighed hard.

The man was so sadistic. It wasn't even slightly discreet anymore, really.

Whereas Clay had always been ruthless, remarkably barbaric toward those who had wronged him--or anyone, really--Jax had more of a moral compass. Not much more, but a little. And that was the sort of thing that tied him straight to JT.

But Clarence Morrow had a much more potent impact on Jax's life, thus the man's foibles ended up transpiring to his stepson.

"This is seriously fucked up."

"I know." He didn't even try to argue, pushing Josh into the small grave he'd spent the last ten minutes digging at the pit of a deep, deep ditch.

Isla's body was below freezing, cold and uneasy at the prospect of potentially being caught, or assumed as an accessory to the murder of a federal agent.

"I'm sorry for roping you into this." Jax stated, almost reading her mind. "I just didn't know what else to do."

She ran a hand over his forearm, resting her head comfortably against navy-cotton covered flesh. "I know."

He didn't expect the woman to douse the dead body in gasoline, set it alight, and wait all night for the corpse to torrefy entirely--but she was there now. There was no reason she shouldn't go to the trouble of lighting the first match.

Tara should be the one doing this, Isla thought to herself as the small stick caught alight. She dropped it atop the sheet, taking a few steps backward when the thing immediately shot up into thick flames.

Jax engulfed her warmly with both arms, holding her tightly as if continuing their prior embrace. It felt safe, unusually so. But, to Isla, it felt like he was scouting for that security more than what she was.

"I can't believe you committed murder for a woman that you haven't seen for ten whole years." She laughed against his sweatshirt, eyes watering. "Is there something going on with you two again?"

"No." Huskily, he responded. "There isn't, and there won't be, either. I just swung by her place to make sure she was alright--I knew she was having trouble with that fucker--and he was there. I had to do it, Isla."

"I know."

She didn't. She did not know. She did not want to know, either. She couldn't fucking believe he'd acted out so rashly, how he was so trigger happy.

Jax was morphing into a different man and she couldn't help but pin that on the club.

"Is she alright?"

"I don't think so." His mumble was barely audible, but she caught it.

Isla squeezed his arm reassuringly, knowing that he felt bad about bringing that sort of trouble to Tara.

"She will be." She confirmed. "She's a strong girl, Jax, she'll be okay."

It didn't kill her to speak positively about Tara, she still held a place in her huge Irish heart--but it was an odd sensation to be mentioning her at all.

Ten years had passed by and Isla wasn't even certain that she was still alive. Her concern for the doctor seemed to dissipate over time because Tara didn't want anything more to do with them, so they didn't try with her.

Maybe it was a pang of jealousy that held her back. She was undeniably envious of the fact that she'd gotten out of town, worked her ass off, and experienced bigger and better things.

But, essentially, everything led back to Charming, and Tara Knowles had ended up falling into that same heap of trouble she left behind a decade ago.

Isla pulled her cellphone from the back pocket of her jeans, groaning when she saw the time.

"We've got an hour before Gemma wants us for dinner. You think this son of a bitch is gonna turn into dust within the next sixty minutes?"

"No." Jax laughed, leaning to his left and propping his head atop hers. "But he'll be unrecognizable in the next twenty."

"Perfect."

It was barbarous. Vile. Inhuman.

Isla's mother would be spinning in her grave if she knew the chaos she'd managed to find herself meshed with. Diane would kill Chibs, too.

She'd kill him for roping her baby into such malice after leaving Belfast. She'd want to throttle the Scottish son of a bitch for welcoming little Isla Áine Telford to SAMCRO, to Charming, to Jax fucking Teller.

They weren't natives to the small town, nor were they natives to California. Chibs had just moved from charter to charter. Continent to fucking continent. And taking his little angel along for the ride wasn't exactly planned until his late wife took her very last breath one stormy morning.

It was the most upsetting thing he had to do, telling his daughter that the woman she looked up to and adored with every fiber of her being wasn't coming home.

He'd been in the army, he'd seen things no man should've ever seen, but the sight of that six year old--teary-eyed and partially cognizant--was something that cut him so deeply, Jimmy O'Phelan's mark didn't seem to scratch the surface of Chib's inconsolable hurt.

"I think we're good now." A little nervous, Isla noted.

She simply couldn't wait to get out of the bitter chill, into a hot shower, and to the dinner table at the Teller-Morrow residence.

Jax surveyed the scene. He crouched down, heeding the flicker and sick crackle of flames engulfing the barely fleshed body.

"I think so, too." He confirmed, throwing her the keys to his SUV. "Get outta the cold--I'll finish up here. K?"

She nodded, clutching the chain close to her chest.

Isla wasn't sure how badly she was trembling until she sat still in the passenger seat, watching the club's VP commit the unspeakable.

Really, she wasn't shocked to find out that Jax was capable of the sort. Burning a man dead was better than burning one alive, and she was thankful that Josh had been put out of his misery before his body was cauterized into dust...Which was more than what could've been said about Kyle Hobart.

She remembered overhearing the club's plans to sear, or slice, the SAMCRO tattoo from the back of that brute once they'd gotten wind of his inability to black it out.

And she would've felt bad about that man getting viciously harmed, if he didn't fuck Opie over and subsequently land him in Chino to serve five years away from Charming and his family.

It was cruel, she knew that. To blowtorch the MC tattoo from the stretch of his back, was fucking cruel. Isla knew that Tig was adept at causing such blistering agony, but she didn't think he would actually go through with it, least of all with such delight.

Isla feared that man sometimes. Clay's right hand, the man who sought to protect her, fucking terrified her because he was so unpredictable. So fast acting.

"He's done." Jax officially confirmed, sliding into the driver's seat. "You okay?"

She was staring off into space, her eyes glazing over at the realization she had just helped dispose of another human being.

"Isla--"

"I'm good." Finally, she spoke. "I just--uh--I just wanna get cleaned up and head to dinner now."

He pinched the keys from a frail palm, sticking them into the ignition. All the while wondering what the fuck he was going to do with the shaken up woman to his right.

Twenty-three years of friendship, and Isla never once thought she'd be involved in such incredulous activity. Jax never thought she'd get hauled into it either, really.

Juice was right. She looked like she was going to throw up, all pale and sickly.

He had done that. Jax was, essentially, the reason that Isla seemed as though she wanted to crawl out of her own fucking skin. Granted, she was already feeling rather discomfited after tending to Cameron's laceration for hours on end--at odds with her father and Tig for that time, too.

But now this...This made Isla feel horrible. Dirty. Disgusting.

"You want me to tell Gemma you're not feeling it tonight?" Jax looked beside himself, noticing her head hanging low as she flared out of the window. "So you can skip seeing everybody--"

"No." Flatly, she responded. "No, I wanna make sure Tig doesn't hate me."

"Why would he hate you?"

"I yelled at him." Isla sounded downcast, sad. "He was watching, being awkward, trying to tell me what dad and I were doing wasn't going to suffice, and I just snapped."

In understanding, he hummed. He knew how irritating Alexander Trager was. Irritating, insufferable, it was all the same.

"He won't hate you for that." Comfortably, Jax rested a hand on Isla's thigh.

She barely felt the ringed fingers gently gliding along her jeans as she shook. It was a tremor, light and unnoticeable to the naked eye, that Jax felt reverberate through his entire body through his palm.

"I don't think he's managed to be pissed at you for more than fifteen minutes at a time."

"Yeah." She mumbled, shifting awkwardly. "Yeah, you're right. I'm too sweet for anybody to stay mad at me--"

"I wouldn't say you were sweet."

She smacked at his hand with a laugh, throwing her head backward as her smile started to fade.

It was bittersweet.

Bittersweet because she was realizing that Tig had pardoned her for being a bitch, but she had also just disposed of a dead body on the side of the freeway.

Bittersweet because, now, there was no clear path for her and Jackson and whatever happened was just going to happen and they had to grin and bear it. Pretend it wasn't eating them from the inside out.

Bittersweet because their families--their family--were currently sat around the oak table in Gemma's dining room, waiting for the pair to waltz in after doing the most heinous.

Bitter. Fucking. Sweet.

"Where were you guys?!" Tig pointed his beer bottle at the duo, heeding Jax's hand in Isla's back pocket.

Of course, to Trager, that was more than just a comfort thing. He didn't know what they had just done--nor would he--but she was going to let him believe whatever the fuck he wanted to as long as it wasn't the actual truth.

"It don't matter." Clay dismissed, gesturing to Jax and Isla's designated spaces at the table. "They're here now. That's all I care about."

Her smile was warm, friendly and welcoming while she sat in between her father and partner in crime. Literally.

Chibs nudged her. "You alright?"

"Yeah." Slowly, she uttered. She reached for the wine glass that Gemma had so kindly laid out for her.

The two blondes made eye contact for a few moments, Jax's crystalline hues completely lifeless. Arid. He nodded toward her, an indication that he was feeling alright.

But Isla...She wasn't. Lying through her teeth was the only feasible means of getting over this. Whatever this was.

"I'm fucking brilliant, dad."

[chibbybish]

Here With Me (Juice x Reader) !NSFW!

Part 1

Requested by @kchavez666

[word count: 1376]

[reading time: 00:11:00]

Two months. You waited for your period for two months. You preferred to ignore the signs but that had just started to get serious.

You thought that it could have been because of anxiety and stress but you also remembered a condom breaking.

"I'm sure it's fine!" Juice had said before falling asleep on your chest.

But at that moment, while your skin was touching the surface of the cold, hard bathroom floor, nothing seemed fine.

You had just graduated from college, you were too young to have a baby. But, at some point, you've always wanted one. The thought of starting a family with Juice put a huge smile on your face... But would he agree?

You got out of the bathroom leaving your pregnancy test somewhere on the bathtub, waiting for the results.

You made some coffee and then headed back, to see that you were indeed pregnant with Juice's baby.

"Oh my god.." you couldn't take your eyes off of it. It gave you so many mixed feelings: you were happy to have a baby with the love of your life but you were also scared of how this would be or of how Juice would react.

The front door opened, interrupting your thoughts.

"(Y/n), I'm back!" You heard Juice's voice; he sounded happy.

"I'm coming!" You yelled and put the pregnancy test in you jeans pocket.

You got out of the bathroom and found Juice in the kitchen, eating chocolate.

"Hello, sweetheart." He hugged you and kissed your forehead

"Hi. Everything okay?" You asked and ate some of the chocolate he was holding.

"Yeah, just a quiet day." He replied and put the chocolate back in the fridge.

He approached you and gently kissed your forehead before slowly moving to your lips and jaw.

"How's my princess today?" He asked whispering as he kissed your neck and collar bones.

"Pregnant." You said.

Juice chuckled.

"Ate something bad?" He kept kissing your neck as his hands moved into your pants.

"Juice, I'm pregnant." You repeated.

He stopped kissing you and turned to look at you, shocked.

"What did you say?" You saw the panic in his eyes.

"Woah, so you're not happy?" Your whole body started shaking. You put your hand in your pocket and showed him the pregnancy test.

"This-" it seemed like he couldn't say a word.

"Juice that's our baby..." But before you could say anything Juice decided to interrupt you.

"Give me a minute to think of this." He said with a trembling voice. "Why don't you take a walk and let me handle it." He left you alone in the kitchen.

You were stunned, not being sure what to say or do.

You grabbed your keys and left the house with tears threatening to escape your eyes.

There was only one place you could go: Jax's house.

Tara was there, looking after Abel and Thomas.

You knocked the door twice and waited, trying to prevent yourself from crying.

Tara opened the door, holding Thomas. She gave you a big, warm smile.

"Hello, sweetie." She said but the smile vanished from her lips when you finally started crying.

"Hey, what's going on (y/n)?" She asked with a worried look on her face.

"I need someone to talk to." You said trying to take deep breaths.

"Come in, darling." She made room for you to go in, then left Thomas play with Abel.

