#broken and contrite heart

[kdmiller55]

Brokenness Before Forgiveness

23 “Then Aaron shall come into the tent of meeting and shall take off the linen garments that he put on when he went into the Holy Place and shall leave them there. 24 And he shall bathe his body in water in a holy place and put on his garments and come out and offer his burnt offering and the burnt offering of the people and make atonement for himself and for the people. 25 And the fat of the…

[robincalamaio]

"Never Despise" - Commentary & Sermonette

[perlelune]

Oblivion | Paul Atreides

There used to be beginnings and ends, nights and days, dream and reality, before the haze took over, swallowing every thought, every memory, every whisper of free will.

Warnings: NON-CON, Fremen Reader, Kynes!Reader, Mind Control, Memory Manipulation, Padishah Emperor Paul, Loss of Identity, Brainwashing, Mentions of war and religious fanaticism

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Muad’Dib leads the way. 

It is what the prophecy dictates. That he is the voice from the Outer World. The one who will lead your people to paradise. The one who will turn Dune’s arid desert lands into bountiful, endless green fields. 

But as your eyes rest on him, you do not see the chosen one. You do not see the Lisan Al-Ghaib. You see your friend Paul, broken, lost, his heart shattered into a million pieces due to your cousin’s absence. 

He sits at the head of his bed, shadows fluttering across his delicate features from the glowglobes’ dull orange light. Wide black rings surround his sunken blue eyes, the result of his daily consumption of spice melange. Lank, greasy brown curls hang around his handsome face. A pang twists your chest. He hasn’t slept in days, has barely gotten a full night of replenishing sleep since she left on a maker’s back.

You cannot blame your cousin. Paul’s ascendency to the Golden Lion throne came at a cost. A hefty one. Promises were broken. Trust was destroyed. Only time will repair the damage that was done. Though you carry faith the two of them will find their way back to each other. 

You stir the spice-coffee in the pot, straining the shimmering dark powder before pouring some in a cup. A spicy cinnamon smell coats the cool night air. 

You rise and bring the cup to him.

“For you, Usul.”

A soft smile blooms on his lips as he takes a slow, weary sip.

“You make it so well,” he praises.

You glow at the compliment, returning his smile. Your grandmother used to show you and Chani how to blend coffee beans with spice and herbs. The knowledge never left you. Now, every time you feel troubled or upset, you make a fresh kettleful. A single sip of the familiar brew is enough to alleviate your frazzled nerves. Especially here, so far away from Sietch Tabr, between the strange stone walls of the Arrakeen Keep, you have craved little reminders of home more than ever before.

Fremen belong in the desert, not in peculiar tents made of marble and stone.

Paul’s brows crumple as he studies you. 

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he says.

“I can get another Fremen-”

His fingers latch around your wrist, desperation sizzling under his touch. 

“I prefer it to be you.” He sighs. A bone deep fatigue radiates from the sound. You halt in your tracks. You suppose you could stay a while longer. “Please, stay, your presence soothes me.”

You nod. “I’ll stay, Muad’Dib.”

Relief falls over his features. 

The doors suddenly open, the guards stepping aside to let Stilgar in. He bows to Paul.

“Lisan Al-Ghaib…”

Your friend’s mouth flattens into a thin line. 

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

Stilgar acquiesces. He will never stop addressing Paul with reverence and admiration. None of his followers believes in him more. At times, it scares you a little. While you share the same faith, the fervor with which every Fedaykin is willing to lay their swords in his name can be frightening. Sometimes you wonder if Chani was right. How much will it take to liberate your world? How much blood will require spilling? You’re not completely naive. No war was ever won without a few casualties. Still, part of you hopes the war will end soon and peaceful times will come.

“No sign of her?” Paul asks. 

A contrite expression tugs the older man’s face.

“Apologies, my liege. We scouted the Southern regions this time. We couldn’t find her. She knows the desert well. It is home to us Fremen. She will not be found…”

“...Unless she wants to be found,” you finish, grabbing the empty cup from Paul’s hands and placing it back on the table.

The faint embers of hope in Paul’s cobalt gaze flicker out. Your heart sinks, for both you and him. Though you do not wish to burden him, you miss your cousin too. Her practicality and common sense. Her strength. Without her, a piece of you is missing. A crucial one. Your mother died in childbirth and your father in battle, so both of you grew up together, close enough in age to share secrets and play together for most of your childhood. 

It was Chani who taught you how to summon a worm and ride upon its back for the first time. She is the sister tragic circumstances blessed you with.

Stilgar apologizes profusely once more before taking his leave.

As soon as he’s gone, Paul’s shoulders slump.

“She hates me.” 

You crouch beside him.

“She doesn’t hate you. She never could. She is your quiet in the storm, and you are hers. She will return when she is ready.”

A wry laugh escapes his lips. 

“I have Irulan, my beloved wife, who is likely plotting my demise as we speak. Qizarate missionaries pressing me to take action and purge the non-believers on Aldinor. I am surrounded by foes, everywhere I look.” That distant expression he gets whenever his visions haunt him touches his face. “Blades pointed at my neck at all times, waiting for a sign of weakness to strike.”

You grab his hand, reassuring him, “You also have friends, Usul, who believe in your cause.”

“Fanatics,” he corrects bitterly. 

Your chest swells with worry. You don’t like it when he questions himself as such. His cause is right. He freed Arrakis from the Harkonnen’s iron-fisted rule. He will bring peace to every world in the universe. It is written. It’s the only path forward.

“You are not alone.” His fingers squeeze around yours. Warmth rushes to your face, the realization that you’re awfully close to the Emperor striking you. You adjust the nezhoni scarf covering your hair and rise. “I shall let you rest, my Lord.”

“Stay, please.”

His tone is beseeching. Your gaze swings to the window. There, moon beams pierce through the colorful glass, scattering rainbow splashes of light across the floor. Vibrant stars pepper the dark sky, pearls lost in a sea of ink. It’s pitch black outside. You should be in your own room. Not his.

“Muad’Dib, it’s late…”

His grip on your hand tightens. When he speaks again, his tone is different. Disembodied. Powerful. Its tantalizing echo drips inside your head like honey. 

“Stay,” he mumbles. You plop down on the bed, your body moving on its own, driven by the strange, irresistible thrall of Paul’s voice.

“Usul…” 

He cups your cheeks. 

“Sleep beside me tonight.”

“I’m not her.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

“She should be with me and she isn’t. But you are.” His inflection becomes soft and inviting as he drinks you in. As if he were lumbering through the desert, parched and desperate, and you were a well overflowing with fresh water. “You are beautiful. I never noticed before.” He pauses, tracing your bottom lip. “Perhaps I should have.”

You blink, dazed. When did Paul’s face get so close to yours? You can outline each of his long lashes, the speckles of green lingering in his blue eyes. 

“Paul-”

His mouth grazes yours, his thumb stroking your cheeks. It only lasts a few seconds. The warm plushness of his lips on yours yanks you back to reality. You gasp and flinch back. When you recoil, his silky tone fills your ears once more.

“Don’t fight it. You love me, remember?”

A confused whisper slips through your lips. Two parts of your mind wrestle with Paul’s words. 

“I do?”

His eyes dive into yours.

“Of course, you do.”

“Of course I do,” you repeat, his tone nudging aside the doubts lurking inside your mind. 

A bright smile unfurls on his lips, his lids sagging to half-mast.

“It’s like you said before. You are my quiet in the storm and I am yours.”

Right. You uttered those very same words. How could you forget?

You are Paul’s quiet in the storm. He is yours.

His mouth covers yours. It moves slowly against your own. He explores your mouth as he cradles your face. His long lashes fall over his cheekbones as he loses himself in your taste. He hums against your lips, gentle fingers touching your face. You don’t move, eyes half-open as you let it happen. It’s foreign, the sensation of Paul’s lips on yours. Foreign and strange yet you can’t help but numbly accept it. 

Once he frees your lips, he rests his forehead against yours. 

“Come into my arms, my love,” he says.

You don’t resist as he pulls you into his embrace, nudging you onto the bed. Soft strands of Paul’s brown mane brush against your cheek as he buries his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling your spice-coated scent. 

His arms circle your waist. Your back melds against his chest, the warmth of your bodies mingling through the thin layers of your clothes. 

“You smell so good,” he mutters. Your scarf shifts when he rubs his face against it. “Don’t ever leave me.”

When you don’t reply, his tone gets firmer. “Promise it.”

The words roll off your tongue easily.

“I won’t ever leave you, Paul.”

Tension leaks out of his tightly coiled muscles. 

“Good,” he says, drifting off to sleep quickly with you nestled in his snug embrace. 

You fall asleep too, no thoughts in your head, Paul’s soft snores lulling you into peaceful slumber. 

You awake with a start, the stark unfamiliarity of the palatial chambers you find yourself in causing your pulse to soar. Your eyes dart about the room. Recognition hits you. These are the Emperor’s apartments.

Your eyes grow wide. You’re not supposed to be here. Panic sets in.

“W-What am I doing here?”

Paul’s quiet voice flows across your back.

“Calm down.”

“No. I shouldn’t be here…”

You start crawling off the bed but Paul’s fingers around your wrist impede your departure. 

He holds your face, vibrant blue eyes locking with yours. You find yourself incapable of looking away, ensnared by his unflinching focus.

“I said, Calm down.”

The alarms ringing inside your head fall quiet. You lean into Paul’s touch. What were you doing? What were you thinking? Every thought you attempt to grasp at evaporates in the heat of Muad’Dib’s stare. 

“There. Much better,” he coos, satisfaction hovering on his handsome face. His voice sinks into a sensual whisper. “Why don’t you kneel for me?”

You do as he instructs. Then all fades to black as quicksands of confusion engulf your thoughts. 

When you return to yourself, you aren’t on the bed anymore, but on your knees on the carpeted floor. 

Paul is looming over you, grunting, his throat bobbing. One of his hands is curled around your nape while the other is under your jaw. 

You note the saltiness coating your tongue, the drool on your chin, the soreness in the back of your throat. 

You choke on his length, air wavering inside your lungs. 

Paul’s cock is in your mouth. 

The sick, awful realization tumbles over you like a bag of stones. 

Muffled moans leave you as you lift pleading eyes towards him.

You place your hands on his thighs, shoving with all your strength. 

Paul doesn’t let you move. He cradles your face and thrusts inside your mouth until his balls are pressed into your chin. 

Clouds of lust obscure his gaze as it falls upon you. 

He caresses your face, dragging his cock out before pushing it inside your mouth again. Gurgled sounds leave your throat. Tears skip down your cheeks and you wonder when you’ve started crying. 

Fremen do not cry. Ever. Even for the dead. It is a rare, sacred act.

Paul wipes them off your face with his thumbs. 

“You love me. It is what lovers do,” he says matter-of-factly.

Your body relaxes. 

Right. Of course. You love him. It is what lovers do. 

You hollow your cheeks and suck him off. He unleashes a throaty sigh of delight as you pleasure him with your mouth. 