You sat in the living room,shaking your leg nervously.

"Do you need something to drink?" Tara asked you.

You instantly thought of alcohol, but then remembered that you were pregnant. The thought brought more tears in your eyes.

"Got it, alcohol." Tara nodded.

"No, no. Just coffee please? Black." You responded and watched her as she went to the kitchen.

You looked at Abel and Thomas; they looked so small and beautiful. You thought of your baby; how would it look like? Would it be a boy or a girl? What name would you give it? All these thoughts tortured your mind because Juice seemed to be opposite to the idea of a family.

A question kept twisting and turning in your head; why? Why did he act like that? Couldn't he be a little more gentle or happy about it?

Then again, a kid would change both yours and Juice's life forever. It was a huge responsibility.

Tara came back to the living room leaving two cups of coffee in the small table in front of you. Then, she sat next to you.

"Tell me." She said with a kind look. You could trust her, from the day you met her you had no doubt that Tara, especially her, could be trusted.

"I am pregnant." You confessed and saw a huge smile on Tara's face.

"Oh my god!" She exclaimed and hugged you. "This is amazing, sweetheart, this is so great!" She added enthusiastically.

That same moment Jax came out of the bathroom.

"What are we celebrating?" He asked and kissed yours and Tara's cheek.

"Should I tell him?" Tara asked you, smiling.

"Sure." You nodded.

"(Y/n) is pregnant!" Tara exclaimed.

"What, really?" Jax laughed softly. "The baby's gonna have a baby?" He joked, probably referring to your age.

"Very funny!" Tara said ironically.

But you.. you just started crying harder.

"Hey, (y/n), is everything okay?" Jax asked and sat beside Tara.

"I have this feeling that Juice doesn't want it..." You finally said.

"Is (y/n) okay?" Abel asked.

"I'm fine sweetheart." You reassured him and gave him a little smile in between your tears.

"What do you mean?" Jax asked.

"When I told him he- he said 'Why don't you take a walk and let me handle it?'" you explained.

"What?" Tara seemed confused. "So he's not happy about it?" She asked then.

"I tried to talk to him but he just told me to take a walk." You said and started crying again.

"Oh no, honey, please don't cry." Tara hugged you.

"Want me to talk to Juice, darling?" Jax asked. "I can take you home right now and we can talk to him, sounds good?"

You nodded and stood up, hugging Tara again.

"It's gonna be okay. I'll be here if you need me okay?" She kissed your forehead.

Little Abel ran to you and hugged your leg.

"Why don't you sit with us? We can play and make you feel better!" He smiled.

You lifted him up and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"I can't right now baby, okay? Some other time." You told him.

"(Y/n) can come for dinner tonight." Tara suggested.

"Yes, yes! Come for dinner tonight!" Abel yelled happily.

"Sure thing!" You agreed.

Tara took Abel in her arms and kissed his forehead.

"Let's go, darling." Jax said and both of you got out of the house.

No one said anything until you arrived at your place.

Jax left the Harley on the side of the road and followed you in the house.

"Babe?" You called for Juice, trying to sound as calm as possible.

There was no response.

"Juice are you home?" You walked to your bedroom and saw the wardrobes opened: Juice's clothes where nowhere to be found.

"...Jax?" You yelled as you felt tears roll on your cheeks. You walked into the room. You couldn't feel your legs, so you sat on the bed.

Jax came running into the room. He looked around and when he realized what had happened, all he could do was sit down next to you and hug you tightly.

"I'm gonna find him and kick his skinny ass." He hissed but then he saw a small paper on the bed.

"That asshole." He broke the hug and took the paper in his hands.

"Is that-" you calmly took the paper in your hands and read whatever was written on it.

"I'm so sorry, baby. You are the love of my life.. but I can't do this. I most certainly will destroy this poor kid's life. I will leave Charming for a while. I love you, Juice." You read out loud.

"Jesus Christ..." Jax gaped.

His phone started ringing and Bobby's name appeared on the screen.

"Yeah." Jax picked up.

"Hey eh..." Bobby babbled. "Juice came here with some... News."

[aconissa]

hannibal related questions ✌🏽

thanks to tumblr’s new activity layout I JUST saw that @acheforyou tagged me to do these questions lmao. thank you amie 🥰

favourite episode and why: god... i guess mizumono and the wrath of the lamb for how much they destroy me, but also all the hannibal/will flirting in naka-choko/ko no mono/tome-wan. and dolce because that scene in the uffizi fucks me up on the daily

least favourite episode and why: nothing really jumps out although some of the early s2 stuff with will in prison gets a bit dull at times, like around sakizuke/hassun/takiawase

favourite main character: mr will ‘bratty bitch’ graham himself!! two episodes in and I had already told a friend that I was totally in love with his character, and now he’s by far one of my fave characters in anything EVER. would die for that man

favourite side character: beverly!! every time she’s on screen my heart lifts 🥰 also, in complete opposition to her, I also really enjoy abel gideon lmao like eddie izzard just makes him SO funny & interesting

if you could bring back one character who died, who would it be?: despite what I literally just said about beverly I would bring back abigail, because she deserved to have a life beyond what others did to her (bev meanwhile was in a dangerous field and she was prepared for that). idk if I even would necessarily want abigail and hannibal and will to be one big happy family, i don’t think it would be sustainable (at least not as they are in s2 - maybe if she rejoined them post s3?), but would love for her to go off and grow and ~~find herself~~

dish prepared in the show that you would like to try eating/making: I’m going to hell for saying this but yknow when hannibal bakes gideon’s leg in clay..... like I am JUST saying I want to bake something in clay and eat it. obvs not human and preferably not meat at all but if there’s like a plant-based meat version I’d make it in a heartbeat

which side character would you kill off?: idk maybe just kill off mason earlier bc he’s so contemptible. also that would cut cordell from the show and he creeps me the fuck out

was there any scene that you didn’t like to watch?: I absolutely cannot handle the sorbet opera scene opening up with the shots of the woman singing from INSIDE her. hate it hate it hate it. 

biggest ship: as if it could be anything but will and hannibal.... like I WISH i didn’t go so hard for them for my own sanity but i do :/

why did you start watching Hannibal?: i avoided it when it first came out bc I found cannibalism too icky (since then I’ve become a lil fascinated by the history of survival cannibalism and now play games like ‘donner dinner party’ w my friends and it’s a running joke that I’m TOO into it.. what has happened to my life?) and then this summer two of my close friends started bullying me into watching it so I gave in. funnily enough those friends are both cishet dudes but they have some GREAT hannibal/will takes lol

favourite Hannibal fic if you’ve read any?: there’s two long post-s3 fic series i’ve loved so far (by inameitlater & mokuyoubi) and I especially liked ‘the abyss smiled back��� by highermagic (also post-s3 but years down the line) because clarice starling is will’s sister and their relationship was so well done

have you watched any of the Hannibal films?: I haven’t seen hannibal rising or manhunter but seen the rest! I’ve liked the silence of the lambs for years

have you read the Thomas Harris books?: I just read red dragon and look... it was fine... but I have no interest in reading the books once will isn’t in them and harris’s writing actually irritates me (bryan fuller really took everything worthwhile lmao)

favourite murder tableau: the il mostro primavera tableau is just objectively beautiful but the significance of the randall tier one... ooh boy. also I like sabre tooth cats lol

favourite blood spill: francis dolarhyde’s whole death scene but mostly because it gives us That Shot of will crouching and with blood on his teeth 😳

what are some of your headcanons?: idk i guess i like anything about will and bev getting to be friends and hanging out for fun outside work, even if he’s a bit thorny the whole time bc she’d brush it off anyway and he’d warm to her. also i like the idea that will is very well-read and has more art/music knowledge than people assume he would, he’s just self-taught and not a pretentious dick about it because he appreciates simplicity. OH AND!! will knowing he’s bi since he was young, he just doesn’t talk about it or act on it much. we know he avoids people anyway and his only relationship is with molly (other than kissing alana once and sleeping with margot once) so the idea that he knows he’s into men before hannibal is hardly a leap. I’m just very bored of fics that give him a sexuality crisis lmao

I’m pretty sure all my hannibal mutuals have done this already but if you haven’t then lmk and I’ll tag you!

[caltropspress]

FEEDBACK LOOP #1: Armand Hammer’s “Flavor Flav”

What are the Black purposes of space travel?

—Amiri Baraka, “Technology & Ethos”

Black futurism is a temporally troubled matrix Black futurism is a temporally troubled matrix that thrives on opposites and oppositions, flowing lines and nonlinearity, conflict resolution and asymmetrical warfare. It prefers the mad dash on shifting sands while in pursuit of higher ground and safe havens.

—Greg Tate, “Kalahari Hopscotch, or Notes Toward a 20 Volume History of Black Science and Afrofuturism”

Welcome aboard our spaceship, it’s so nice to have you here. —Newcleus, “Space is the Place”

Who, constructing the house of himself or herself, not for a day but      for all times, sees races, eras, dates, generations, The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together. —Walt Whitman

I’m so tired of being forced to promote the myth of white supremacy by performing works by old white men like Whitman who said blacks...didn’t have a place in the future of America. —Timothy McNair

Today is the shadow of tomorrow, today is the future present of yesterday, yesterday is the shadow of today. —Sun Ra, “Secrets of the Sun”

This highly allusive track from billy woods and ELUCID toys with itself—that is, allusions are a figurative means of collapsing time in and of themselves. Past and present history & culture don’t contend so much as support one another. A set of stilts to do the Dance of Death on, if you will. “Start downhill running.” The Seventh Seal hilltop silhouette danse macabre steez, though. The whooshing, metal-creaking beat—with all its haunted psithurism charm—is the backdrop for this sleeper Shrines track.

The name “Flavor Flav” is used metonymically here to mean time. This isn’t a braggadocio, low-key threat in the spirit of OC’s “Time’s Up.” This isn’t a Grandmaster Flashian “You Know What Time It Is” (though the hands on the clock tower do spin clockwise and counter-). Neither is this a Kool Moe Dee-esque rhetorical “Do You Know What Time It Is?” Armand Hammer are frustrated by time, by the “ideals and dreams that don’t work.” woods laments his “time machine [that] don’t go backwards.” This no-good lemon of a H.G. Wells contraption he’s steering. This isn’t some Christopher Lloyd-cum-El-Producto Delorean. There’s no Great Scotting going on, just stubbornness.

Progress isn’t made. Time stagnates. Like the “list of ill-fated quick licks under ’frigerator magnets.” And that “school trip permission slip”—likely a bus ride to a museum: a carefully curated collection of artifacts, most notable for its colonial muscling. The question remains: What is left out? What is excluded? What is ignored, discarded, or co-opted so as to not withstand the test of time? woods’ short-i assonance speeds the delivery up only to slow it down:

list | ill | quick | licks | ’frig | nets | trip | mis | slip | lick | split | skin | spliff

billy woods, son of a revolutionary, redefines Afrofuturism (re-re-re-defines—its brilliance is in how it remakes itself unconditionally). Afrofuturism becomes about birthing the next generation of Black revolutionaries, so he subverts the line and expectations when “big hand captured” refers to the clock, but “little man [not hand] chasin’” refers to a youngin. (Try to keep up.) Put the faith in the youth when our “ideals and dreams” stall out—when the days, months, years are fleeting and forceful (“It do tick faster / The hour coming rough”). The spliff that’s “[skinned] like an onion” turns the cypher into Perrault fairy tale “pumpkin,” Cinderella style.

“Don’t come ’round with that ‘Go slow’” is in conversation with Nina Simone’s “Mississippi Goddam,” of course. It’s Nina who said “[she] can’t stand the pressure much longer,” who objected to those who “keep on saying ‘Go slow,” who had her band ironically chanting Do it slow. billy woods, like Nina Simone, decries reformism, incrementalism. Don’t do things gradually. We’re at the point where Nina stands up from her piano bench and shouts That’s it!