When his seed drips down your tongue, he coaxes you not to waste a single drop. You swallow all of it, showing no resistance when he nudges a stray drop between your wet lips. 

Several days in a row, you awake in the emperor’s chambers. At first, you experience great confusion. However, Paul’s soothing words always quell your rising panic. It becomes all you know. The Emperor’s mesmerizing voice. His large, soft bed. His ceaseless, ravenous touch. 

Sweaty, tangled limbs melting in lewd harmony.

You stop questioning it. Even the strange lapses of time when you are in one room and mysteriously wind up in another. It isn’t rare for you to wake up with the Emperor’s head bobbing between your thighs, greedily lapping at your folds, or with your hips grinding into his as he impales you on his cock. 

It is where you belong. And you believe him when he says that, mumbling loving promises into your ear in the dead of night.

“If we do not strike fast and hard, they will not accept your rule,” Stilgar says. 

“They worship a false god. We are doing them a favor,” another man sitting at the table interjects. 

A shaky exhale flows from your tongue. You look around, dismay filling you when you realize you’re in Paul’s war room amidst a council meeting. Your head throbs. How did you get here?

You rise from your chair. Bemused gazes land on you. 

Princess Irulan snickers from her seat.

“Husband, your concubine is acting strange,” she sneers.

Concubine? You step away from the table.

You blink several times as you stumble outside. You grip your temples, your forehead scrunching. That cannot be right. Is it? 

You are no one’s concubine. 

You are…

You are…

Adrenaline pumps through your blood as your head buzzes. 

The answer will not come, your mind keeping it under firm lock and key.

Frustration mounts within you. You blindly waddle around.

You end up in a room that bears vague familiarity. You lean against a basin full of water. Water…just lying around. That seems strange.

Your eyes land on a mirror on the opposite wall. The reflection in the glass has your heart rate spiking. Who is this?

You bolt to your feet, the water in the basin splashing around your feet. 

Your tremulous fingers rise to your face, horror filling you when the woman in the mirror mimicks your exact motions. 

Your gaze travels across the wide, open space. Quick breaths rush from your throat. The Emperor’s room. Why did you think it was your room? 

You stagger backwards. You gasp as you bump into a solid form.

You whirl, eyes widening.

“Paul.”

He gauges you, slight concern etched in his blue eyes. Relief fills you as you soak in his boyish, slender features, much more familiar than those of the stranger in the mirror. 

You know Paul. Muad’Dib. Paul is familiar, safe. You trust him. He will tell you who you are.

“Yes, my love?”

“Paul, who am I?”

A displeased frown settles on his brow. He approaches you and grabs your face. His expression hardens.

“You are mine. Nothing else matters.”

“But Paul-”

Your protests are stifled by the feverish press of his lips on yours. A fog surrounds your thoughts as his kiss grows more passionate, his hands sweeping over your curves. You place your hand on his chest, pushing feebly.  

“Forget it. Forget it all, beloved,” he mumbles against your lips. You sag against him. You drown in Paul’s blue eyes, time stretching beyond eternity. 

When you gain a semblance of awareness, your naked form is writhing above Paul’s. Your palms are spread over his lithe muscles, your hips moving as he slams his cock into your cunt repetitively. Paul bites his lip, his gaze glued to the sight of his length disappearing between your wet folds. 

When did you get on the bed? When did you shed your clothes?

Every inquiry melts in the heat swirling across your damp flesh. 

Your lashes flutter as you unleash a broken whimper, Paul’s hard length touching you in places that send electricity rippling through your spine.

You tighten around him and he purrs. 

“Remember nothing but my name,” he rasps, clutching your hips possessively. He impales you on his length, thrusting faster. You choke on your breath, his quickening pace driving you wild.

You brace yourself on his chest and lose yourself in the pleasure, your breath hitching each time he pounds into you.

The filthy sounds of your coupling fill the room, bouncing off the stone walls. Paul’s deep, animalistic moans. Your soft, desperate whimpers. The blunt, wet sounds your cunt makes as he buries himself inside you. The bed rattling and squeaking under your writhing forms.

“Paul, Paul…” you pant as you bounce on his cock. An intensity ignites his eyes as his name falls from your tongue like a prayer. You toss your head back, voice dying in your throat as another wave of pleasure crashes over you. Your toes flex. You tremble, your body jolting as your slick walls flutter around his length. A husky moan leaves him. He twitches inside you. His back lifts from the sheets, his body tensing as he hits his peak too. Slick warmth spills from his tip, glazing your walls. 

An errant sliver of panic lurks inside your brain. Your eyes bulge as you glance down at where your body and Paul’s are conjoined. Rapid breaths burst from your chest.

Seeming to sense your distress, he shoves your hips back down when you try to squirm away.

His authoritative voice booms across the room, unnatural, multiplied. Everywhere at once. 

“Do not move, beloved. Let me fill you up. Make you mine in every way.”

Your breaths settle down. Your worries disappear. You look into Paul’s loving gaze. A smile unfans on his lips as you ride him with abandon again.

“What are you doing?”

You pivot at the abrupt sound of Paul’s voice. You pause above the bag you’re packing. You peer at him, mulling over an appropriate answer to his question. You do not find one. You only know that you stirred awake that morning, feeling strange, sore…Lost. The urge to collect your meager belongings and leave the Arrakeen Keep seared inside you since then. A hollow, distant voice rings inside your head.

Return to Sietch Tabr.

“I have to go. Something…Something isn’t feeling right.”

The muscles of Paul’s jaw flare, his tone as ice as he states, “You want to leave me.”

Discarding your bag, you rush to him. You take his hands in yours.

“No. I made you a promise. I just need time to think…I can’t think anymore, Paul.”

It’s true. Every day feels like trudging through a Coriolis storm, your thoughts scattering as dust in the wind the minute they form.

Everything that was solid before is now sand slipping through your fingers.

Paul’s gaze corrals yours.

“You don’t need to,” he says, gripping your face. His tone dips to a soft lilt that penetrates your senses. “Who are you?”

You search his eyes. A breeze blows away every single doubt you had.

The answer to every inquiry you had is right there. In Paul’s fond stare.

The persistent little voice in your head, that pesky plea begging to be heard suddenly falls quiet. The truth echoes in your head, Paul’s powerful voice filling your mind.

You are right where you belong. 

“I’m yours,” you utter with certainty.

His face softens. “That is correct, my love,” he says, stroking your cheek.

“Now, why don’t you settle down, beloved?” You let him escort you to the bed, coaxing you to take a seat on the sheets. “Agitating yourself as such isn’t good for you.”

He sinks to the floor and drops a gentle kiss over your round belly.

“And it’s not good for the baby either.”

[scripture-pictures]

[thewalrusespublicist]

Cynthia Lennon truly was gods strongest soldier. Like imagine your husband, your childhood sweetheart, father of your child, the man who carved your name into the churches of Europe as his form of worship. This same man, the man who once wrote you aching letters about wanting to live and be alone with just you, telling you and the world that he can’t be apart from his boy besties for five minutes.

Then barely a year later he gets into a frankly comical amount of LSD, essentially moves in with his most special boy bestie, goes through his multiple affairs in detail with you like a hellish ‘what I did on my holidays’ slideshow, and finally tells you that he wants to leave you by having his mistress/heroin buddy/your former stalker sit on the sofa wearing your dressing gown as you return home from holiday before dragging you through the court until you are broken in every sense. Broken hearted, broken financially and broken homed. You are destitute, in tatters with a little boy he won’t see due to distance and commitment to said former stalker who he is parading round with on a ‘peace and love’ tour whilst filling up rooms with fur coats.

Then a few years later he temporarily splits from his new wife, seems to recover himself slightly and finally trots out a song. A song of apology, contrition, love, devotion, and recommitment full of personal little in jokes and messages. It is a song of love but you can’t understand it because it isn’t to YOU, it mostly isn’t even to HER, but to his FORMER BANDMATE.

HIS. FORMER. BANDMATE.

With hammers. I would have killed him with hammers.

[thewordfortheday]

Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Psalm 51:10

David knew that his disobedience and sin had broken God’s heart, and broken his relationship with God. And as a result, his spirit and his heart were broken; broken to the point of contrition. He asked God to "Create in him a clean heart and to renew a right spirit within his soul." David’s repentance did not stem from fear of punishment. He repented for having offended God and at the rebuke of the prophet Nathan, David realized he had foolishly destroyed something precious-his fellowship with God.

Although his heart was crushed by his shame and sorrow over his sin, he knew the great magnitude of God’s mercy. Once his sins are confessed, forgiven, and purged, David begged God for His "Choicest Gifts": restoration of joy.... God’s presence and .... His Holy Spirit.

Take an honest look at your life, are you in the right standing with God? If not, confess your sin, repent and get right with Him. He is merciful to forgive you and His precious blood washes even your inmost being and makes you white as snow.

[missvelvetsstuff]

No Benefits

Bucky x Reader

Summary: Reader and Bucky are best friends until a drunken hook up. Bucky wants a friends with benefits situation because he doesn't feel ready for a relationship but reader knows that will lead to a broken heart.

Then Sharon Carter comes to work with them.

Notes: Steve, Nat and Tony are around but retired, everything else is mostly canon

Chapter 9

Warnings: Swearing, angst

Bucky spent the next week the same way he spent the previous week, since Cookie left, seeing Dr Raynor every day and writing to Cookie after his sessions. Raynor had suggested it. Of course, she told him to bare his soul and dispose of the letters but he felt the need to finally reach out to Cookie. He needed to tell her the whole truth even if she had moved on with that rich guy in Boston.

So he wrote everything and mailed them to the new address that was listed for her on the SWORD employee directory. He wanted to go see her but didn't know if she wanted to see him so just kept writing and sending the letters, almost every day.

A couple of nights after she disappeared, Natasha showed up in Bucky's room in the middle of the night, waking him up as she sat on his groin. Before he could even think about anything he had her pinned to the wall with his vibranium hand around her throat. He kept her there as he shook the sleep off, his hand tight enough to hold her there but not so tight that she couldn't breathe or speak.

"Nat? What the Hell?"

She smirked "I was going to wake you up with a surprise." Licking her lips "Do you remember how much I loved the arm? This feels different than the titanium but not in a bad way." and moaning "Show me what it does, Soldat."

Bucky flinched at the name and pulled his hand away from her.

"No, Natalia, I don't want you. After everything that's happened I don't want anything to do with you. Why can't you understand?"

Nat snapped back "I was being controlled and manipulated too you know. Where's my forgiveness?"

Bucky shook his head "I know you were but you keep acting like you were before so I have to wonder how contrite you really are." He sighed "You need to get to medical. Sharon was checked out and that serum was still affecting her but the docs gave her something to counteract it and she's better now. You're still under some level of Antonia's control, don't you want to get out from under it?"

Nat rubbed up against him "Please, I'm fine. Besides Buck, we were good together before. Don't you remember?"

Bucky sighed "I remember two people in a completely fucked situation that needed some human companionship. That's all."

Nat tried to convince him, reaching out "But, Bucky-"

"No!" he grabbed her outstretched hand and didn't let go when she twisted around and kicked him in the gut. Instead he grabbed her ankle with his vibranium hand and pulled so she hit the floor, knocking the wind out of her, then sat on her straddling her hips and held both wrists.

Nat caught her breath before she realized the position they were in. She smirked and started to wiggle under him "This is definitely something I can work with."

Bucky quickly stood and pulled her up with him just as Sam showed up.

Sam smirked "Looks like the Wolf caught a spider. We can take her to a holding cell until Dr Cho gets here in the morning."

He held up some zip ties and after a short struggle they secured her wrists.

Nat started to squirm "Come on Barnes, let me go. I can't believe you would lock me up after all we've been through."

As he pushed her ahead of him Bucky scoffed "All we've been through is even more reason to lock you up."

He flinched when Nat kicked back and her heel hit his shin "Dammit Romanoff, knock it off. It's only till morning and Dr Cho will take care of you. Sharon had additional treatment and is back to normal."

When they arrived in the holding area Bucky cut the zip tie, pushed Nat into a holding cell, made sure the cell was properly secured and turned the lights off. "Sleep tight."

Nat started yelling and banging on the wall as they walked away which made Sam chuckle. Bucky sighed in relief knowing there was more work to do but getting Nat neutralized was a great start.

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

On Monday, Cookie was the topic of all the most interesting water cooler conversations but she tried to ignore it and get her work done.

Until Tyler knocked on her open office door.

Cookie looked up smiling "Good morning, Tyler. Come on in, have a seat. What can I do for you?"

Tyler looked grim as he stood over her "I'm sure you are aware of the current office gossip."

Cookie shrugged "Yes, I know but it's gossip. I don't pay it much mind."

Tyler glared at her "It's disruptive. You can't just run around doing whatever you want, you know. You don't have the Avengers to protect you here so better learn to behave appropriately on and off the clock."

Cookie stood to her full height and rolled her shoulders back before she spoke, looking straight in his eyes

"I'm only going to say this once, since my arrival here seems to have thrown you off of your groove. I don't report to you, you are not my boss and you have no seniority or rank over me. I don't need anyone to protect me because I'm the best at my job and I've done nothing wrong. I went to a book launch and was seen with the grandson of the author in question. Fully clothed, barely touching the entire time we were in public."

Tyler smirked "And in private? Drysdale has quite the reputation."

Cookie bristled "None of your goddamn business. That's why it's called private. If you can't control your staff then I'd be happy to offer some ideas in that regard but don't come in here trying to shame me for my legal actions in my personal time."

She sat back down and started going through her in-box for a couple of minutes before realizing he was still there.

She scoffed "Was there anything else? I have work to do."

Tyler's face flushed red, he shook his head and stomped away to his office.

Cookie sighed, so many men thinking they have power over women just because they were men. Fewer than before but still too many for her taste. She hoped Tyler would get the message and grow up.

Cookie went to the diner on the first floor for lunch with Annie, who insisted on all the details so she could live vicariously since her life was all marriage and a teething baby right now.

Annie sighed "How fun. Sounds like he really swept you off of your feet. When are you seeing him again?"

Cookie chuckled "Beats me. That wasn't the first chapter in an NC17 fairy tale, it was just two people having some fun, so I don't know if I'll ever see him again. I suppose the odds are good since we work a few buildings apart but I have nothing planned. He doesn't really seem like the prince charming type anyhow."

Annie frowned "Aawww, that's too bad seeing how he is rich and hot but his reputation does precede him. At least he was a good one nighter, I've had plenty that couldn't even be bothered to make me cum."

Cookie laughed out loud "I didn't know that was a problem with women partners."

Annie winked "I never said they were all women but some women are just as bad as some men."

"Well that's depressing."

Cookies alarm went off "That's time, back to the salt mines."

When they arrived back on their floor, there was a crowd by Cookies office and excited murmuring.

Annie stayed back by her desk to watch as Cookie worked her way through the crowd. "Alright folks, nothing to see, everyone back to work becau-" she stopped at the doorway to her office and her eyes grew wide when she saw him sitting at her desk "Oh, hey you" she smiled and rushed into his arms, shocking everyone who was watching.

Nick Fury smiled at her "I wanted to come check up on you before I go to the compound and kick some Avenger ass."

He glared at the people still gawking "Don't you people have some work to do?" and chuckled as they all scattered back to their desks.

Cookie grinned "You should have told me you were coming, I would have waited for you and we could have had lunch."

Nick shrugged "I don't know if anyone has told you but I'm the boss so do things when and how I like."

He closed her office door and they both sat.

"So I know what happened at the compound but why don't you tell me your version."

Cookie shrugged "Nothing really happened. I just realized how difficult seeing me around, reminding them of what they were forced to do, was for Bucky, Sharon and Nat. I didn't want to make their recovery any more difficult."

Nick sighed "What about you and your recovery? Your trauma started before Antonia kidnapped you. I know you and Barnes-"

Cookie shook her head "No, no. I don't want to go there. I'm fine recovering here."

Nick looked at her pointedly "I was going to say you and Barnes were good friends, not to mention Wilson. Now you're here in a new town, new office and separated from your friends. I don't think thats great for you.

I want you back at the compound, asap."

"No, Nick I just, I can't, I-"

Nick softened his tone "Look, not today or even tomorrow but this isn't a permanent move. Stay here a bit, get the analysts in line and please, please keep your boot on Tyler's neck as he has gotten too comfortable thinking he's top dog. But 6 months. A year tops and I want you home. If they have issues I'll deal with them." He looked at his watch and sighed "Speaking of, I need to go ream me some super heroes."

He kissed her on the cheek and left.

A couple of hours later when she went to get more coffee she saw Tyler glaring at her from his office. Jackass, she thought to herself as she gave him a cheery smile and wave. She saw him get up and felt him slam the door because it made the whole floor shake. She laughed all the way back to her desk.

When Cookie arrived home there was a stack of envelopes on the floor under the mail slot. She sighed, picked them up and sat down at the table to go through them. Most went to the trash but there were 3 plain white envelopes with the same writing and return address as the one from the night before.

She sighed and put them with the first letter Bucky sent here, unsure if she was ready to deal with that yet. She ordered Thai for dinner and went to take a quick shower before her food arrived.

Clean and dressed in pj's, Cookie sat on the couch with a glass of wine, a plate of food and the letters from Bucky next to it. She drank, ate and watched the news while regularly looking at the letters, trying to decide what to do about them.

On one hand she was curious about the contents. Especially because there were four now. Why would he write four times? What did he have to say that couldn't have been said in the first letter?

On the other hand, she was feeling more at peace than she had any time in the last,  well however long since she slept with Bucky and wasn't sure she was ready to risk disturbing that peace yet.

Cookie knew that eventually she would need to deal with all of this. Bucky and her feelings for him, plus Nat and Sharon and that whole drama.

She finished her dinner then refilled her wine and grabbed a special brownie to help her sleep.

Eventually but not tonight.

@erelierraceala @capswife @ozwriterchick @cjand10 @wintrsoldrluvr @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @browneyedgrli @greatenthusiasttidalwave @hhiggs @dontworryboutitsweetheart-blog @behindmygreyeyes @pattiemac1 @calwitch @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @ordelixx @blackhawkfanatic @casey1-2007 @scott-loki-barnes @selella @hiireadstuff @winterschildren8

Chapter 10

[stone-stars]

a while ago i saw a post by @sideblogdotjpeg about how the cycles in c3 seem a lot more personal/familial. and i kind of went insane in the tags at the time and i’ve been thinking about it a lot since because like…

you have the heroic cycles that the band of boobs parallel/break on this large scale. the idea of these broken trios of adventurers is there throughout the campaign, but they really start to engage with it towards the end— with the divine hearts, and thiala, and the wheel of suffering/wheel of joy idea. the thing hardwon says as he takes the divine heart, that no matter what anybody chooses from then on it’s with love in their hearts, i feel is very relevant to how they break the cycle. they love each other, and they choose over and over to hold each other tighter rather than be driven apart.

and on the other hand, you have duck team’s refusal of fate vs their family’s resignation to it. look at swag working with mothership, oliana’s contrition, and the stuff that is currently ongoing with gowan. you know— sol is a version of swag who fully rejected mothership and found his friends instead. callie refused to be a part of her family’s business, and her love for the wild and the serpents is giving the world a chance. calder, when he makes the deal with ultrus, telling callie and sol that he trusts them to save him. and now calder is refusing to sit back and let gowan handle things in the ice knife.

it's not that duck team aren't trying to save the world. they are. and it's not that the boobs didn't have a personal connection to the cycles they were breaking. they did. but it's like... well... how do i put this into words. right--

the song melora's boon plays when the boobs arrive at the heart of the world and speak to melora. when she talks to beverly about duty, shows him the places he faltered and how at the last second, he gets back up. (later, when they face thiala, bev doesn't go unconscious once. at one point, he's the only one standing.) for sol, this is the song that plays when he expresses his fear of going down again. when he admits to callie that he's scared of the day that she and calder are down and he's the one that needs to stand up alone. when callie says she's not afraid of that day, and sol finds himself empowered by the mushroom in his chest. the moment that sets up sol's long death monk ability, where he's able to refuse to go down and keep on fighting.

melora’s boon is also the song that plays for moonshine’s boon at the heart of the world. there are actually two songs in this scene, hardwon’s is different, and the transition back happens when melora says there’s a part of herself that moonshine hasn’t embraced. when she speaks to moonshine leading her people to a better future like an alpha wolf leading her pack. for callie, it plays when she tells hardwon and sol that she’s a liability and she needs to change— to embrace winter— in order to get calder back, even as they reassure her that she doesn’t. it also plays when callie asks the others to help her protect honeysuckle while he’s weakened. when they promise to lead honeysuckle home and free him from his connections to gromdal.

the writing on the wall plays when the boobs reach the court of gods. there's the wall of prayers there, and they hear the prayers of the people of bahumia, reaching out to them. prayers of protection-- for and by them. prayers that put the future of bahumia in their hands. for callie, this is the song that plays when she sees aryox's carving of her reaching the cave. when she realizes her mother acted the way she did because she could see what was coming in the future. when she realizes her mother was leaving the world in her hands.

the songs that the boobs first encounter at the end— when they’re basically demigods stepping up to face thiala— return for duck team in these personal moments. when sol finds the strength to refuse death. when callie talks about embracing winter, her mother’s season, something she eventually finds strength in, to save her friend. when callie asks the others to help honeysuckle, one of the serpents that she’s promised to protect partially due to the harm her family caused to the wild. and when callie realizes her mother saw the future and acted as she did because of it, pushing callie to walk the path she’s walking now.

anyway. this was a post about naddpod music.

[marigold-hills]

Dunes & Waters, part 30

PART 1 • PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And yet you encourage me.”

“Do I?”