Forego the telephoto lenses, he insists, this is the “Battle of Algiers with the GoPro.” Urban guerrilla warfare uploaded and disseminated via YouTube. Again, time collapses. The struggle to decolonize continues. Watch for the This video is no longer available dead-end.

billy woods’ Nietzschean “loathing and fear” reverses the hallucinogenic time-warp of Thompson’s (and, in filmic relation, Gilliam’s) Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. “History is hard to know,” Thompson writes, “because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of ‘history’ it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash.” That flash will reappear in ELUCID’s verse.

If “all roads lead to Rome,” we’re settling into the inevitability of our moves. It’s a fatalistic shrug, but homophonically, all roads lead to roam—that is, the journey is prolonged interminably. It’s nomadic. Much static. So, naturally, you’re going to “[shake] the hourglass like a snowglobe,” distort time, and splurge on the “JC Penny Timex,” which is appropriately “flooded with rhinestones.” Flooded, because no more water: the fire next time. Don’t “lose track” and don’t “get trapped in the future.”

The chorus quotes the Rolling Stones’ “Time is On My Side,” but it ain’t that simple, no. The history is as messy as we’ve come to expect amerikan music to be. “Time is On My Side” was originally penned by Norman Meade (Jerry Ragovoy), and trombonist Kai Winding first recorded it. Jimmy Norman, a Black songwriter, fleshed out the lyrics significantly, and Irma Thomas recorded that version in the same year as the Stones. The song followed a path similar to that of “Strange Fruit”—a composition written by a white Jewish man under a pseudonym (Abel Meeropol as Lewis Allan) but popularized by a Black female jazz singer (Billie Holiday). As author Jess Row has said about jazz—hip-hop applies, too—it is “by its very nature multi-racial, intermingled, and collaborative across color lines.” But this cognizance must always be contextualized with views of Black artists like that of Art Blakey: “the only way the Caucasian musician can swing is from a rope.” Hip-hop has always had its Paul Cs and Rick Rubins, but the racial heterogeneity of a genre, or even a single recording, can’t cloak the power dynamics still in play. The Stones’ version of “Time is On My Side”—undoubtedly the most popular version—is a rip-off of Irma Thomas’ version. Mick Jagger even jacks Thomas’ ad-libs, which is to say, her rawness and spontaneity. Even the band’s shadowed faces on the cover of 12 x 5, the album on which the track appears, suggest the racial problematics, the minstrelsy heist. Armand Hammer mock the British Invasion blues filchers by adding “they” to the chorus line: “They said time is on my side.” They being white institutions (especially within music publishing, production, and recording industries) who promised enough airtime for everyone. They who urged patience. (Go slow!) But, as history shows, the profits only lined certain pockets.

ELUCID begins at the “golden hour,” which is both the photogenic beauty of the sky after sunrise and before sunset—a beauty too good to behold. It’s the sun glare shining in your face on the winter commute from work. It’s your high-speed accident and then the golden hour is the paramedics and doctors trying to salvage your corporeal existence. ELUCID’s verse is a hypnagogic jerk, gasping for breath as he takes a “portal to Orangeburg, ’68.” It’s a reference to the campus shooting of young people in protest—South Carolina State University. Unlike Kent State, which came afterwards, Orangeburg didn’t get the attention keening white women in Pulitzer Prize-winning photographs do, despite “live ammunition,” three dead, 28 injured, and “nine acquitted assassins.” Unnoticed. Black invisibility. Not that H.G. Wells type of invisibility—the Ralph Ellison kind.

We’re told what this is: it’s the aggregate stress (“the load of the allostatic”) of Black life. It’s one’s personal Extinction Agenda, the “post-traumatic” of the gunfire “flashes” that double as flashbacks. The pain, stress, the brain that can’t rest, the pressure on the chest.

“The center won’t hold” lets us know this isn’t all PTSD reverie—it’s a rebel poem: surely some revolution is at hand. ELUCID channels Achebe channeling Yeats. Things might fall apart but not without struggle. The “Flavor Flav clock spins centrifugal,” as a gyre, as an apocalyptic (91…) voice. Turning and returning. The words have an air of insurrection, proclamation.

He misses “watching how a flat circle fold”—it won’t budge, won’t wrinkle. We’ve been here before: on “Hunter,” on Paraffin, when billy woods was on that “time is a flat circle” shit. That Nietzsche eternal recurrence shit:

What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: “This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain…will return to you. […] The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!

“Can you find the level of difficulty in this?” suggests game playing, arcades. Calls to mind more Walter Benjamin’s Arcades, though. billy woods and ELUCID are gleaners and magpies of cultural cadavers in Benjamin’s way. Their bars are play and critique both. We’re left with a modicum of optimism at the song’s end. Even “only [moving] the pen six inches” is something, is struggle. The “pale faces beyond the fire” are ever-present, though. The “flinching, panic, [and] confusion” are committed to continue.

Is it the fool or the insurgent who thinks time is on their side? We want the life we live to be “more brilliant than a sunbeam.” That’s to say, we don’t want to wait for the golden hour or the golden years. We want what they say we can’t have. We want what they say we shouldn’t imagine. But Armand Hammer helps us take solace in the “drum skin stretched”—the rhythm, the rebel. The oft-quoted Douglass gem, If there is no struggle, there is no progress, is played out for a reason. The reason is because it needs to be played again, and again. Like a mantra, like a song.

Images:

Sun Ra’s Space is the Place (screenshot) | Flavor Flav (detail), courtesy of archivist Sean Stewart | Grandmaster Flash “You Know What Time It Is” music video (screenshot) | Kool Moe Dee “Do You Know What Time It Is?” single cover | Nina Simone live at Antibes Juan-les-Pins Jazz Festival 1965 (screenshot) | The Battle of Algiers (screenshot) | The Rolling Stones 12 x 5 album cover | Flavor Flav, courtesy of Stewart

[araitsume]

The Desire of Ages, pp. 662-684: Chapter (73) “Let Not Your Heart Be Troubled”

This chapter is based on John 13:31-38; John 14; John 15; John 16; John 17.

Looking upon His disciples with divine love and with the tenderest sympathy, Christ said, “Now is the Son of man glorified, and God is glorified in Him.” Judas had left the upper chamber, and Christ was alone with the eleven. He was about to speak of His approaching separation from them; but before doing this He pointed to the great object of His mission. It was this that He kept ever before Him. It was His joy that all His humiliation and suffering would glorify the Father's name. To this He first directs the thoughts of His disciples.

Then addressing them by the endearing term, “Little children,” He said, “Yet a little while I am with you. Ye shall seek Me: and as I said unto the Jews, Whither I go, ye cannot come; so now I say to you.”

The disciples could not rejoice when they heard this. Fear fell upon them. They pressed close about the Saviour. Their Master and Lord, their beloved Teacher and Friend, He was dearer to them than life. To Him they had looked for help in all their difficulties, for comfort in their sorrows and disappointments. Now He was to leave them, a lonely, dependent company. Dark were the forebodings that filled their hearts.

But the Saviour's words to them were full of hope. He knew that they were to be assailed by the enemy, and that Satan's craft is most successful against those who are depressed by difficulties. Therefore He pointed them away from “the things which are seen,” to “the things which are not seen.” 2 Corinthians 4:18. From earthly exile He turned their thoughts to the heavenly home.

“Let not your heart be troubled,” He said; “ye believe in God, believe also in Me. In My Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto Myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know.” For your sake I came into the world. I am working in your behalf. When I go away, I shall still work earnestly for you. I came into the world to reveal Myself to you, that you might believe. I go to the Father to co-operate with Him in your behalf. The object of Christ's departure was the opposite of what the disciples feared. It did not mean a final separation. He was going to prepare a place for them, that He might come again, and receive them unto Himself. While He was building mansions for them, they were to build characters after the divine similitude.

Still the disciples were perplexed. Thomas, always troubled by doubts, said, “Lord, we know not whither Thou goest; and how can we know the way? Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father, but by Me. If ye had known Me, ye should have known My Father also: and from henceforth ye know Him, and have seen Him.”

There are not many ways to heaven. Each one may not choose his own way. Christ says, “I am the way: ... no man cometh unto the Father, but by Me.” Since the first gospel sermon was preached, when in Eden it was declared that the seed of the woman should bruise the serpent's head, Christ had been uplifted as the way, the truth, and the life. He was the way when Adam lived, when Abel presented to God the blood of the slain lamb, representing the blood of the Redeemer. Christ was the way by which patriarchs and prophets were saved. He is the way by which alone we can have access to God.

“If ye had known Me,” Christ said, “ye should have known My Father also: and from henceforth ye know Him, and have seen Him.” But not yet did the disciples understand. “Lord, show us the Father,” exclaimed Philip, “and it sufficeth us.”

Amazed at his dullness of comprehension, Christ asked with pained surprise, “Have I been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known Me, Philip?” Is it possible that you do not see the Father in the works He does through Me? Do you not believe that I came to testify of the Father? “How sayest thou then, Show us the Father?” “He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father.” Christ had not ceased to be God when He became man. Though He had humbled Himself to humanity, the Godhead was still His own. Christ alone could represent the Father to humanity, and this representation the disciples had been privileged to behold for over three years.

“Believe Me that I am in the Father, and the Father in Me: or else believe Me for the very works’ sake.” Their faith might safely rest on the evidence given in Christ's works, works that no man, of himself, ever had done, or ever could do. Christ's work testified to His divinity. Through Him the Father had been revealed.

If the disciples believed this vital connection between the Father and the Son, their faith would not forsake them when they saw Christ's suffering and death to save a perishing world. Christ was seeking to lead them from their low condition of faith to the experience they might receive if they truly realized what He was,—God in human flesh. He desired them to see that their faith must lead up to God, and be anchored there. How earnestly and perseveringly our compassionate Saviour sought to prepare His disciples for the storm of temptation that was soon to beat upon them. He would have them hid with Him in God.

As Christ was speaking these words, the glory of God was shining from His countenance, and all present felt a sacred awe as they listened with rapt attention to His words. Their hearts were more decidedly drawn to Him; and as they were drawn to Christ in greater love, they were drawn to one another. They felt that heaven was very near, and that the words to which they listened were a message to them from their heavenly Father.

“Verily, verily, I say unto you,” Christ continued, “He that believeth on Me, the works that I do shall he do also.” The Saviour was deeply anxious for His disciples to understand for what purpose His divinity was united to humanity. He came to the world to display the glory of God, that man might be uplifted by its restoring power. God was manifested in Him that He might be manifested in them. Jesus revealed no qualities, and exercised no powers, that men may not have through faith in Him. His perfect humanity is that which all His followers may possess, if they will be in subjection to God as He was.

“And greater works than these shall he do; because I go unto My Father.” By this Christ did not mean that the disciples’ work would be of a more exalted character than His, but that it would have greater extent. He did not refer merely to miracle working, but to all that would take place under the working of the Holy Spirit.

After the Lord's ascension, the disciples realized the fulfillment of His promise. The scenes of the crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension of Christ were a living reality to them. They saw that the prophecies had been literally fulfilled. They searched the Scriptures, and accepted their teaching with a faith and assurance unknown before. They knew that the divine Teacher was all that He had claimed to be. As they told their experience, and exalted the love of God, men's hearts were melted and subdued, and multitudes believed on Jesus.

The Saviour's promise to His disciples is a promise to His church to the end of time. God did not design that His wonderful plan to redeem men should achieve only insignificant results. All who will go to work, trusting not in what they themselves can do, but in what God can do for and through them, will certainly realize the fulfillment of His promise. “Greater works than these shall ye do,” He declares; “because I go unto My Father.”