“You know you do, Professor,” Sirius throws his head back, stretches the tendons of his neck. Something in Remus says bite and he’d like to pretend it’s the moon phase, but he knows it’s more - it’s the hex he cast at a muggle (Statute of Secrecy be damned), it’s the dreams he still has of the jail guard, the steady collapse of the self control he’s spent all his life clinging to. Every silly trip to the market he can’t help but agree to, and every cup of tea he makes without being asked. It’s Ziggy, and the Potters’ owl, and the knowledge he’d let any other animal stay, too, if Sirius were to ask.

He wants to bite the way wolves do, not for dominance but for ownership. He doesn’t think Sirius is something to be owned, though, too wild and too unpredictable, and too beautiful in it to bear containing. Remus wouldn’t want to try, not even if whatever it is that he feels was to be accepted, returned to him.

Beloved of my heart, he thinks, of course it had to be you.

“The buildup of curses on this thing… it must have taken years to complete,” Sirius is contemplative, quiet, “they must have really loved the intended.”

“Would appear so. I wonder what it’s protecting.”

“Must be something to help with the lycanthropy. To ease the transition, maybe? They speak of the body, here,” he points to Remus’ translation, “I’ve heard its… well, I’ve heard its difficult.”

Remus doesn’t mean to sound bitter as he laughs, but difficult is such an understatement, it bubbles out of him by itself. Sirius looks contrite, mouths an apology.

“No, don’t. Don’t apologise. There is no need for you to know.”

“There is now. So, I’d like to. If you’re willing to tell.”

Remus looks at him – looks at him – Sirius’ expression is open and waiting. Like he’d asked about a bad day or an unfortunate trip, not about this. Even Remus’ mum didn’t ask, not so openly. In different ways, yes, in cups of tea and charmed-hot blankets, but not with words unfaltering and eyes unafraid.

“Have you ever broken a bone?”

Sirius pulls up the bottom of his shirt where a thin white line runs over the hipbone.

“It’s like that, just… everywhere and all at once. The transformation is only minutes, doesn’t leave a permanent mark. That’s all down to how the wolf is feeling on the night.”

“It hurts you?”

“Hurts itself. Gets bored, I think. Looks for something. Misses… I don’t know,” Remus hedges, “I don’t remember much, just snippets here and there. It’s not me in there, not really.”

Sirius turns to the replica scroll, touches the line of hieroglyphs where it calls the werewolf by endearments. “They really must have loved them.”

“Maybe. Not a good life, that.”

It’s an offhand comment. Remus doesn’t even really register what he says, already looking down to his translation to try and work out the rest of the riddle.

“What do you mean by that?” it’s the sharpest he’s heard Sirius’ voice. Something almost aristocratic, the kind of voice that could send people to their deaths.

“Loving a werewolf,” Remus speaks slowly, unsure of where he’d gone wrong, “it’s not something I’d wish on anyone.”

“Remus, I know you to be a very smart man. Don’t make me rethink that stance.”

It’s absurd, and Remus laughs, but Sirius is stuck in that space of haughty stillness.

“It’s alright, Sirius. Like you said, you don’t know about this. You never had a need to and now you only do on account of the work we’re doing. Don’t worry about it.”

The air crackles, just a little, Sirius’ hair raising at the ends like from an electric storm. Remus doesn’t want to have to deal with cleaning up the office again, not the day before the full moon.

“Sirius. Please, calm down. I’m tired, you’re tired. Let’s drop this and go home, alright?”

At first, it makes it worse. Remus can taste the magic like an iron bar in his mouth. Then, Sirius forces a breath, then another, and the air calms down.

“I’m sorry.”

“No need.”

“Just, hearing you talk about yourself like that…” Sirius looks straight at him, through him, “you’re a wonderful man, Remus. No matter what happens a night of a month, no matter even if it were every day.”

“Sure, Sirius,” he says, because it’s a nice notion, and Sirius doesn’t know any better. “Thank you for saying that.”

It’s clear that Sirius knows he’s lying – he always knows – but he doesn’t say anything more. There’s something like hurt around the edges of his mouth.

They venture out into the library, split up between shelves. It reminds Remus of being at university and he wonders how it would have been, had they met there, had Remus not been what he is – just two students going about their days, meeting across a bookshelf or maybe reaching for the same tome. How Sirius would have looked like, just a little younger but without the weariness of prison. If he was wilder yet, or instead maybe more cautious, before that caution had run out.

NEXT PART

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[liveyun]

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃 ; KSJ

title. white sand

pairing. kim seokjin x female oc/reader

genre. angst, exes au

warnings. mentions of broken marriage, arguments, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, missing communication in a relationship ; divorce ; non descriptive smut, allusions to miscarriage ; surprise ending?

wc. 3.3k+

listen to : playlist

masterlist | taglist

The sky is gloomy today.

Do you want to turn a river in its bed,

Or plant a barren wilderness with wheat?

Warm water ripples underneath your feet, giving you a feeling of you being still alive. That certain feeling of your stomach churning never leaves you, as you inhale a deep breath. This wasn't new to you, at least you knowing that wasn't. Your heart throbbing with pain each time whenever you see colors swirling around your life, but not you. Everything felt blank, everyday was an endless loop.

Your thoughts never ran twice before committing anything, resulting in indiscretion.

You didn't know why you'd visit the beach once in the year when the water felt bizzare to your skin; but at least this feeling of your feet sinking in the soft wet sand, the feeling of the cold breeze soothing your skin calms down your racing thoughts.

If you can meet with triumph and failure

And treat those two impostors just the same

Triumph. You weren't sure of when you met triumph, but failure, for sure was met by you. Failure is the secret ingredient to your success, they say, but when you actually fail, there aren't many who still stand by their quote.

The bubbling pot of jealousy inside, being compared to others, despised, accused of being a traitor, these all were some things which you craved to forget, but some things can't be just forgotten, can they really be?

If you can bear to hear the truth they've spoken

That you stepped right in trap for fools. But when?

They get buried inside your own self, in one such deep crests inside your heart that when even a glance is spared over, your whole self falls into an endless slumber of contriteness. Was it fair to lead on in this way? Pity for others, harassment for your own self. The truth is factual, you have heard it by your own self, and you are ready to accept it all. It itself might hurt but all these things, at least have an honesty within that you haven't been through unfair means to provide you a bittersweet nostalgia.

They say that success and failures are like the two faces of a coin. They're both an outcome of luck with a probable chance of 50-50 for each. Hard work does not always bring success, no matter how hard you put in your efforts.

But they also say that to keep a drowning relationship afloat, you have to put in effort.

It hit you hard when you’d realized that the risk of risking it all can also mean losing everything you've ever had in your life.

It hits you even harder when you remember how the decade old moon pendant still rests peacefully between your clavicles, against the resonating of your heart. You'd wanted to throw that away in the vast ocean, wanting the hues of the blues carry your pain, the memories to a place far, far away from you.

But you never had the heart to part away with something so close to your heart.

It's the seventh year you're seeing the imprints of your feet on the dunes of the damp sand on the same day, every year.

It's the seventh year you're walking alone on the beach with no sounds of squeaky giggles tingling your ears.

You wonder if the pendant still holds the tiny pieces of paper between its leaves which have both of your initials imprinted, or it's faded away like your footprints on the sand with each wave hitting the coast. Like how the castles you'd build together did.

4th December.

Your heart beats like crazy within your ribcage when your fingers feel the gentle surface of the white pendant, a relic which once was the reason for your smile blooming like lilies in a pond. But now, it only reminds you of your failure— your failure to keep your relationship afloat. Of your broken connection.

It's the seventh year you're reminded once again that it's truly over.

It's the seventh year you've realized that you're no longer together with your childhood friend whom you'd married.

It's the seventh year you've realized that maybe you've died. Maybe a part of you has, because till death do us part did not do any justice to you. To your best friend, your husband— ex husband.

It's the seventh year you're living without him, as many would say that you're doing completely fine, maybe only you know that a part of you never has ever stopped yearning.

Never stopped loving him.

You take off the pendant from your neck, gently unfolding the metallic celestial halves. The white paper in both of the tiny compartments unveiled bold, black scrawls with tiny hearts surrounding them.

KSJ ♡ YN

You feel the pain right in your chest, spiraling up your lungs to down your stomach till you could no longer breathe properly.

It's not a vague memory in your mind the day he gifted you the pendant. The event replays in your head like it's yesterday, when you were both young adults with warmth glowing in your faces, in your hearts, surrounding each other with the blanket of love. You still remember how young he looked with flushed cheeks and eyes twinkling under the moonlight, half squeaking, half laughing at some lame joke. His warm, big hand enveloped yours as you two walked to the waves in this same beach, feet sinking to the white sand glowing in the night.

You still remember how Seokjin had made a note of how warm the water was in comparison to the weather, and you'd make a note of how the tips of his ears were a shade of crimson.

You still remember when he had handed you the pendant, smiling so brightly, saying that he's forever grateful to the moon for blessing him, and you still remember the freshness of his breath as his lips touched yours for the first time ever.

You still remember how scared you two were. Having discovered your love for eachother after pining like idiots, you knew you had a lot of talking to do. You still remember how hot his lips felt on your skin, promising you words of affirmation that you both got this.

You still remember how delicate he was at that night of your first time together, how gently he made love to you, and how he coaxed releases after releases from you, gently kissing your heated flesh with each stroke to your skin. How he'd turned to mush after you'd touched him back with the same passion, with the same desire.

You still remember his teary face when you'd met him at the altar, when you'd exchanged your vows of eternal love and fidelity. You still remember how different the kiss you'd both shared felt to be, almost like a seal to your newfound journey.

You still remember how happy you two were. You two had promised that you'd got this together.

You feel your eyes stinging with tears amidst the bitter smile that hangs loosely on your lips, because you still remember the first time when things got hard. Really hard. You still remember the shaking of his dark pupils like an autumn leaf hanging on the tree, quivering with guilt suppressed anger when he saw you flinch. He had yelled at you, for the first time ever. He stroked your back with flurries of apologies as he kissed you to sleep that day.

You remember how any squabbles were silenced without any communication gradually and how any quarrel would be slept on without any apologies from either of you.

Despite the slowly forming gap between you two, he'd still make sure to have prepared breakfast for you when you'd wake up late. How he'd still prepare the vase every two days with your favorite flowers. How he'd pull you closer to his broad chest, lulling you to sleep, or occasionally telling you about his days.

You still remember how slowly the arguments turned to sleepless nights with a fidgeting heart and a choking stomach. How everything was so gradual that it took you time to realize that it was happening, and you'd taken it for granted.

How the loud voices of you both threatened to blow off the ceiling, and how your eyes hurt after crying yourself to sleep. How dark the bags under his eyes seemed every morning. How scared you were when you realized that he was no longer behind you, let alone stroking your back when you were bawling your eyes out as he used to do earlier.

How you'd wake up to an empty side of your bed, how your texts went unanswered most of the time. How every day after work you'd return to an empty home, flowers withered and dead on vases and everything picking up layers of dust.

How you'd fall asleep with untouched food on the table when he'd return back to home late from work. How you'd no longer smell the piping hot food everyday when you'd woken up. You would wake up to the same, empty place, knowing that he had been there, but he left without even sparing a glance.