As yet the disciples were unacquainted with the Saviour's unlimited resources and power. He said to them, “Hitherto have ye asked nothing in My name.” John 16:24. He explained that the secret of their success would be in asking for strength and grace in His name. He would be present before the Father to make request for them. The prayer of the humble suppliant He presents as His own desire in that soul's behalf. Every sincere prayer is heard in heaven. It may not be fluently expressed; but if the heart is in it, it will ascend to the sanctuary where Jesus ministers, and He will present it to the Father without one awkward, stammering word, beautiful and fragrant with the incense of His own perfection.

The path of sincerity and integrity is not a path free from obstruction, but in every difficulty we are to see a call to prayer. There is no one living who has any power that he has not received from God, and the source whence it comes is open to the weakest human being. “Whatsoever ye shall ask in My name,” said Jesus, “that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If ye shall ask anything in My name, I will do it.”

“In My name,” Christ bade His disciples pray. In Christ's name His followers are to stand before God. Through the value of the sacrifice made for them, they are of value in the Lord's sight. Because of the imputed righteousness of Christ they are accounted precious. For Christ's sake the Lord pardons those that fear Him. He does not see in them the vileness of the sinner. He recognizes in them the likeness of His Son, in whom they believe.

The Lord is disappointed when His people place a low estimate upon themselves. He desires His chosen heritage to value themselves according to the price He has placed upon them. God wanted them, else He would not have sent His Son on such an expensive errand to redeem them. He has a use for them, and He is well pleased when they make the very highest demands upon Him, that they may glorify His name. They may expect large things if they have faith in His promises.

But to pray in Christ's name means much. It means that we are to accept His character, manifest His spirit, and work His works. The Saviour's promise is given on condition. “If ye love Me,” He says, “keep My commandments.” He saves men, not in sin, but from sin; and those who love Him will show their love by obedience.

All true obedience comes from the heart. It was heart work with Christ. And if we consent, He will so identify Himself with our thoughts and aims, so blend our hearts and minds into conformity to His will, that when obeying Him we shall be but carrying out our own impulses. The will, refined and sanctified, will find its highest delight in doing His service. When we know God as it is our privilege to know Him, our life will be a life of continual obedience. Through an appreciation of the character of Christ, through communion with God, sin will become hateful to us.

As Christ lived the law in humanity, so we may do if we will take hold of the Strong for strength. But we are not to place the responsibility of our duty upon others, and wait for them to tell us what to do. We cannot depend for counsel upon humanity. The Lord will teach us our duty just as willingly as He will teach somebody else. If we come to Him in faith, He will speak His mysteries to us personally. Our hearts will often burn within us as One draws nigh to commune with us as He did with Enoch. Those who decide to do nothing in any line that will displease God, will know, after presenting their case before Him, just what course to pursue. And they will receive not only wisdom, but strength. Power for obedience, for service, will be imparted to them, as Christ has promised. Whatever was given to Christ—the “all things” to supply the need of fallen men—was given to Him as the head and representative of humanity. And “whatsoever we ask, we receive of Him, because we keep His commandments, and do those things that are pleasing in His sight.” 1 John 3:22.

Before offering Himself as the sacrificial victim, Christ sought for the most essential and complete gift to bestow upon His followers, a gift that would bring within their reach the boundless resources of grace. “I will pray the Father,” He said, “and He shall give you another Comforter, that He may abide with you forever; even the Spirit of truth; whom the world cannot receive, because it seeth Him not, neither knoweth Him: but ye know Him; for He dwelleth with you, and shall be in you. I will not leave you orphans: I will come to you.” John 14:16-18, margin.

Before this the Spirit had been in the world; from the very beginning of the work of redemption He had been moving upon men's hearts. But while Christ was on earth, the disciples had desired no other helper. Not until they were deprived of His presence would they feel their need of the Spirit, and then He would come.

The Holy Spirit is Christ's representative, but divested of the personality of humanity, and independent thereof. Cumbered with humanity, Christ could not be in every place personally. Therefore it was for their interest that He should go to the Father, and send the Spirit to be His successor on earth. No one could then have any advantage because of his location or his personal contact with Christ. By the Spirit the Saviour would be accessible to all. In this sense He would be nearer to them than if He had not ascended on high.

“He that loveth Me shall be loved of My Father, and I will love him, and will manifest Myself to him.” Jesus read the future of His disciples. He saw one brought to the scaffold, one to the cross, one to exile among the lonely rocks of the sea, others to persecution and death. He encouraged them with the promise that in every trial He would be with them. That promise has lost none of its force. The Lord knows all about His faithful servants who for His sake are lying in prison or who are banished to lonely islands. He comforts them with His own presence. When for the truth's sake the believer stands at the bar of unrighteous tribunals, Christ stands by his side. All the reproaches that fall upon him, fall upon Christ. Christ is condemned over again in the person of His disciple. When one is incarcerated in prison walls, Christ ravishes the heart with His love. When one suffers death for His sake, Christ says, “I am He that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive forevermore, ... and have the keys of hell and of death.” Revelation 1:18. The life that is sacrificed for Me is preserved unto eternal glory.

At all times and in all places, in all sorrows and in all afflictions, when the outlook seems dark and the future perplexing, and we feel helpless and alone, the Comforter will be sent in answer to the prayer of faith. Circumstances may separate us from every earthly friend; but no circumstance, no distance, can separate us from the heavenly Comforter. Wherever we are, wherever we may go, He is always at our right hand to support, sustain, uphold, and cheer.

The disciples still failed to understand Christ's words in their spiritual sense, and again He explained His meaning. By the Spirit, He said, He would manifest Himself to them. “The Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in My name, He shall teach you all things.” No more will you say, I cannot comprehend. No longer will you see through a glass, darkly. You shall “be able to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height; and to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge.” Ephesians 3:18, 19.

The disciples were to bear witness to the life and work of Christ. Through their word He was to speak to all the people on the face of the earth. But in the humiliation and death of Christ they were to suffer great trial and disappointment. That after this experience their word might be accurate, Jesus promised that the Comforter should “bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said unto you.”

“I have yet many things to say unto you,” He continued, “but ye cannot bear them now. Howbeit when He, the Spirit of truth, is come, He will guide you into all truth: for He shall not speak of Himself; but whatsoever He shall hear, that shall He speak: and He will show you things to come. He shall glorify Me: for He shall receive of Mine, and shall show it unto you.” Jesus had opened before His disciples a vast tract of truth. But it was most difficult for them to keep His lessons distinct from the traditions and maxims of the scribes and Pharisees. They had been educated to accept the teaching of the rabbis as the voice of God, and it still held a power over their minds, and molded their sentiments. Earthly ideas, temporal things, still had a large place in their thoughts. They did not understand the spiritual nature of Christ's kingdom, though He had so often explained it to them. Their minds had become confused. They did not comprehend the value of the scriptures Christ presented. Many of His lessons seemed almost lost upon them. Jesus saw that they did not lay hold of the real meaning of His words. He compassionately promised that the Holy Spirit should recall these sayings to their minds. And He had left unsaid many things that could not be comprehended by the disciples. These also would be opened to them by the Spirit. The Spirit was to quicken their understanding, that they might have an appreciation of heavenly things. “When He, the Spirit of truth, is come,” said Jesus, “He will guide you into all truth.”

The Comforter is called “the Spirit of truth.” His work is to define and maintain the truth. He first dwells in the heart as the Spirit of truth, and thus He becomes the Comforter. There is comfort and peace in the truth, but no real peace or comfort can be found in falsehood. It is through false theories and traditions that Satan gains his power over the mind. By directing men to false standards, he misshapes the character. Through the Scriptures the Holy Spirit speaks to the mind, and impresses truth upon the heart. Thus He exposes error, and expels it from the soul. It is by the Spirit of truth, working through the word of God, that Christ subdues His chosen people to Himself.

In describing to His disciples the office work of the Holy Spirit, Jesus sought to inspire them with the joy and hope that inspired His own heart. He rejoiced because of the abundant help He had provided for His church. The Holy Spirit was the highest of all gifts that He could solicit from His Father for the exaltation of His people. The Spirit was to be given as a regenerating agent, and without this the sacrifice of Christ would have been of no avail. The power of evil had been strengthening for centuries, and the submission of men to this satanic captivity was amazing. Sin could be resisted and overcome only through the mighty agency of the Third Person of the Godhead, who would come with no modified energy, but in the fullness of divine power. It is the Spirit that makes effectual what has been wrought out by the world's Redeemer. It is by the Spirit that the heart is made pure. Through the Spirit the believer becomes a partaker of the divine nature. Christ has given His Spirit as a divine power to overcome all hereditary and cultivated tendencies to evil, and to impress His own character upon His church.

Of the Spirit Jesus said, “He shall glorify Me.” The Saviour came to glorify the Father by the demonstration of His love; so the Spirit was to glorify Christ by revealing His grace to the world. The very image of God is to be reproduced in humanity. The honor of God, the honor of Christ, is involved in the perfection of the character of His people.

“When He [the Spirit of truth] is come, He will reprove the world of sin, and of righteousness, and of judgment.” The preaching of the word will be of no avail without the continual presence and aid of the Holy Spirit. This is the only effectual teacher of divine truth. Only when the truth is accompanied to the heart by the Spirit will it quicken the conscience or transform the life. One might be able to present the letter of the word of God, he might be familiar with all its commands and promises; but unless the Holy Spirit sets home the truth, no souls will fall on the Rock and be broken. No amount of education, no advantages, however great, can make one a channel of light without the co-operation of the Spirit of God. The sowing of the gospel seed will not be a success unless the seed is quickened into life by the dew of heaven. Before one book of the New Testament was written, before one gospel sermon had been preached after Christ's ascension, the Holy Spirit came upon the praying apostles. Then the testimony of their enemies was, “Ye have filled Jerusalem with your doctrine.” Acts 5:28.

Christ has promised the gift of the Holy Spirit to His church, and the promise belongs to us as much as to the first disciples. But like every other promise, it is given on conditions. There are many who believe and profess to claim the Lord's promise; they talk about Christ and about the Holy Spirit, yet receive no benefit. They do not surrender the soul to be guided and controlled by the divine agencies. We cannot use the Holy Spirit. The Spirit is to use us. Through the Spirit God works in His people “to will and to do of His good pleasure.” Philippians 2:13. But many will not submit to this. They want to manage themselves. This is why they do not receive the heavenly gift. Only to those who wait humbly upon God, who watch for His guidance and grace, is the Spirit given. The power of God awaits their demand and reception. This promised blessing, claimed by faith, brings all other blessings in its train. It is given according to the riches of the grace of Christ, and He is ready to supply every soul according to the capacity to receive.

In His discourse to the disciples, Jesus made no mournful allusion to His own sufferings and death. His last legacy to them was a legacy of peace. He said, “Peace I leave with you, My peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

Before leaving the upper chamber, the Saviour led His disciples in a song of praise. His voice was heard, not in the strains of some mournful lament, but in the joyful notes of the Passover hallel:

“O praise the Lord, all ye nations: Praise Him, all ye people. For His merciful kindness is great toward us: And the truth of the Lord endureth forever. Praise ye the Lord.” Psalm 117.

After the hymn, they went out. Through the crowded streets they made their way, passing out of the city gate toward the Mount of Olives. Slowly they proceeded, each busy with his own thoughts. As they began to descend toward the mount, Jesus said, in a tone of deepest sadness, “All ye shall be offended because of Me this night: for it is written, I will smite the shepherd, and the sheep of the flock shall be scattered abroad.” Matthew 26:31. The disciples listened in sorrow and amazement. They remembered how in the synagogue at Capernaum, when Christ spoke of Himself as the bread of life, many had been offended, and had turned away from Him. But the twelve had not shown themselves unfaithful. Peter, speaking for his brethren, had then declared his loyalty to Christ. Then the Saviour had said, “Have not I chosen you twelve, and one of you is a devil?” John 6:70. In the upper chamber Jesus said that one of the twelve would betray Him, and that Peter would deny Him. But now His words include them all.

Now Peter's voice is heard vehemently protesting, “Although all shall be offended, yet will not I.” In the upper chamber he had declared, “I will lay down my life for Thy sake.” Jesus had warned him that he would that very night deny his Saviour. Now Christ repeats the warning: “Verily I say unto thee, That this day, even in this night, before the cock crow twice, thou shalt deny Me thrice.” But Peter only “spake the more vehemently, If I should die with Thee, I will not deny Thee in anywise. Likewise also said they all.” Mark 14:29, 30, 31. In their self-confidence they denied the repeated statement of Him who knew. They were unprepared for the test; when temptation should overtake them, they would understand their own weakness.

When Peter said he would follow his Lord to prison and to death, he meant it, every word of it; but he did not know himself. Hidden in his heart were elements of evil that circumstances would fan into life. Unless he was made conscious of his danger, these would prove his eternal ruin. The Saviour saw in him a self-love and assurance that would overbear even his love for Christ. Much of infirmity, of unmortified sin, carelessness of spirit, unsanctified temper, heedlessness in entering into temptation, had been revealed in his experience. Christ's solemn warning was a call to heart searching. Peter needed to distrust himself, and to have a deeper faith in Christ. Had he in humility received the warning, he would have appealed to the Shepherd of the flock to keep His sheep. When on the Sea of Galilee he was about to sink, he cried, “Lord, save me.” Matthew 14:30. Then the hand of Christ was outstretched to grasp his hand. So now if he had cried to Jesus, Save me from myself, he would have been kept. But Peter felt that he was distrusted, and he thought it cruel. He was already offended, and he became more persistent in his self-confidence.

Jesus looks with compassion on His disciples. He cannot save them from the trial, but He does not leave them comfortless. He assures them that He is to break the fetters of the tomb, and that His love for them will not fail. “After I am risen again,” He says, “I will go before you into Galilee.” Matthew 26:32. Before the denial, they have the assurance of forgiveness. After His death and resurrection, they knew that they were forgiven, and were dear to the heart of Christ.

Jesus and the disciples were on the way to Gethsemane, at the foot of Mount Olivet, a retired spot which He had often visited for meditation and prayer. The Saviour had been explaining to His disciples His mission to the world, and the spiritual relation to Him which they were to sustain. Now He illustrates the lesson. The moon is shining bright, and reveals to Him a flourishing grapevine. Drawing the attention of the disciples to it, He employs it as a symbol.

“I am the true Vine,” He says. Instead of choosing the graceful palm, the lofty cedar, or the strong oak, Jesus takes the vine with its clinging tendrils to represent Himself. The palm tree, the cedar, and the oak stand alone. They require no support. But the vine entwines about the trellis, and thus climbs heavenward. So Christ in His humanity was dependent upon divine power. “I can of Mine own self do nothing,” He declared. John 5:30.

“I am the true Vine.” The Jews had always regarded the vine as the most noble of plants, and a type of all that was powerful, excellent, and fruitful. Israel had been represented as a vine which God had planted in the Promised Land. The Jews based their hope of salvation on the fact of their connection with Israel. But Jesus says, I am the real Vine. Think not that through a connection with Israel you may become partakers of the life of God, and inheritors of His promise. Through Me alone is spiritual life received.

“I am the true Vine, and My Father is the husbandman.” On the hills of Palestine our heavenly Father had planted this goodly Vine, and He Himself was the husbandman. Many were attracted by the beauty of this Vine, and declared its heavenly origin. But to the leaders in Israel it appeared as a root out of a dry ground. They took the plant, and bruised it, and trampled it under their unholy feet. Their thought was to destroy it forever. But the heavenly Husbandman never lost sight of His plant. After men thought they had killed it, He took it, and replanted it on the other side of the wall. The vine stock was to be no longer visible. It was hidden from the rude assaults of men. But the branches of the Vine hung over the wall. They were to represent the Vine. Through them grafts might still be united to the Vine. From them fruit has been obtained. There has been a harvest which the passers-by have plucked.

“I am the Vine, ye are the branches,” Christ said to His disciples. Though He was about to be removed from them, their spiritual union with Him was to be unchanged. The connection of the branch with the vine, He said, represents the relation you are to sustain to Me. The scion is engrafted into the living vine, and fiber by fiber, vein by vein, it grows into the vine stock. The life of the vine becomes the life of the branch. So the soul dead in trespasses and sins receives life through connection with Christ. By faith in Him as a personal Saviour the union is formed. The sinner unites his weakness to Christ's strength, his emptiness to Christ's fullness, his frailty to Christ's enduring might. Then he has the mind of Christ. The humanity of Christ has touched our humanity, and our humanity has touched divinity. Thus through the agency of the Holy Spirit man becomes a partaker of the divine nature. He is accepted in the Beloved.

This union with Christ, once formed, must be maintained. Christ said, “Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in Me.” This is no casual touch, no off-and-on connection. The branch becomes a part of the living vine. The communication of life, strength, and fruitfulness from the root to the branches is unobstructed and constant. Separated from the vine, the branch cannot live. No more, said Jesus, can you live apart from Me. The life you have received from Me can be preserved only by continual communion. Without Me you cannot overcome one sin, or resist one temptation.

“Abide in Me, and I in you.” Abiding in Christ means a constant receiving of His Spirit, a life of unreserved surrender to His service. The channel of communication must be open continually between man and his God. As the vine branch constantly draws the sap from the living vine, so are we to cling to Jesus, and receive from Him by faith the strength and perfection of His own character.

The root sends its nourishment through the branch to the outermost twig. So Christ communicates the current of spiritual strength to every believer. So long as the soul is united to Christ, there is no danger that it will wither or decay.

The life of the vine will be manifest in fragrant fruit on the branches. “He that abideth in Me,” said Jesus, “and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without Me ye can do nothing.” When we live by faith on the Son of God, the fruits of the Spirit will be seen in our lives; not one will be missing.

“My Father is the husbandman. Every branch in Me that beareth not fruit He taketh away.” While the graft is outwardly united with the vine, there may be no vital connection. Then there will be no growth or fruitfulness. So there may be an apparent connection with Christ without a real union with Him by faith. A profession of religion places men in the church, but the character and conduct show whether they are in connection with Christ. If they bear no fruit, they are false branches. Their separation from Christ involves a ruin as complete as that represented by the dead branch. “If a man abide not in Me,” said Christ, “he is cast forth as a branch, and is withered; and men gather them, and cast them into the fire, and they are burned.”

“And every branch that beareth fruit, He purgeth [pruneth] it, that it may bring forth more fruit.” From the chosen twelve who had followed Jesus, one as a withered branch was about to be taken away; the rest were to pass under the pruning knife of bitter trial. Jesus with solemn tenderness explained the purpose of the husbandman. The pruning will cause pain, but it is the Father who applies the knife. He works with no wanton hand or indifferent heart. There are branches trailing upon the ground; these must be cut loose from the earthly supports to which their tendrils are fastening. They are to reach heavenward, and find their support in God. The excessive foliage that draws away the life current from the fruit must be pruned off. The overgrowth must be cut out, to give room for the healing beams of the Sun of Righteousness. The husbandman prunes away the harmful growth, that the fruit may be richer and more abundant.

“Herein is My Father glorified,” said Jesus, “that ye bear much fruit.” God desires to manifest through you the holiness, the benevolence, the compassion, of His own character. Yet the Saviour does not bid the disciples labor to bear fruit. He tells them to abide in Him. “If ye abide in Me,” He says, “and My words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.” It is through the word that Christ abides in His followers. This is the same vital union that is represented by eating His flesh and drinking His blood. The words of Christ are spirit and life. Receiving them, you receive the life of the Vine. You live “by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.” Matthew 4:4. The life of Christ in you produces the same fruits as in Him. Living in Christ, adhering to Christ, supported by Christ, drawing nourishment from Christ, you bear fruit after the similitude of Christ.

In this last meeting with His disciples, the great desire which Christ expressed for them was that they might love one another as He had loved them. Again and again He spoke of this. “These things I command you,” He said repeatedly, “that ye love one another.” His very first injunction when alone with them in the upper chamber was, “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.” To the disciples this commandment was new; for they had not loved one another as Christ had loved them. He saw that new ideas and impulses must control them; that new principles must be practiced by them; through His life and death they were to receive a new conception of love. The command to love one another had a new meaning in the light of His self-sacrifice. The whole work of grace is one continual service of love, of self-denying, self-sacrificing effort. During every hour of Christ's sojourn upon the earth, the love of God was flowing from Him in irrepressible streams. All who are imbued with His Spirit will love as He loved. The very principle that actuated Christ will actuate them in all their dealing one with another.

This love is the evidence of their discipleship. “By this shall all men know that ye are My disciples,” said Jesus, “if ye have love one to another.” When men are bound together, not by force or self-interest, but by love, they show the working of an influence that is above every human influence. Where this oneness exists, it is evidence that the image of God is being restored in humanity, that a new principle of life has been implanted. It shows that there is power in the divine nature to withstand the supernatural agencies of evil, and that the grace of God subdues the selfishness inherent in the natural heart.

This love, manifested in the church, will surely stir the wrath of Satan. Christ did not mark out for His disciples an easy path. “If the world hate you,” He said, “ye know that it hated Me before it hated you. If ye were of the world, the world would love his own: but because ye are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you. Remember the word that I said unto you, The servant is not greater than his lord. If they have persecuted Me, they will also persecute you; if they have kept My saying, they will keep yours also. But all these things will they do unto you for My name's sake, because they know not Him that sent Me.” The gospel is to be carried forward by aggressive warfare, in the midst of opposition, peril, loss, and suffering. But those who do this work are only following in their Master's steps.

As the world's Redeemer, Christ was constantly confronted with apparent failure. He, the messenger of mercy to our world, seemed to do little of the work He longed to do in uplifting and saving. Satanic influences were constantly working to oppose His way. But He would not be discouraged. Through the prophecy of Isaiah He declares, “I have labored in vain, I have spent My strength for nought, and in vain: yet surely My judgment is with the Lord, and My work with My God.... Though Israel be not gathered, yet shall I be glorious in the eyes of the Lord, and My God shall be My strength.” It is to Christ that the promise is given, “Thus saith the Lord, the Redeemer of Israel, and His Holy One, to Him whom man despiseth, to Him whom the nation abhorreth; ... thus saith the Lord: ... I will preserve Thee, and give Thee for a covenant of the people, to establish the earth, to cause to inherit the desolate heritages; that Thou mayest say to the prisoners, Go forth; to them that are in darkness, Show yourselves.... They shall not hunger nor thirst; neither shall the heat nor sun smite them: for He that hath mercy on them shall lead them, even by the springs of water shall He guide them.” Isaiah 49:4, 5, 7-10.

Upon this word Jesus rested, and He gave Satan no advantage. When the last steps of Christ's humiliation were to be taken, when the deepest sorrow was closing about His soul, He said to His disciples, “The prince of this world cometh, and hath nothing in Me.” “The prince of this world is judged.” Now shall he be cast out. John 14:30; 16:11; 12:31. With prophetic eye Christ traced the scenes to take place in His last great conflict. He knew that when He should exclaim, “It is finished,” all heaven would triumph. His ear caught the distant music and the shouts of victory in the heavenly courts. He knew that the knell of Satan's empire would then be sounded, and the name of Christ would be heralded from world to world throughout the universe.

Christ rejoiced that He could do more for His followers than they could ask or think. He spoke with assurance, knowing that an almighty decree had been given before the world was made. He knew that truth, armed with the omnipotence of the Holy Spirit, would conquer in the contest with evil; and that the bloodstained banner would wave triumphantly over His followers. He knew that the life of His trusting disciples would be like His, a series of uninterrupted victories, not seen to be such here, but recognized as such in the great hereafter.