You'd also miss how Seokjin would return to home with a throbbing guilt in his heart, never putting off the blame in his heart which accused him for everything which has been happening in your marriage.

How his heart would shatter to pieces each time after a quarrel, realizing the situation. How heartbreaking your sobs were behind the closed rooms or the running showers.

But he'd never got to apologize, because a part of him wanted that to come from you too. He'd wonder at times if you thought the same.

You still remember the lone happiness which bloomed inside you after so long when you'd seen two lines on the pregnancy stick after days of throwing up in the morning. How you'd thought that maybe, maybe this could fix everything between you two. Everything which you weren't ready for, but were thrown onto. Everything which you didn't know existed between you two, but was clearly visible day after day. You were positive that it definitely would.

How fucking selfish of you.

You still remember his absence and his ignorance when you were so excited to let him know about the happy news. You still remember the piercing fight which took place when he returned from his three month long business trip. You vaguely remember how you'd cry for him at nights to hold you, trashing beside the empty bed, how you'd throw up and clutch yourself to sleep. How the doctor had already warned you of your difficult pregnancy and to avoid mental stress as much as you can.

You vaguely remember how he'd asked you why do you look so pale. You barely remember the panic, the pain when the conversation flowed to another fight, now you yelling at him. He'd screamed at you that you were a burden to him.

You faintly remember the agonizing pain at your lower abdomen, strong enough to blur your vision and strangle you down to the ground where he'd cried your name as you fell down, and everything had blacked out.

But you actually remember the look on the doctor's face when she told it out loud.

And even clearer, the look on Seokjin’s face.

You don't really want to remember everything else which happened after that. Your friends had taken you home, away from him, suggesting that it's for the best. Some of them had already warned you beforehand when things had started to fall gradually and they emphasized their surmise of the situation.

You don't want to remember anything else which happened after that. You don't want to remember how you'd know that his company had gone completely bankrupt, and how he'd tried his best to save it.

You don't want to remember the time when you'd sent him the divorce papers and the look on his face, ignoring his thin frame, dark bags underneath his eyes which seemed devoid of any light in them, at all.

You don't want to remember all the times he came back to you, called you, texted you endlessly and begged forgiveness for everything he'd done to you but not even once to come back to him.

Maybe he knew already that you wouldn't.

You don't want to remember the time when you'd gone to your once shared apartment to get back your stuff. It felt. . .empty and devoid of any life, your once warm home staring at your face with a cold air around it, partially suffocating you from all the memories you'd created together. Whether they were the happy ones, or the terrible ones.

You'd purposefully ignored the vase of fresh flowers greeting you or all the furniture being spotlessly free of any dust. You'd ignored how your heartstring tugged at you when you'd see that his clothes are still with your own in the closet and how the bed was changed into the bedsheets which you'd bought at the beginning of your honeymoon.

But you couldn't refrain yourself from stepping into his study. Maybe it was because you were sure that you wouldn't be seeing him anymore, and the court would be the last place and time when you'd see him. Maybe because there was a part inside of you which wanted you to hang on for him. Hang on for you, but you'd ignored that, suppressing the voice inside you.

You absolutely don't want to remember whatever you'd seen there anymore. Whether it was the unfinished yarn you'd knitted to a poorly made mass during those three months knitted to an almost finished sweater, or the photos of you both framed on the shelves where you'd previously seen trophies of his youth camping on.

From small kids grinning ear to ear to adolescent teens with awkward poses to full grown adults and your last photo you'd taken together at Ilsan a year ago then as a couple. Each of them rested one beside another and other memories which were caught in small handicrafts you'd thrifted during your small visits to nearby towns in your early teens.

Because that only makes you fall into the endless pit of guilt, again and again, realizing that you'd never heard his part of the story. Your initial anger had always refrained you from thinking that way, but you'd know that despite everything, every effort you two had put into your marriage, had been in vain. You remember how pale, dull, thin and silent he'd seemed at the day of your divorce. He'd just a thin jacket on his frame regardless of the freezing cold outside with heavy bags underneath his eyes. He'd acknowledged your presence with a slow, long stare of his dim, puffy eyes, a small single nod of his head. You'd ignored how much it hurt to see Seokjin like that, but you'd instead decided to move forward, no matter how painful it was.

You remember the silence from his side when the judge had asked him questions about the reasons why your marriage broke down to pieces. You'd held your breath in your chest which already hurt with the constant throbbing.

He'd answered with a voice that you couldn't recognise from the person you'd known for more than half of your life.

“I wasn't there for her when she needed me the most.”

The judge had asked again, why'd he give up. If he knows, shouldn't he be trying to make it up to you? His answer, perhaps, had shocked the judge, too.

“Once a knot gets tied between a thread, the knot forever remains, no matter how much you try to untangle it.”

The actual last time you saw Seokjin was after you two were divorced, sitting beside each other, having signed on the papers which officially meant that you two no longer were married to each other. Your heart felt numb with the pain and your eyes were devoid of any moisture, having exhausted them all within the painful months you'd spent alone with the memories haunting you.

You hadn't looked up at him, and you knew he didn't, too, and you didn't want to. You'd seen his fingers twitch on the paper where he held his pen, close to yours own, but made no further move. You'd itched to say something to him which you didn't know if you should've, but you'd kept quiet all the while.

You'd heard his tiny please forgive me,if you can the last time before you exited the court, but also from the place where you'd relished your memories, a souvenir to your old love.

You close the pendant with a snap.

It's the same day you divorced your ex husband.

4th December.

It's his thirty-first birthday, too.

As the waves crawl gently towards the white sand of the coast, you exhale in the breath you were holding in. You run your thumb on the craters like designs on the outside of the golden pendant, silently feeling the burden inside your chest now being a bit lighter.

You don't know if you've truly moved on, but the bitterness in the memories doesn't really feel bitter to you. At times they overwhelm you, but it's not intense.

You wonder if Seokjin is doing well.

We were taken from the ore-bed

And melted in the furnace pit—

We were cast and hammered to design,

We were cut and filed to fit.

You don't like nostalgia, but sometimes it reminds you that failure and struggle are the components who develop your character. If anything, it reminds you that mistakes were made and consequences were beared, but it also leaves you with a tingling curiosity inside. Is Seokjin living in the same city? Is he..is he celebrating his birthday today?

Birthdays for him were fun. Birthdays with him were fun.

You don't know. You guess it wasn't really within your imagination to imagine what it would be like for him. You just hope and wish he's doing okay. You hope he has healed well, or is healing well.

You stand up, your pendant still clutched in between your palms, no longer feeling the weight it carried for you, from you throughout the years of your life.

The weather begins to get chillier as the sun slowly makes its way away from the face of the world.

The low rustle of the waves and the slow whoosh of the wind tells you that it's time to leave.

Exhaling a breath you didn't know you were holding on, you turn to exit the beach. A simple smile spreads on your lips when you suddenly feel the pendant slip away from your slightly sweaty palms to the sand underneath.

You bend down to pick it up, and your hands brush against another hand which doesn't belong to you.

A warm one, and an oddly familiar,big one.

A pair of warm, curious pupils, twinkling within the dark pools of coffee hidden underneath tresses of dark hair greets you.

You look up.

“Seokjin?”

His eyes are wide and shaking slightly by the time you both stand up, your hands dangerously close to his which clasps the pendant within. He looks healthier, fuller and he's gained some much needed weight over the years. He's dressed in a white tee and black shorts, and you notice that he's let his hair grow. His cheeks have a flush which you'd notice was new to you. If anything, he looked handsomely young, as if he'd aged back.

Walk down the white sand just to watch his lonely footprints get washed away by the currents. He's trying not to fall back to the habits which tore himself away from him, but he's never been truly free from the guilt which pokes his chest in every aspect of his life.

When he saw you seated on the edge of the coast when he was out to visit the beach that meant the most to him, he couldn't believe his eyes. Every year on his birthday he'd visit the beach in the evening with a selfish hope in his heart, which he knew wasn't rational at any cost.

He used to sit on the coast the whole night, feeling the moon soothe away the burning memories of you. Hoping he'd ever find you, but always in vain. Hoping he could apologize for everything he's done except uttering a small sorry like a fucking coward.

The beach would always remind him of you.

Your hair is shorter than how he saw it the last time. Your cheeks are fuller, and your eyes have their light returned back to their places. You sat there in the same silence which he did at a distance, refusing the rational part of him which told him that it's wrong. He'd promised himself that he'd go away before you'd get up, and you seemed lost in thoughts as he took you in. Even if you two weren't together anymore, he was happy. Genuinely happy to see you okay. After everything you'd gone through. He knew, he was by no means rightful to ever look at you even, because he knew ever since then that you don't need him anymore.

Even if he tried, he could never stop loving you. Trying to be a better man everyday, wishing he could stop time and go back, knowing it's impossible. Everyday he'd wished he could. . . .

Now you're looking at him, and he doesn't know what to say. How to talk. You looked peaceful. You looked happy. You—

But when he'd seen the pendant he'd thought you wouldn't have it with you anymore, he lost it.

“Seokjin?” Fuck. This is the second time you've called him, but he doesn't find the crease in between your eyebrows as he'd expected to. You're rather smiling, a sight which he finds his heart racing miles at.

You don't wait for his response.

“Happy birthday.”

a/n : happy birthday to our silly moon prince~ hope you liked this one which i actually managed to finish in the brink of time ong

don't be sad, he's coming back soon home! :D as always, reblogs and feedbacks are always appreciated 🌙🌹

[honeymark]

〔 𝟎𝟏:𝟎𝟐𝐚𝐦 〕 the truth hits you harder than you could’ve ever prepared yourself for, so much so that you’re not quite sure what to do with yourself when your husband reveals his dirty little secret.

now that everything has been exposed, it’s wild to think that you’d missed all of the red flags. it’d been weeks since he had stopped coming home in time for dinner, since he had stopped answering your calls after 6pm, since he had stopped touching you altogether.

it’s like the love had just...

disappeared.

“honey, say something. anything,” doyoung desperately pleads, his hands finding yours. suspense lingers heavily in the living room, almost as if all hell were to break loose if either of you were to let out a single sound.

you silently resign yourself to the chaos that’s bound to ensue, and you finally release the breath you had been holding in for what had felt likes hours. you can feel the weight of it roll from your shoulders when you finally muster up the courage to speak.

“what is there to say?” you ask, your voice just a feather above a whisper.

he lifts his head slowly, his eyes daring to match yours. “curse at me, scream at me, just do something.” there’s something about his gaze that sends your heart into panicked overdrive, and with one smooth motion, you rip your hands from his grip.