“These things I have spoken unto you,” He said, “that in Me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.” Christ did not fail, neither was He discouraged, and His followers are to manifest a faith of the same enduring nature. They are to live as He lived, and work as He worked, because they depend on Him as the great Master Worker. Courage, energy, and perseverance they must possess. Though apparent impossibilities obstruct their way, by His grace they are to go forward. Instead of deploring difficulties, they are called upon to surmount them. They are to despair of nothing, and to hope for everything. With the golden chain of His matchless love Christ has bound them to the throne of God. It is His purpose that the highest influence in the universe, emanating from the source of all power, shall be theirs. They are to have power to resist evil, power that neither earth, nor death, nor hell can master, power that will enable them to overcome as Christ overcame.

Christ designs that heaven's order, heaven's plan of government, heaven's divine harmony, shall be represented in His church on earth. Thus in His people He is glorified. Through them the Sun of Righteousness will shine in undimmed luster to the world. Christ has given to His church ample facilities, that He may receive a large revenue of glory from His redeemed, purchased possession. He has bestowed upon His people capabilities and blessings that they may represent His own sufficiency. The church, endowed with the righteousness of Christ, is His depositary, in which the riches of His mercy, His grace, and His love, are to appear in full and final display. Christ looks upon His people in their purity and perfection, as the reward of His humiliation, and the supplement of His glory,—Christ, the great Center, from whom radiates all glory.

With strong, hopeful words the Saviour ended His instruction. Then He poured out the burden of His soul in prayer for His disciples. Lifting His eyes to heaven, He said, “Father, the hour is come; glorify Thy Son, that Thy Son also may glorify Thee: as Thou hast given Him power over all flesh, that He should give eternal life to as many as Thou hast given Him. And this is life eternal, that they might know Thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom Thou hast sent.”

Christ had finished the work that was given Him to do. He had glorified God on the earth. He had manifested the Father's name. He had gathered out those who were to continue His work among men. And He said, “I am glorified in them. And now I am no more in the world, but these are in the world, and I come to Thee. Holy Father, keep through Thine own name those whom Thou hast given Me, that they may be one, as We are.” “Neither pray I for these alone, but for them also which shall believe on Me through their word; that they all may be one; ... I in them, and Thou in Me, that they may be made perfect in one; and that the world may know that Thou hast sent Me, and hast loved them, as Thou hast loved Me.”

Thus in the language of one who has divine authority, Christ gives His elect church into the Father's arms. As a consecrated high priest He intercedes for His people. As a faithful shepherd He gathers His flock under the shadow of the Almighty, in the strong and sure refuge. For Him there waits the last battle with Satan, and He goes forth to meet it.

[finalities]

⏤ 16 DAYS MISSING.

"Abel?” Monika called his name out as she closed the front door and locked it behind her. Under normal circumstances, she would have rang the doorbell and waited for Abel to answer. But in the days that followed her first visit to his house since Ava’s disappearance, they had fallen into a sort of routine, where she would come by the house and let herself in, as if they had always done this even though it had only been six days. Today, she was greeted by the frantic cries of Bear upstairs instead of Abel’s weary welcome. Crossing the front entranceway, she climbed the stairs to the second floor as she had done so many times in the preceding days, and padded down the hallway to Bear’s nursery. The door was ajar, and it was only when she stepped into the frame that she found Abel standing in the middle of the room holding his son, Bear’s face pink with anger as he cried out, his father holding him at his shoulder. “Oh, goodness,” Monika said softly, stepping into the room. As she moved closer, she held her hands out, indicating to Abel that he could hand the child over to her. She knew his eardrums likely needed the reprieve. “What’s wrong today, sweetness?” she murmured, accepting the infant child as Abel set him in her arms. Once Bear was against her chest, she held him close and began to sway side to side, something she’d learned to help soothe the fourteen-month-old. “Hey, there,” she said, smiling up at Abel. “Are we having a rough morning?”

[groovyzombiellama]

Fun Weekend

Title: Fun Weekend Requested? Yes. Plot: Jax feeling stressed out because of so much club shit and Chibs offers him to take his Old Lady for a weekend getaway to just relax and spend time together, and they end up doing so. Warnings: I’m attempting to write smut, so there is some of that present in the fic Word count: 1806

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“Fuck!“ You could hear Jax curse under his breath, as his boots made a loud thud as he took them off, hoping he didn’t wake up you or the boys. But you weren’t even attempting to sleep, since you decided to wait up for him, hoping he’d finally open up to you in his sleepy state and just let some of the stress out through talking and not getting in a fight with you. You knew all too well when the stress was getting to Jax, he would speak a lot less than he normally does and he would avoid coming home before the ungodly hours of the night, just so he wouldn’t have to be met with your worried gaze. He knew you cared, and he was more than thankful for that, it was one of the reasons he fell in love with you in the first place, that you always put other people in front of yourself, but he just couldn’t risk letting all of his pent up frustrations out on you, because you haven’t done anything to deserve that. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you even more, with saying something he doesn’t actually mean and have that little detail ruin what is normally an extremely healthy relationship.

He let out a sigh when he entered your bedroom and saw you sitting on the bed, your eyes meeting his. You could see it in his blue orbs, he was screaming at you that he couldn’t take it anymore, but no words were coming out of his mouth. He silently went into the bathroom, took a shower and got into bed, placing a kiss on your forehead, before turning his back to you. It was your turn to sigh, looking down at his broad shoulders popping out from under the covers, and it hurt him to hear it, but he hoped tomorrow things would start to settle with the club and he could calm down enough to give you the rundown. But upon seeing the large amount of papers on his desk upon entering his office, he knew that there was no stopping, not yet anyway, and he started going through the papers, not even noticing you come in. You were determined to let him know you would wait for him to open up to you, and that you support him no matter what, so after drinking two glasses of whiskey with Chibs at the bar, you were seated on the opposite side of Jax, looking through papers yourself, ignoring his glare burning into you.

A few minutes later, Chibs walked in and stood at Jax’s left side, his gaze moving from you to Jax and back to you a few times until he shook his head and spoke. “Ye need to talk to each other. Jackie, take your Old Lady to the cabin for the weekend. We’ll be takin’ care of the club, it’s not goin’ anywhere. Leave the little lads with Gemma, and take yer time to relax. Yer gonna explode if ya continue like this Jackie boy. And that’s not gon’ be good for any of us.“ His accent filled the air around you and you looked up to meet Jax’s gaze as Chibs made his way out of the office, placing his hand on Jax’s chest before giving you a kiss on the cheek and walking out. The office was silent once again, as you and Jax just stared at each other for a few moments, Jax’s lips soon curving into a smile, as he gave the idea more thought. It was the first time you had seen him smile, really smile, in the past two months, so you couldn’t help but mirror it. He slowly got out of his chair, and as he reached your side of the desk, he held his hand out to you. Once you took it and stood up from the chair, his other hand wrapped around your waist.

“You go ahead and start packing, I’ll take the boys to my mother’s.“ Your smile grew wider as those words came out of his mouth and he connected his lips to yours. The plan was in motion. Jax being far away from the club, spending the weekend with just the two of you in your cabin on the lake would help him ease up a little and be more prepared for whatever more stress awaits him on Monday. After dropping Abel and Thomas over at Gemma’s, Jax was back home to help you finish packing and you were soon on your way. You had to look out the window and hide your mouth with your hand so Jax wouldn’t notice the smirk creeping up on your lips as you neared the cabin. You had even packed your sexiest lingerie, in hopes of ending the dry season. You would spend the rest of the day settling in as much as a weekend getaway allowed you to, and as the suns starts to set, you had a little show planned for your Old Man.

You ordered Jax to sit on the bed and wait for you to come out of the bathroom. He had a smirk on his face and rolled his eyes playfully as you told him to close them and keep them that way until he hears music playing. “No peaking, blondie!“ You warned him, and he only hummed in response, and it showed his annoyance with the nickname, forcing you to stiffle a laugh that threatened to escape your lips, but you knew he would be looking for some kind of way to see what you were doing before the actual cue. As the music started, Jax finally opened his eyes and smirked, his eyes filling with lust as he saw you in your bathrobe, slowly swaying your hips to the music. As the song went on, you grabbed at you robe, untying it and opening it to reveal your lingerie, earining a whistle from your Old Man. You turned and swayed in the rhytm of the song, letting Jax take in every part of you, before you approached him, kneeling down in front of him. “Allow me to help you relax Mr Teller.“ You said as you reached for his belt, followed by his jeans. Jax lifted his body slightly so you could remove his boxers along with his jeans, his erection springing free. He adjusted himself to give you more access as you wrapped your hand around the base of his member, looking up at him innocently.

“Be my guest Mrs Teller. Although I should help you out too. When you’re done with that I guess.“ He winked at you and gave you a devilish smirk. You raised one eyebrow at him, and without responding, you ran your tongue along the length of his erection, from the base to the tip, Jax’s head flying back, a throaty groan escaping his lips. It made you grin that you had such an effect on him, even doing something as small as that. Without waiting any longer, you took him into your mouth, bobbing your head up and down at a slow rhytm, that you intended on building up later on. You basked in the sounds you were causing Jax to make as you worked your mouth over his hard cock. As your pace got quicker, one of his hands grabbed a fist full of your hair and he tugged on it slightly. Once you feel him thrust his hips upwards, you know he’s getting close to his climax, so you start working him even harder and deeper, your tongue curving along the bottom of his cock. Soon you hear that most satisfying groan fall from his lips, and you can feel Jax release into your mouth. After he calmed down slightly, he looked down at you and you bat your eyelashes before swallowing.

“It’s your turn now, my queen. Come to daddy.“ You purr at his words and reach up to kiss his lips before he flips you over on the bed, kissing his way from your lips, to your wet core, removing your lingerie from your body piece by piece as he went on. Seeing how wet and ready you were for him, he smirked, and gave you no warning before he placed his mouth over your swollen clit and began sucking and licking it. Two of his fingers found their way inside you as his mouth worked your clit, and your back arched at the pleasure your man was giving you. As you felt your climax start to build up, you whimpered at Jax, asking him to fill you up with his cock instead. You could feel him smirking against your clit and he moved his mouth away from your core, placing a kiss on your inner thing. He made sure to make eye contact with you as he licked your juices off his fingers, leaving plenty of bite marks and hickeys on his way up to your lips, and he slid into you, your hands grabbing at his back, tugging on his shirt, and soon enough it was on the ground with the rest of your clothing as Jax pounded into you, both of your moans filling the air around you. He reached one of his hands and began working your clit, and you soon had dots cloud your vision as you clenched around him, pure extasy pulsing through you and you could feel him twitch inside you as he came soon after, your walls clenching around him and the sound of you climaxing was enough to send him over the edge.

He rolled off you and gathered you in his arms, placing a kiss on the top of your head. You two had the talk beforehand, by the fireplace, and he thanked you for being there for him and letting him open up to you instead of causing a scene, and tonight just added to an already amazing beginning of what was to be an amazing weekend. You spent the weekend cuddling, swimming in the lake, making each other laugh, making love, everything that you could fit into a weekend. Things would be finally back to normal, and grumpy Jax was gone. You loved him either way, but he was way more fun and loving when he wasn’t his grumpy self. You agreed to take mini vacations like this one more often, to just enjoy being alone, or you would bring the kids along, and Jax would teach them how to fish, their toes dipped in the water, eyes glimmering as they looked up at their father talk about the best way to catch a fish. Your little family was perfect, and you couldn’t wait to let them all know about the new addition that was on it’s way.

---***--- @innerpaperexpertcloud I hope you like the fic :) I’m so sorry if the smut is cringy or weird, if you don’t like any part of the fic let me know and I’ll change it :) ly <3

[reapermet]

Drabble - prompt is Relax. Abel Teller and Thomas Teller II.

-

He’d climbed onto the roof, trying to get a better view of the neighborhood, a joint held between his fingers. Nights like this were rare, nights where he just sat and thought about his life. It was dangerous to be up there, but he’d never cared too much about danger, only about the fact that he had people to take care of. Sometimes, taking care of himself fell on the back burner, forgotten about until he had time to regroup, time to think about how things were going in his life. 

Sitting there, he drew a knee up, resting his arm on it as he took a drag from the joint, letting the smoke dance in his lungs before he exhaled, the familiar scent of marijuana lacing the air. He smelled like it more than cigarette smoke sometimes, though he near chain smoked when he was nervous, something that people always warned him against. 

Hearing someone else come through the window, he didn’t need to turn back to know it was his little brother, who came into Abel’s home like it was his own. If anyone knew Abel’s mannerisms--even if he was opposite for the most part--it was Tommy. Passing the joint to his brother after he sat down, Abel gave him a tired smile. 

“Hey prospect,” he teased him softly, watching Tommy settle down on the room. Abel was taller, but Tommy’s bulk overshadowed his older brother, something Abel still wasn’t sure how he had managed. 

“None of that shit tonight,” Tommy hesitated, looking over the neighborhood, devoid of anything bit street lights and the distant hum of a car. “You just gonna make it harder than it already is, aren’t you?” Taking a hit off of the joint, he took a moment before he watched the smoke curl out of his exhale, the silence between them something easy, something they’d experienced so many times before.

Abel shrugged before taking the joint back and leaning back a little. “You’re my brother. I have to give you a hard time, but at the end of the day, you’re my prospect, and I’m going to make sure you give it your all. They’re making you do the two years because of your name. Ain’t me making you do the two.”

“Two because I’m royalty just like you,” Tommy joked, scratching his beard for a moment. “I think the two years is more to give me more of a back out plan. Got people who think I’m not going to make it.”

“Trust me. You’ll make it if I have any say in things.”

[death-himself]

enjoy my theories and me connecting dots that weren’t meant to be connected and also random notes

this is from my third time watching the new episode, including every single tiny detail i noticed because when it comes to theorizing i either dont do anything or go all out

also know that I am terrible at reading facial expressions so most of those parts are likely wrong

(under the cut because on google docs it said it was 7 pages long and i am afraid)

virgil looks automatically anxious and frustrated

logan stutters a lot after roman makes the "take off your glasses" joke and i cant tell if hes confused or if hes actually offended by that

what they all say the first time they yell at logan: virgil: "shut up before i shut you up" thomas: "WOAH WOAH WOAH WOAH WOAH" patton: "hey now heeeyy nowww" slowly turning into song

thomas calls virgil "the purp man"

references to Sword and the stone? may refer to something?

second time they yell at logan: virgil: "i'm gonna prohibit your BREATHING if you keep this up" (damn virge calm down) thomas: "please stop please i really dont want to think about it" patton doesnt speak (im pretty sure)

virgil glances at thomas a lot

is it just me or around the time virgil says "we're going to talk about something else now" he starts to sound a lot like deceit? Especially with that "sure"

roman gets easily distracted

"of course you're not a chick. You're a metaphysical human being. A chick is a really ??? girl"

why does remus appear behind the TV?

patton notices remus when saying "evil" virgil notices remus when saying "show up" and his tempest tongue comes in

when roman get knocked out the first time virgil looks at thomas like hes frustrated or annoyed maybe he looks at thomas like that because he thought it was thomas that was to blame for him showing up? since he was the one to have those intrusive thoughts?

also why does remus smack roman with a morning star?

all dark sides wear eye shadow confirmed

also this disproves the theory that all dark sides have a more animalistic features, therefore proving the headcanon that deceit just puts on makeup to look like he has scales on his face because hes dramatic

virgil looks kind of scared right before the song starts

during the song: logan looks done with everything thomas looks scared virgil looks furious and maybe defensive (that snarl tho) patton looks confused

why is patton of all sides to be the one to puke out remus (that's probably not the weirdest line i've written)

Remus considers any creativity that isn't dirty or horrific (aka his stuff) to be dull or boring

I think the A-Z part of the song is a reference to this one song video about the ABCs of ways to die but i have no clue

Even early on in the song when logan says "It's fine" it shows that hes trying to sort this out and get to the problem, but Remus prevents him from continuing, then allows Pat and Virge to say their thoughts

ROMAN CALLS REMUS "BRO" 8 MINUTES IN

"recently a snake offered me a morsel from the tree of knowledge" reference to deceit but also adam and eve

one of deceit's hands is holding a gavel reference to SvS

also deceit wears a coat just sayin

"No longer will you deceive yourself about the ugliness within you" this means that deceit really doesn't want thomas to lie to himself

why is deceit always the one with multiple arms when half his face is a snake? snakes dont have arms

Is remus holding up the mirror to thomas a reference to remus and roman basically being mirror images of each other?

Remus is SO PALE compared to thomas WHICH IS WEIRD CUZ THOMAS IS ALREADY REALLY PALE

I think remus is actually a lot smarter than he seems he knows how to manipulate thomas into believing hes a bad person by using religious topics and language, something that's been with thomas his whole life

also while remus is singing about hell he turns from normal to fully colored green, similar to all the other sides

Virgil looks so disturbed and frustrated after the song

"I'm really stupid right now" MOOD

when remus agrees with thomas that roman's his creativity he's just like "yeah...." SIBLING RELATIONSHIPS TO A T

Virgil and Remus argue like they know each other super well

Patton's so pure he doesn't even like to say "B-hole" precious dad

Remus uses words that have been said before to back himself up "Why do you want to stifle your own creativity, thomas?" 12 Days of Christmas: "We shouldn't stifle Roman's creative whimsy!" also all the other times roman's admitted to feeling ignored

Virgil's so uncomfortable he might have been afraid that remus would outright say that hes a dark side (bc honestly remus seems like the kind of guy to do that)

Why does remus like Jeffery Dommer so much?

also when remus turned his head to the side at about 10:30 the music matches and sounds like hes cracking his neck

Remus gets confused for a moment when Logan takes his "lot of good that did him!" seriously this seems to be a recurring theme throughout all the dark sides: them being confused by logan taking things literally You think I'm joking? I'm not Virgil early on gets frustrated that logan seems to "only take what he says literally" and I'm pretty sure I remember some time where deceit has to stop to process the fact that logan took one of his metaphors seriously

LOGAN IS A PSYCHOLOGY NERD AND WOULD LIKELY BE A PRETTY DECENT THERAPIST. YOU CAN NOT CHANGE MY MIND

Patton looks so scared when logan asks him to do the experiment. Hes like "what? what do you need me for? what's going on?"

virgil looks so tired and annoyed when he says "good save"

LOGAN GIVING OUT VALIDATION TO PATTON AND THEN LATER TO VIRGIL IS ADORABLE

wait does virgil blow at his bangs whenever he's really annoyed or anxious? because he did that in moving on part 2 while he was dealing with his panic attack in pattons room and then in this episode where he is clearly anxious throughout the whole thing

"No mommy I dont want the mashed potatoes" ROMAN HAS A MOM WHICH MEANS THAT REMUS HAS A MOM BUT WHO TF IS THEIR MOM

when thomas calls remus scary and he responds with that it sounds like a virgil problem Virgil glares at him so clearly defensive and angry remus just smiles like "yeah, i know whats going on"

virgil's the only one who doesnt suspect logan to be deceit when remus claims it

you know when everyone was creating theories about who romans counterpart would be and everyone was expecting them to be extremely elegant and suave? yeah, why the fuck did we think that? If the dark sides are like mirror images of the light sides, then of course remus would be this chaotic demon with literally no elegance whatsoever roman's the elegant, romantic, graceful prince, so of course whatever remus is would be his opposite

Cane and Abel - another biblical reference

also after remus says that virgil looks like hes confused or maybe just deep in thought about something

self-immolate means to set fire to yourself i had to look it up too remus literally wants thomas to strip, set himself on fire and play shake it off

despite all the biblical references reeling thomas in, remus is sooo bad at getting his point across "and then the baby...dies" "AND NO ONE SURVIVES"

a demented version of that "hallelujah" thing plays while hes talking about the baby bird and the airplane

"I am YOUR creativity" at that it flashes to Virgil, who looks like hes thinking about it. probably a sort of build-up to show how long virgil thinks about it before admitting that remus had a point

virgil looks so nervous when remus says that hes never been one to soften the truth

"why would you aspire to be so...boring?" (i feel like the word aspire there is important for some reason)

patton tries so hard to believe that thomas is a good person to the point where he ignores logic

THAT TURN TO LOGAN REMUS DOES IS SO FRICKIN TERRIFYING

it seems like both remus and deceit seem to understand that logan is the most dangerous for them remus threatens logan to try and get him to stop talking deceit chucks logan to the very back of the courtroom in SvS

"TURN INTO A GHOST" "TURN INTO THE HULK"

"I merely gave him a baby...AND A LARGE SHARP KNIFE" ME

"one of you is enough!" I wonder how that line affected Virgil? since it's possible that at this time he was already doubting whether or not hes really grown

PATTON LITERALLY DOESN'T KNOW WHAT REPRESSION IS

that voice-crack when virgil says "But what if he's lying?" That might show how he feels about lying and deceit a bit more. he might be terrified at the thought of being lied to

paranoid is definitely a really bad word to virgil and the others know it. virgil and patton turn to look at logan the moment he says it, and logan freezes for a moment to change it into something better

when both virge and remus say "but what about jeffery dommer" virgil just looks so scared, his eyes darting around as if his mind is racing, probably worried that he really hasnt grown

they keep referring back to "that can't be where the bar is"

Logan says "figuratively" to stop Remus

"I LOVE BEING GIVEN TWO D's AT ONCE"

Virgil looks so afraid that he's still the bad guy in this its so sad

both patton and virgil laugh at poop jokes they are 29— they are very mature adults

"I would never hide anything from you" *glances at virgil* I feel like that might have been the moment virgil realized he couldn't just hide him being a dark side much longer

THEY DON'T EVEN LOOKED SCARED WHEN REMUS SCREAMED THEY JUST LOOKED ANNOYED

as the vid goes on remus tries more and more to be noticed

why did logan ask virgil how thomas was feeling instead of patton? was it because he knew thomas was really anxious or because he felt like patton would claim that he was feeling fine?

while everyone's calming down during logan's lecture, virgil just seems to grow more and more anxious, since he knows that he'll probably have to tell thomas that hes a dark side

thomas and virgil STILL dont want to go to a therapist

virgil just looks so guilty when thomas decides to lie down on the couch

"It was just like old times" when remus says that patton and logan just look so mad that he would say that

after that logan glances up at virgil to see how he feels aww

VIRGIL'S SMILE WHEN ROMAN GETS BACK UP IS SO UNSURE YET SO HOPEFUL AT THE SAME TIME

everyone just looks so proud of logan awww

virgil sounds so lost when hes about to reveal himself

he never calls them "the dark sides", just "the others"

virgil looks on the verge of tears when he says "because i was one of them". it shows how much this affects him, and how terrified he is to tell thomas. this is even more terrifying to him than telling them his name, which was shown to be an important thing to him

and afterwards thomas just goes silent, and looks so lost and confused, maybe even betrayed. he clearly needed a moment to think before saying anything

then virgil shrugs and leaves, his eyes red and full of tears, probably too scared to stay any longer

once he leaves thomas just stares at the ground processing the information

i’m bad at theorizing and my thoughts are a mess rn so all of this is probably complete shit

[razrbladekiss]

Tyrants | Chapter Three - Presage

WORD COUNT: 2.4k

WARNINGS: Brief mentions of Wendy’s drug use. Nothing explicitly *bad* goes on here, just some of the usual SOA shit is hinted at. :) Tig <3

MASTERLIST

Ninety degrees was horrendous. Ninety-six degrees saw Isla spiraling toward a fully-fledged mental breakdown, desperate to climb out of her own fucking flesh and melt into the parking lot outside of St. Thomas.