“what’s the point, doyoung? nothing will change the fact that you broke this marriage,” you snap, the bite of your voice cutting through the tension like a freshly honed blade. tears blur your vision as you finally allow yourself to give into the heartache. “nothing i say will change anything.”

he visibly winces, and he drops to his knees and bows his head in what seems like remorse. “y/n, i’m sorry. i’m sorry, baby. i love you so much, and i’m so, so sorry,” he repeats in a litany of pitiful contrition. 

as much as you want to believe in his performance, doubt starts pooling in the pit of your stomach. “doyoung, stop it.” you swallow a sob that’s creeping its way up the back of your throat, and you cross your arms over your chest, almost as if it would be enough to keep you from completely falling apart. “don’t you fucking dare say that you love me. you wouldn’t have done this if you loved me. you wouldn’t have kept fucking her if you loved me.” 

the silence that follows is thick and stagnant. he presses his lips together into a straight line. something moist plops against the back of his hand, then again, and again, and it isn’t until he sniffles that he realizes he’s crying. he clutches the thin fabric of his slacks, and he ducks his head in an even lower bow. “i’m sorry, y/n. i don’t deserve your forgiveness or your love or another second of your time, but i truly am so, so fucking sorry. i’m sorry, y/n,” he whispers in a hushed sob, his voice breaking as his lips form your name.

a deep ache thrums through your chest, and you unthinkingly slide off the couch to the floor in front of him. you wipe his tears with shaky fingers, and he immediately crashes into you, his arms enveloping you in a tight embrace as he chokes out a deep sob.

the sound that escapes past his lips sends a chill down your spine. kim doyoung has always been composed, intentional with every breath he takes. this is the most unbalanced you’ve ever seen him, and it cuts through your heart like a dagger. you don’t think you’ve ever felt a pain as devastating as this before. but if you’re sure about anything, it’s that you’ve never been this broken.

© 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑. 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃.

[liz-allyn]

sugar and vice, pt. 7 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: For better or worse, they're talking it out.

words: 8.4 k

warning: mob-typical violence. graphic depiction of gun violence, whump. hurt/comfort. descriptions of violence. references to drug use. coersion. kidnapping. blood. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships.

this is a darker, messier version of TASM Peter.

18+. you’re responsible for your own content consumption. but that being said, something, something, something, dark side... should mean something to you.

Go back to Part 6.

Part 7

What’s your biggest regret?

Where to begin?

Peter felt weak. The weight of Honey’s body in his arms was too much to bear. She sat with her back to him on the floor, legs akimbo, hunched over herself. Violent sobs racked through her body as she bawled, and screamed, and begged. Neither of them were even sure what she was begging for.

“Jus’wanna disappear,” she mumbled through hiccups and wails. “Please jus’wanna go’way...dontwannabehere...idont wanit... i don’t wannit”

Sitting on the floor behind her, he tightened his grip. His forearms harnessed her in, crossing them loosely across her chest. Every once in a while, she’d dig her nails into his skin, either knowingly or unknowingly. It didn’t matter. He let her. He’d let her flay him alive if it would end her suffering. Except that he knew that it wouldn’t. Personal experience.

She won’t forgive you. She won’t look at you. She was right about you.

weak... pathetic puny... useless 

She was right. In many ways, this was his fault. 

It’s a strange exercise to think of the million different decisions one makes in a day that binds them to their inevitable fate. In Honey’s case, all she had to do was smile at him. All Peter had to do was keep coming back to visit her. In the case of the two unfortunate victims of Fisk’s rage, all they had to do was show up for work.

And Honey didn’t know what Peter knew. Didn’t know the gory details the police left out of the press coverage. He wondered if he should ever tell her.

...you failed to protect them, you will always fail, you can’t protect the people you love, you can’t protect anyone, you are useless... alone... a drain on the world...

He listened to the voices in his mind as he listened to her agonized weeping. Soon the sounds were the same. A contrite sinner, standing trial for his crimes against the world. Ready to take whatever judgment handed down to him.

Just let her go... monster... Just get her as far away from here as possible. Somewhere warm, sunny beach somewhere... pariah... Just get as far away from her as possible... no good can come from this...disgusting pest... Don’t let her see what you really are.

Her cries began to fade, her body drained of its energy. He helped her stand, her legs wobbly, and moved her slowly to the couch. There, she buried her face in the cushions and cried even harder. 

It was like a broken limb, even the slightest touch sent searing pain through ravaged nerve endings. The pain of a broken heart. The kind of pain that makes you want to detach from reality. 

Peter knew it all too well.

His heart ached at the sound of her sobs. All he wanted to do was help the pain go away. Outside of jumping in front of a train, he only had one thing to offer her. 

Hesitantly, he made the suggestion—the same dose of medicine she swallowed the day she arrived at the cabin. The only kindness he could offer was the reprieve from him. A break from the world that he’d trapped her in.

Without a second thought, she agreed. Hollow. Apathetic. Reckless. 

With a frown, he crushed a pill and dropped the pulverized powder in a glass of juice. 

He gently declined her request to give her back the bottle of champagne to wash it down. Watched her sorrowfully, as she downed the juice without a moment’s hesitation.

He knew it well. The kind of pain that makes you want to detach your soul from your body. 

Without another word, she laid down on the sofa, squeezing her eyes shut and waited for unconsciousness to overtake her. Only when her eyes closed did he allow tears to squeak through his lids. 

He had fought them off for as long as he could, rubbing his eyes furiously. Dragging his calloused fingers down his weathered face, muffling quiet sobs with his palms. 

He listened carefully, focusing on her steady breaths. She was asleep at last. Peter was alone again, just him and his failure. He observed her body as she sunk into the sofa cushions, drifting further into a dreamless rest. He hoped that wherever her mind was, it was at peace. 

He considered the awkward angle of her spine, the way her chin jutted in a way that was surely going to strain her neck. It looked uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable. He wanted her to be comfortable. His instinct was to pick her up and carry her to bed. 

He stopped his hands from moving on their own accord. His heart sank as he thought about where his mind was leading. 

Not her bed, but his. Their bed, if only she wanted it to be. It all felt so futile. A silly dream. For a young, foolish boy with nonsensical, fairy-tale thoughts, an old skateboard, and holes in his jeans.

He lifted her body from the couch and once again ascended the staircase. This time, he stopped at her door. The gate to her cell.

He laid her on the bed, carefully removed her shoes from her feet, and buried her in blankets. Brushing the hair from her face, he frowned at the tear trails on her cheeks. 

He went to her bathroom and warmed up a washcloth. When he returned, he gently dabbed at her makeup, removing it to the best of his ability. Her skin was already so ravaged from salty tears, rubbing was only making it worse—you’re hurting her—no peace, only pain— and cursed himself again. He went back and located the makeup remover once it had proven to be difficult. 

Returned to the bathroom. He used another washcloth, soaking it in cooler water, wringing it out, and using it as a compress against her flushed forehead and swollen eyes. 

He sat in the armchair in the corner of her room, listening to the steadiness of her heart. The calmness of her breath. When the cloth had warmed up and dried out, he replaced it with a fresh one. 

Again and again.

Over and over. 

For hours. 

He caught sight of himself in her mirror and could barely recognize the person staring back. Peter looked—he felt—so old. When did he get so old? Tired. Worn out from more sleepless nights than the current one. Dark-rimmed bags under his eyes. Stray silver hairs and dried blood dotted his dark beard. The lacerations made by her fingernails healed almost instantly. But he could still feel them.

They say that beards make you look older. He looked geriatric. Still, he didn’t look as old on the outside as he felt inside. Inside he was ancient. A relic. He’d only been on the earth for just under thirty-five years, but every breath felt like a chilly gust of wind through a decrepit, old tomb. His heart was a fossil. 

You should’ve stopped Kingpin a long time ago, the quarreling voices reminded him. You could’ve saved those women. They’re dead because of you.

it should’ve been you... you are the weakness, the disease... you are the parasite... they are dead because of you...

Light was not her friend. 

It fact, it was skull-fucking her. 

Honey groaned as she wiped a semi-dry film of saliva from her cheek. Gross.

She felt gross. All over. Her head was throbbing, sinuses sore. Like the world’s worst hangover with a dash of the flu. Her mouth was desert dry. With bleary eyes, she glanced around to find herself back in her ‘guest’ room. Her prison cell, made of down-feathers and sherpa blankets. 

Daylight chased away every shadow and lobotomized her aching skull. But it illuminated another fact: she was alone.

It was unclear whether that was a good thing, given that she felt like death. She glanced over and her eyes narrowed on a glass of water sitting on the nightstand. She practically licked her dry lips at the sight. She didn’t remember bringing the water to her room. Nor did she remember going to bed. Or drinking so heavily that she blacked out. Or—

Darkness shadowed over her like storm clouds on the horizon. She felt her heart sink into her chest as she suddenly remembered.

The party. The laptop. The news article. 

Peter Fucking Parker.

Whatever sickness she felt multiplied ten-fold. It was like being sucked under the current of a black sea. She was drowning in agony once again, and all she could do was bite her wobbly lip. She had no more tears to shed. She’d cried them all out last night.

The details of the previous night were still unclear, like remnants of a dream slipping away. Only a vague recollection remained—her blubbering nonsensically to be knocked out.

He must have obliged her. Nothing after that registered.

She glanced around at her bed. It looked like she had been the only occupant. Looking to the beside, she noticed the wingback armchair had moved overnight. It drifted several feet from the corner, and had crawled suspiciously near the edge of the bed.

She glanced back at the water. It was from Peter. A kind gesture. An olive branch, perhaps. Something to ease pain that he knew she would feel in the morning.

She buried her face in her pillow, swallowing back her dry tongue.

Fuck his olives.

Hours passed. 

She repeated the action of waking up to her nightmare, and then diving back under the waves, hoping to drown her misery in sleep. The cycle repeated, at least 5-6 times. 

The sun shifted. 

Her throat was raw.

The water had probably long-since warmed to room temperature. Maybe even more from being cast in the sun. She didn’t want it. Didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to care. 

At some point, between the 8th and 9th cycle, she heard a light knock at the door. Two quick beats, then a third. 

“Honey?” a voice called from the other side. 

It could only be one person.

She rolled her eyes, the action reminding her just how dry they were. She squeezed her eyes shut. 

“You awake?” 

She stayed silent. Hoped to fall asleep again. Hoped he’d go away and leave her alone. Leave her in that room, to wilt and die like a neglected plant.

“It’s gettin’ pretty late in the day,” he explained kindly. How dare he provide her with that information. “Wonderin’ if you were hungry.”

Was she hungry? Yes. Did she want to move? Never. She should say so. She should tell him she’s not hungry. She should tell him to jump off a building. She should give him a piece of her mind. Scream. Scratch him again, but this time aim for his eyes. Bite. 

She just didn’t want to move. The thought of getting out of bed, opening the door to see his likely apologetic face, and then spitting in it seemed so stressful, she’d rather not do anything at all. 

Hate was exhausting. She’d never hated anyone before.

“I, uh, made you some food, uhm...” 

She flicked her apathetic gaze back to the wall. Scoffed lightly. Pulled the blankets back over her head.

Seconds passed. She expected more of his charmingly-shy kind offers to spill out from behind the door, but instead there was silence. She wondered if he could somehow hear her indignation, as impossible as it seemed.

“Well, it’s ready. If you are.” 

He sounded sad. Not just sad, but defeated. Resigned. She heard the scuff of his leather heel, then footsteps retreating, reverberating off of the hardwood floor. 

Then it was quiet again. 

She was alone. Again.

Another knocking rhythm. This time, when she opened her eyes, it was significantly darker. Late afternoon. Her stomach growling could confirm that.

“Honey, you decent?”

She rolled her eyes. How grandpa of him.

“I’m comin’ in,” he followed up, and suddenly she wanted to shout in protest. But the handle twisted and the door popped open, and from her periphery she could see Peter’s tall silhouette in the doorway.

She adjusted her head to remove him from her view. It was the most she’d moved in hours. 

“How’re you feelin’, huh?” 

She tucked her chin down, pulling her head further under the covers.

“Yeah, figured as much.” His somber tone held the weight of being the sole participant in the conversation. Much to her disappointment, Peter didn’t leave. Instead, she could hear him enter the room, the sound of his footsteps mingling with a gentle rattling noise. 

She threw her eyes over at him for a moment. He carefully steadied a wooden tray in his arms. A several plates of different comfort foods were spread out, the aroma of which was enough to make her dizzy with starvation. She tried to ignore the gurgling of her stomach as he padded closer to her.

“Brought you some dinner,” he said as he approached the bedside, a pitiful glimmer of hope in his voice. She pierced him with a silent glare. “I know you gotta be hungry by now. I can hear your stomach growlin’ from downstairs.”

He said it with a light chuckle. She said nothing. 

He sat the tray down on the foot of the bed, getting a good look at her broken state.

Good, she thought. Let him. Let him look upon his work, and despair.

Peter glanced over at the glass of water on the nightstand, still untouched. He frowned at the sight. Looked back down at her, chocolate eyes full of pity.

“A little water’ll make ya feel better,” he gently offered.

She stared into nothingness, avoiding eye contact. Imagined that she was a dead body. He was talking to a corpse.

Her silence made him fret. He kept trying. “How ‘bout a hot bath, then?”

“Why, were you planning on waterboarding me, too?” Her voice came out sharp and raspy, like the hiss of a rattlesnake. Her words packed the same amount of venom, too. She looked over at him selfishly, just to see the tissue damage her toxins inflicted.

A glimmer of disappointment crossed his face, his lips turning downward. It made her feel bad. 

Damn it to hell.

He gazed at her quietly, reeling from the bite. Pursed his lips. Set his jaw firmly in place. “You gotta eat,” he declared with a carefully controlled tone. It was an edict.

She glowered defiantly. “I’m not hungry.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped back, nearly before she even finished her sentence. His volume remained muted, but his eyes were not. “You gotta take care of yourself. S’not a suggestion.”

“And what if I don’t?” Her voice had dropped an octave. She challenged him through slitted eyes. “What then, huh? You’re so busy with trying to protect me, what if we just cut to the finish? Take one thing off your to-do list.”

Peter’s jaw tensed. Nostrils flared. The sight of his anger was intimidating, despite her bratty resolve. Briefly, her nerve started to falter, but then he took a slow breath. “You’re angry,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I get that.” She was thrown off by the calmness of his response, despite every word coming out clipped. “You’re angry at me. I get that, too. You wanna take a shot at me? That’s okay. You wanna hit me, hit me. What you did yesterday? It felt good, din’it? Made you feel better. Stronger. By all means, don’t stop.” 

As much as she fought against it, she felt a tinge of guilt at that. He railed on.

“Do whatever you want,” he added, raising his voice in challenge. “Scratch me. Beat me. Hit me with a rock. If you wanna hurt somebody, hurt me.” His eyes hardened as he fixed his gaze on her, timbre dropping deep. “But you are not allowed to hurt yourself. Got that?” His eyes pierced her as he said it, as if he could shoot lightning from his fingers and write his commandment in stone.

She gulped unintentionally, the courage she had moments ago evaporating in the heat of his stare. She locked her jaw to keep her lip from trembling. Her own weakness enraged her.

“Now sit up if you understand,” he reprimanded, through gritted teeth. As if she were a child. She felt like one—little in his gaze. Peter fixed a hard look on her, waiting impatiently for her to comply. 

With rageful eyes, she sat up, yanking back the covers. Her spine cracked from the lack of movement. She threw her socked feet over the edge. Came to a firm stand, straightening herself in front of him. She took a bold step forward, holding his gaze. Bitterly and slowly, she reached for the tray of food.

Then she shoved it off the bed onto the bedroom floor. The china shattered with a crack, food and liquid splattering on his shoes, pieces of glass splintering out in every direction. 

Neither of them ever broke their steel gazes. 

She glared up at him and he leered down at her, both silently fuming. Hearts pounding. Chests aching.

“I think I’ll have that shower now,” she nonchalantly replied. The arrogance in her voice was sharp. Stunning, especially to herself. They remained in their stalemate before she took the first step, brushing past him into her bathroom and slamming the door.

In retrospect, it was a dumb idea. She stayed in the shower longer than necessary. Part of it was to maintain the facade of her new-found, devil-may-care attitude. The other utility was that she could hide.

After her bold protest, it took her all of about 5 seconds before she jumped back across the bathroom to lock the door. She prayed silently that he wouldn’t kick it down and respond—fucking brat, little bitch, I’ll show you—to her actions.

Frozen, she stood still and listened to the shower running. Listened for his inevitable footsteps. When they didn’t come, her shoulders relaxed. She took deep breaths until she had enough confidence to rid herself of her clothing and step inside the shower.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she cracked the door slightly. Peered inside. She opened the door a bit wider and glanced around. Peter was gone. So was the mess. She sighed with relief. And a bit of guilt—Always cleaning up your messes! When will you learn?—that she pushed to the back of her mind. 

Wrapped in a bath sheet, she padded bare feet across the room towards her duffle bag on the dresser. She paused before reaching it. Felicia’s revelation from the night before echoed in her mind.

She turned to the double doors of the closet in her room, gazing at them nervously. Stepped up to it, as if she was approaching a gateway to Narnia. Threw open the doors to look—but this time, she really looked.

It was a gateway to Narnia. Or to a Neiman Marcus.

For all intents and purposes, it was a room within itself. A beautiful collection of steel-gray wooden cabinetry and opaque frosted glass. The room was brightly illuminated by recessed fixtures, and each shelving unit was individually lit. In the center of the walk-in closet—or, more aptly, the portal to a fashion blogger’s wet dream—there was a freestanding island for accessories next to a tufted ottoman.

Fascinated, she stepped over to one of the wardrobe doors and opened it. Lights flickered on to reveal a section of blouses hanging on a rod from velvet hangers. Each item of clothing was organized by color, starting with black, travelling with the natural flow of the spectrum, and ending on white. 

The pattern repeated over again, this time sorted by type. Long sleeves. Short sleeves. No sleeves. Another cabinet revealed a drawer dedicated to dress trousers and jeans. Divided by fit and style, and then again by wash and color. 

Whatever space there was reserved for pants, seven times that amount was dedicated solely to dresses. 

So. Many. Dresses.

Bodycons. Shifts. Sheaths. Empire-waist. Cinched-waist. Drop-waist. A-line. V-line. Peasant, peplum and princess. Midi. Mini. Maxi (in case she grew a foot). Every color of the rainbow. In every pattern imaginable. For every imaginable occasion—weddings, funerals, runways, and run-ins with the law. Covering cocktail parties and Casual Fridays. 

Additionally, each label was an alphabetical roll call of every reputable designer name, from the bold cuts of Alexander McQueen to exotic, flowing gowns from Zuhair Murad. Or so she guessed, since she hadn’t heard of most of these designers. They had yet to make their way to her local TJ Maxx.

She’d watched The Devil Wears Prada before. Certainly, Meryl Streep would’ve died of a heart attack at the sight of this room.

Jaw still agape, she turned her attention to the island. Approaching the side with drawers, she slid open the chest and her eyes went wide.

Lingerie. Sexy, sweet, and sensual. Row after row of lace, silk, satin, and mesh stacked neatly with coordinating pieces in rich colors. Fabrics that felt silky on her fingertips. Fabrics as soft and intimate as the inside of her body. She picked up and examined piece after piece, imagining the woman who would wear each one.

A black mesh and polyurethane open-cup playsuit with matching diamond garters and a jeweled leather collar. Perfect fit for a Femme Fatale.

For the Servant, a pink satin and lace brief paired with a Shibari-inspired body harness made from twisted, plaited, silk rope.

A silky-smooth navy blue corset embellished with cut Swarovski crystals on the bust for the Enchantress.

A lavender silk babydoll dress with a plunging V-neckline and French Chantilly lace floral accents for the Maiden. 

So many women. All the archetypes represented. A multitude of girls to choose from. 

She felt ill. Dizzy. Felt so hot under the recessed lighting, the back of her neck was sweating. Lightheaded. Clammy skin. She backed away from the island, fingers gripping the doorframe. 

She remembered thinking, foolishly, that all of this must have belonged to other women. A girlfriend, or ex-girlfriends. Or just... girls. As if Peter had a harem, or a rotating troupe of interchangeable parts. Each of them serving their own utility. Each of them replaceable. 

She was wrong. 

Peter wasn’t a player. He was particular. A planner. And every item in that closet had been planned for her. Meticulously, he had chosen each piece. For her. Not for a multitude of different women. But for her to be any woman. Every woman. Whoever he wanted her to be. 

His doll. Accessories included. 

Two distinct forces clashed in her belly, like storm fronts converging. Pressure shifting. A cyclone forming.

One fomented horror—outrage, even—at this obsession with her. All of it looked like her size, too. How did he know her measurements so intimately? Clearly, he’d been looking at her—really looking. Fixated. That half of her brain felt disrespected by his objectification. Violated. Dirty at the thought of him picturing her in such intimate and provocative ways.

The other half felt heat building in her core. Tension pulled taut at her insides. Wetness between her thighs.

Each thought made her shiver.

The last remnants of the sun had vanished when Honey opened the door to her bedroom. She had changed into a conservative loungewear outfit: a pair of silky soft joggers and an oversized cotton t-shirt. She was extremely relieved to have found it.

Hesitantly, she poked her head out around the door, glancing down the hallway for any sign of Peter. Nothing. She looked down to her feet. On the floor next to her door was a covered plate. She picked it up. Inspected it.

A plate of turkey and cheese sandwiches. Cut into triangles, just like the picnic platter. She felt a pang in her chest at the sight. 

Frowning, she soured at the memory of throwing her food on the floor. Such a waste. She would've never gotten away with that as a kid. Or even as a baby. It was so rude—ungrateful brat—why? Why was she always so rude? 

With a sigh, she brought the plate inside her room and quietly cherished the meal. When she was finished, she had the urge to be a polite houseguest. She carried her emptied plate and empty water glass down the stairs to the kitchen. The least she could do was wash her own dishes.

She stopped suddenly as she rounded a corner, seeing Peter leaning over the kitchen bar. On the table surface, he had two books open in front of him, one of them a ruled composition book. He popped his head up a second after she arrived, mirroring her surprised expression. 