Seeing the Sons sporting leathers, hoodies, and long-sleeved shirts underneath their cuts made her skin crawl, too.

She'd thrown on the flounciest summer dress she owned, thin and wispy, and she was still roasting to death underneath the Californian sunshine.

It felt like they were living in the fucking ass-crack of hell.

Though, with their current state and Charming's infestation of ATF and other federal agents, hell wasn't too far off the mark.

"Thanks for the ride." Isla expressed her gratitude as she slid off of the back of Tig's bike, pulling the helmet away from loose blonde curls.

"No problem, baby--you good to get home, yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm meeting Gem here, so she'll take me back to T M in time to pick my car up," she confirmed, readjusting herself.

She couldn't risk Tig Trager getting an eyeful of her asscheeks today. Not again, anyway.

"Perfect. See 'ya later, beautiful." Isla leaned in for him to peck her cheek--which was habitual for the pair--and she did the same.

Her smile was wide. She was beaming. "Bye, Tiggy. I love you."

"Love you too, kid." He reciprocated the smile, squeezing her hand as she broke away and padded toward the steps, brushing her fingers through wind-tousled strands.

Things were, for the first time in about a week, finally looking up. Resuming a sense of normality, perhaps.

She and Trager had been on precarious terms since that day, and had been avoiding one another altogether. Which, for them, was strange.

Days went by without even so much as a word being uttered between the pair, no backhanded comments, or even sideways glances.

Usually, they'd be bickering like kids, arguing nonsensically until Clay or Chibs broke them apart--but it was all just their little bit of fun. Because they bounced off of one another.

They lauded the relationship they shared because, really, it was one of the strongest.

He'd been her official favorite since the very day that they met--he and Bobby were the two she liked to talk to whenever she felt that she couldn't confide in her father.

But the last few days were so fucking hard. She was struggling with the weight of all that she did, coupled with the stress of not being able to discern Tig's current feelings on her.

And after she'd lashed out, had bitched at him for no fucking reason, she was pretty certain that Tiggy didn't want to know anymore.

That was thrown out of the window this morning, however, when Isla's clutch blew out, and she needed a ride from the garage to the hospital to see Abel.

Of course Tig was there for her. He always would be.

"Hey." Isla spoke softly as she held the little blue bear close to her chest. "I stopped by the gift shop on the way up here--Jax said he's already got bears and balloons comin' outta his ass, so I thought what's one more?"

Gemma couldn't help but smile, gesturing for the blonde to sit with her opposite Abel's isolette.

"He'll love you for it," she joked, though she knew that she was appreciative. For her company more so the stuffed animal.

With their commitment to the club and the current battle against the ATF, Jax and Clay weren't as hands on as what they usually would've liked.

Of course, Teller was at that baby's side whenever he got the chance to break away from SAMCRO, but he wanted more. He wanted the satisfaction of knowing that his little boy was being provided with the best possible care at St. Thomas.

And he was. He absolutely was. But he needed to know--for his own peace of mind, he needed to see that. So, his mother was there every waking fucking moment, giving him that love he could only get from his Grandma.

"How's he doing?" Her query was braided around a whisper, worried she'd disturb Abel's peaceful rest. "Jax said he should be coming home soon."

Gemma simply affirmed with a nod, gazing affectionately at her grandson.

It was heartwarming to see so much love, so much adoration from a woman who had a reputation for being a fucking cunt--thus proving that Gemma's main priority was her family, and their health and happiness.

That, somehow, made Isla love her even more than what she already did.

It also made her a tad jealous of Jax and the fact that he still had his mother in his life.

"He's gettin' stronger and stronger everyday. Tara said he'll be set to leave Friday--"

"Tara?" Her brow lifted as she put the bear amongst the pile of gifts. "I thought she was a doctor, I didn't think she had anything to do with the babies?"

Gemma's smile faltered a little. "She's a pediatric surgeon. Been takin' care of Abel since the start."

"Oh."

Now, she would've known that if she'd taken the time to visit her best friend's kid since he was born. But she hadn't--she hadn't even considered taking a trip over to St. Thomas to check in on Jax's baby.

And it was for the simple fucking reason that she couldn't bear the thought of facing Wendy and having to be nice to her. Especially after what she fucking did to that poor little boy.

She subsequently landed her own flesh and blood in the hospital after shooting heroin while pregnant? And she wanted Jax to pardon her for it?

Isla wasn't a hateful person, she didn't care about what people did in their spare time because that was their time.

But the moment an innocent person was harmed due to the carelessness of others...That was when she felt a scathing animosity.

"She's good with him." Gemma stated bitterly, snapping Isla from her ire-fueled daydream. "Kills me to say it, but she's a gem. A real fuckin' star."

"I'd bet. She was always good with kids."

"Yeah?" Suddenly interested, the older woman crossed over her arms. "Who's kids?"

Finally, Isla took a seat beside her on top of plush blue leather.

"A few of the girls we were in high school with had kids pretty young and Tara was usually super keen to hold them, or just hang out at their places whenever we weren't at school. Or it could've just been the wannabe doctor in her, now that I think about it."

"She's pretty maternal," Isla hummed in agreement, "but I'm glad she and Jax never had kids when you were teenagers--I don't know how that would've looked for him."

Suddenly, she was staring at Gemma like she had two fucking heads.

"I don't trust her." She elaborated, drawing another confused glance from Isla. "She and Jax would have been a fucking disaster had she stayed--"

"And things worked out so much better with Wendy?" A little more vehemently than intended, the blonde asked.

Now Gemma was the one shooting dirty looks.

"Look, Gem, I'm just saying. Jax and Tara are history now, yeah? You don't have to trust her. Just thank her for what she's doing for your grandson because when he's outta this place, you won't need to worry about her."

"And you're so sure about that, huh?" Skeptically, she asked. Arms folded over. "You know what they're like--like two fucking magnets or something. They always find a way back to one another."

That line gutted her.

It hurt her--it was agonizing--but she wasn't sure why she was so beaten by it. Because it was the truth, wasn't it?

Tara and Jax were, at one point, the strongest couple she'd ever known, and when it fizzled out he was fucking broken. She hadn't seen him so downtrodden since JT had passed, and he was suddenly left without the strength and guidance of his father.

She was his everything. Isla was a fool to think he'd be able to see her back in Charming and not feel something for her. His first love.

"I think we should throw Abel a homecoming party on Friday--if he's coming home then, that is." Gemma shifted the topic of conversation, getting to her feet.

"Absolutely. I'll help."

"Yeah?" She asked a little doubtingly, reaching over to pick Abel up. "You don't have to--I know you work Friday's."

Isla waved her off, standing beside the brunette. "I do, but it's no bother. If everyone's gonna be there, then I wanna show my face too. Offer a helping hand of some sort."

"Alright, perfect," Gem stated softly, holding the baby close to her chest. "When we get back to T M, we can figure out what we need to get."

"Sounds like a plan--" Isla was cut off by a soft knocking at the door, irritating her a little bit because she'd only just gotten there and hated the idea of having to leave already.

She made a mental note to stop by a little earlier tomorrow.

"Hey, sorry to bother you--" Tara stopped herself when she needed her estranged friend, almost dropping the clipboard she was holding against her chest.

Isla Telford was the last fucking person she expected to see today.

"Hey," with a fake smile, she greeted.

The tension was palpable.

Gemma felt the irritation washing over her favorite of the duo, urging her to turn her attention back toward her grandson before she said anything to worsen the situation.

Because she would've.

"Uh, I've gotta run a few tests on Abel before we determine that he'll be ready to leave this week, if that's alright?" Tara gestured to Gemma, ignoring Isla's presence.

That stung a little bit.

"Yeah. It's fine." The response was blunt. Terse, to a point.

"Great."

Isla realized that she wasn't wanted in that space any longer. She grabbed her purse, turning toward the door. "I'll meet you outside."

"Yeah, alright," Gemma put the baby back into his crib, smiling at Isla. "You want my keys?"

"I'll wait on the steps--I'm gonna smoke--"

"Before you go," Tara cut in. She cleared her throat, trying to smile--but she just couldn't.

Telford sensed where it was going, however. There wasn't a reason for her to stop Isla in her tracks, in front of Gemma no less.

She wondered how long it'd take for it to be brought up.

"Thanks."

Gratitude genuinely swept over the doctor, letting Isla know she was truthful in her acknowledgment--or, was it more like a form of praise? Because Jax definitely told Tara what they both did for her, and she was astounded that the woman would even float the idea of helping out.

It was a strange notion. To know what she did--when she looked and acted like that--was fucking weird. And nobody would've believed her if she said that Isla helped to dispose of a dead body, which did make her laugh a little.

She knew how to hold, load, and fire a pistol, but she wasn't capable of committing the unspeakable the same way that Jax, or Chibs, or Clay were capable of it.

But she was slowly earning her title as 'Daughter of Sgt. At Arms/ Man of Mayhem.' And she wasn't sure how she liked that.

"You're welcome," she spoke plainly. "Hope everything is alright now, Tara."

"It is."

"Good." Her retort was immediate, laced with that same genuineness the other woman expressed. "You free this coming friday?"

Hesitantly, she nodded.

"If all goes to plan--and Abel is good to come home--we're gonna throw a little party for the boy," Gemma confirmed with a nod. "You wanna swing by? Everyone'll be there--Donna, Ope, their kids, Wendy, the rest of the Sons. You should come. It'll be nice for everyone to see 'ya again."

Wendy's name falling from those pink lips, in such a positive light, maimed Isla. She and Jax were starting to get along a little bit better now, but she was still wary of that woman.

"Yeah. It'll be great," the older woman added.

Tara felt cornered. She knew that she wasn't really wanted, and she also knew that was a way for Isla and her menopausal best friend--old enough to be her fuckin' mom--to keep the doctor as close as possible without explicitly saying that they wanted to keep an eye on her.

"Sure. I'll stop by."

"Brilliant." Gemma conceded, slipping past the pair. "Address hasn't changed, sweetheart."

It was passive aggressive, sickly-sweet, and it was Gemma to a fucking T. The woman was loathing every second she had to spend with Tara Knowles and she wasn't even trying to hide it.

But it didn't have to be for very long, she thought.

"What was that all about? Why'd she thank you?" Gem queried as they got outside, passing the lighter to her left.

"For not breaking her fucking neck when I had the chance to all those years ago, probably."

Isla sparked her cigarette, pacing alongside her as they headed toward the car.

"That's bullshit."

"How so?"

"Just is." She could read Chibs's little girl like a fucking book. "But I won't press--if it's something between you and Tara, I don't care to hear. Just lemme know if it goes south. I can put a bullet in her for you, baby."

Isla would've laughed had she not known that Gemma was deadly fucking serious about blowing Tara's brains out.

But it was a relief. For her to give it up just like that--uncharacteristically so--was a kind of relief that she never thought she'd feel from Gemma Teller.

She was used to being protected. Used to being viewed as the one that needed to be shielded from the horrors that shrouded the Sons. But Isla wasn't innocent, nor was she fucking stupid.

The security was appreciated, however. Because, lately, things just didn't seem to be going too great for her.

And, if she'd learned anything, they'd only worsen from here on out.

"You don't have to go full mama bear mode, Gem. I'm a big girl."

She laughed, turning to face Isla.

"I know," smoke blew from her nose, "but you've gotta protect the ones you wanna keep close, y'know? The ones you love."

The tip of Gemma's boot pulverized her cigarette into the sidewalk as she fished for the car keys, avoiding eye contact all together.

"I haven't been able to protect everyone I've wanted to from the shit that goes on in this town, honey, but I'm really tryin'. And I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you or my boy."