She noted the dark-framed glasses on his face. He took a moment to push them back up the bridge of his nose. They made him look boyish. Cute, even. It was another bizarre subversion of expectation versus reality. Peter Parker, fearsome mob boss: hunched over his kitchen bar, scribbling notes like he’s studying for a Spanish quiz.

The moment he locked eyes with her, he was already looking away. Helplessly flustered by her appearance. He cleared his throat. “Um, hi.”

She shifted her weight between her feet, outwardly gripping the plate and glass in an awkward stance. “Hi.”

A long silence followed, for an indeterminate amount of time. Days, probably.  “I... have this plate. And a cup.”

It was a promising beginning.

“Oh,” Peter replied quietly and uncomfortably, as if he were part of some odd British comedy. “You can just leave them by the sink. I’ll get to ‘em later.”

“I can wash them.” Her stomach was twisting in knots.

“No, no need for you to do that.” Kindly, he waved her off.

“I...I-I can put them in the dishwasher, if you’re gonna run it?”

“Oh, uh... I, um, don’t think we have enough for a full load.”

“Right. Conserving water. Important.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll wash ‘em before I go to bed.”

“But... I can wash them now.”

“No, really—”

“Peter,” her voice came out clipped. “I want to wash my dishes.” It was an edict. He pursed his lips, looking away sheepishly. She finally moved from her spot, carrying on to do what she came downstairs to do. She stopped at the kitchen sink, glancing around the counter. “Where do you keep your soap?”

“Oh, uh—under, under the-the sink.”

“I don’t see it.”

“It’s there. It’s... uh... blue.”

Her head was in the cabinet below when she exclaimed, “Jesus Christ, is this Ajax? You cheap bastard.” She pulled her head up over the edge of the counter, throwing him a scandalized look. “Where did you get this? The clearance section of a Dollar Store?”

Her abhorrance triggered a smile, flitted across his face as he shrugged. “Hey. It works.”

She wiggled her head, staring at him in disbelief. “It works, like... like the atomic bomb worked!” Her passion was evident. “You’re irradiating your hands every time you use this stuff.”

A light chuckle left his lips. “I’ve had worse.” His tongue stuck out idly as he licked them, a peculiar quirk. Her eyes were glued to the action. She remembered to close her mouth, then composed herself quickly. She could see and hear the vibration of his knee bouncing anxiously. Or it could’ve been the sound of her heart.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. She exhaled sharply, eyes dropping to the floor. Full of guilt. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I never should’ve done that.” 

Fidgeting, he tapped the pencil in his hands, but kept his tone calm. “It’s-It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” she countered immediately. The shame in her voice was palpable. “That’s... never okay. I’m sorry.” Her eyes wandered around the kitchen until she finally had the strength to meet his gaze. When she looked up at him, his eyes were heavy with a similar burden.

He exhaled gently, closing his notebook. “Look, it’s late.” He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb, shifting his glasses briefly. “We both should get some rest.” 

She mellowed as she observed the vulnerable gesture and decided that the glasses suited him. They were adorable.

Wearily, Peter pushed himself up to a stand, limbs heavy from exhaustion. He stepped out from behind the bar, stopping an arm’s length away from her. Politely, he extended his hand to her.

She looked down at his outstretched, calloused palm, then back up at him. Confused. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“To bed,” he said. As if it were obvious. The most natural thing in the world. 

Her heart fluttered dizzyingly. It irritated her endlessly that she could not determine whether it was from excitement or fear. Her body tensed regardless, hair standing on end. A look of worry darkened her features. “I...uh...” She gulped. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He tilted his head, disappointed. “It’s sleep. Just sleep.”

“That’s...” She struggled to form words, “No, I don’t know—”

“We can make a wall of pillows if it makes you feel more comfortable,” he teased flippantly.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to sleep with each other,” she declared with resolve. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling exposed. He read her face, recognizing her discomfort. “Next,” she urgently clarified. “Sleep next to each other. On the same mattress. Especially after...” She let the sentence drop. “Everything.”

Peter sighed gently, “That’s exactly why we should.” She tilted her head, curious and confused. She waited for an explanation. “Look, my Uncle Ben had a rule. When he and my aunt would go at it about something—it wasn’t a lot—but when it happened, he always made sure that they didn’t go to bed angry. No matter how bad it got.”

Honey gazed at him in disbelief. “That’s... what you think this is?”

“I don’t know what this is, Honey,” he replied. “And I don’t think I can figure that out tonight. So let’s sleep on it.”

She shook her head in timid protest. “Peter—”

“Please,” he replied, cutting her off. The vulnerable sincerity shone through his tone. “All I’m asking is for you to sleep next to—” He cut the sentence short, as if he could hear how it sounded and was frustrated. She watched him push his fingers back through his hair, tugging nervously. Brought his hand to his calloused lips, rubbed tiredly. His face told the story of an anxious, needy, touch-starved boy afraid to ask his crush to the prom. 

“I need... I just need...” he struggled to say the right words as his eyes darted in every direction but towards her. Each time he’d open his mouth to speak, he’d slam his jaw shut, losing the nerve. He sighed in defeat, gazing up at her with warm, bourbon eyes. “I don’t think I can sleep,” he said, “without knowing you’re beside me. That-that when I wake up, you’ll still be there.”

There was something tragic in the soft way he spoke that threatened to rip her heart out of her chest. One look at his Bambi eyes and she felt weak. For a woman who’d always doubted that she possessed any maternal instincts, the urge to comfort this man reigned supreme. Forget the fact that he had a beard and was older than her. His vulnerability made her want to let him crawl into her lap like a kitten.

She sighed, and hated being a cat person.

Honey stood on the side of the bed that Peter had delegated to her two nights prior. There wasn’t any communication that affirmed that side of the bed was hers. It just happened. She pulled back his percale cotton covers and slipped her body inside.

It took some adjusting to get used to. She wasn’t used to wearing pants to bed, even if they were technically pajamas. But given the circumstances, Honey didn’t even want to remove her socks, like a Puritan zealot trying to pray the devil away.

And speak of the Devil. She glanced over in his direction right he approached. 

The expanse of Peter’s milky-smooth skin yanked her from her thoughts and made all other brain function falter. Uncontrollably, she ogled him as he distractedly strolled into the bedroom, nonchalant and shirtless. Time slowed enough for her to take a good look. And she was embarrassed by how hungry for the sight she must have seemed.

What she couldn’t see from the back in the shower was on full display. He was ravishing. In sweatpants, no less. Deliciously carved pectorals, abdominals, biceps, and triceps, and suddenly she was an anatomy scholar—all the names for the muscle groups that she failed to remember in biology sprang to mind. 

He had the same light freckling across his chest that she’d spotted on his neck and back. A few hairs on his chest, but the majority of it was located south of his navel, blazing a delectable dark trail beyond where his waistband hung low on his hips. 

A closer inspection revealed discoloration around his ribs—the skin appearing as different shades of pink and white in contrast to his primary tone. Her eyes widened sinfully at the V of his torso. It was like a giant neon sign, and had always been her favorite part of the male physique to stare at. 

Even at that moment, she was gawking. Imagining his torso as a slip-and-slide. His Adonis belt as the ridges of a soft-serve ice cream cone. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth.

“Thirsty?” 

She snapped out of it, her face blushing red. Back as straight as a board. “What?”

“Sometimes I bring a glass of water to bed,” he explained, conspicuously innocent. “In case my throat gets dry.”

“Nope. No. I’m good.” She was nodding too much. “No dryness here…” The sentence crashed in her throat as she focused on the pattern of the silk duvet.

She could feel the heated smirk emanating from him, like a solar flare on her blushing cheek. “Good,” he muttered in a tone so low it bordered on obscene.

He pulled back his side of the sheets and crawled inside. As his body slid home, she sat up urgently, putting more space in the gap between them.

“Look, I don’t know what you think is going to happen tonight,” she blurted out shakily, “but-but I’m not that kind of girl.”

He raised a brow. “And what kind of girl is that?”

“The... I… I don’t—” Her brain shot forward faster than her mouth could articulate. “’m not … I don’t just—I don’t just sleep with strangers.”

The humor died down his face, sinking behind the horizon of his regret. “Is’at what I am?” he mused in the shadows. There was a matter-of-factness to the statement, punctuated by lament.

Goddamn Bambi eyes. 

She felt a rush of panic. Sympathy. Guilt. More panic. Self-loathing. Panic again. Then, inspiration. “Look, I’m deeply religious and I don’t believe in sex before marriage.” 

Flailing, she clung to the lie like a buoy in the South Pacific. Wincing, she peeked to see his reaction.

Both of his brows raised now. “Is that a proposal?” he grinned. Mischief returning.

“Yes,” she quickly replied. More panic. “I mean no! Not—“ She huffed in frustration, mouth moving uselessly like a goldfish out of water. “I-I-I just... I don’t want you to touch me.” 

Face flushed red, she looked like she’d just ripped off a bandaid. But it once it was done, her voice steadied. “I don’t want to be touched,” she declared, more confidently. Eyes bore into him. “Tell me you understand that. You want me to trust you, then swear to keep your word.”

He hesitated for a moment, sobering as he observed her veracity. His eyes softened. Nodded.

“Promise me, Peter,” she said. “I need you to say it.”

A shadow fell across his face. A memory, perhaps. Something bittersweet.  

“I promise,” he replied. “No touching.” He gazed at her, watching her shoulders relax. There was a twinkle in his amber eyes—a Cheshire smile that didn’t quite reach his lips. “Until you ask me to,” he added.

She fixed him with an incredulous look. His cockyness was breathtaking.

Not that she was focused on his cocki—

“Deal?” he nudged her, recapturing her attention.

She held her gaze for several seconds, measuring the sincerity of his response. With a sigh, she nodded. “Deal.”

A few moments later, Peter turned out the bedside lamp. In the dark, she stared up at the canopy of the four-post bed, trying to steady her pulse. Trying to get what was happening out of her mind. Whatever it was that was happening.

The next morning, she woke up alone again. The room was quiet, and this time, she listened for the shower. Nothing. She used the opportunity to slip away.

Wandering down the hallway and tip-toeing back to her room, she paused at the top of the stairs. The TV was on, voices echoing from the great room below. Curiously, she followed the sound down the stairs until she saw her sorta roommate.

He was hunched over, sitting on the sofa, resting his weight on his elbows. There was a grim look souring his face, and at the same time, his eyes were distant. Like he was somewhere else again. His ankle moved anxiously, causing a bouncing tremor in his knee. He cupped his hands against his mouth, absentmindedly brooding in the glow of the TV screen.

He was fully dressed, wearing pressed dark trousers and a crisp black dress shirt. A slim silver neck tie hung loosely around his neck. Not a lock of hair out of place, as it swooped up into a dark, thick, gelled wave in the front. A tiny curl escaped the crowd. How someone could look so dapper and so... disheveled, was beyond her understanding. It was confusing as much as it was unsettling.

Honey waited at the foot of the stairs, unsure whether or not she should interrupt his—whatever this was. 

“I stopped an armed robbery once,” Peter said to her.

The morose statement jarred her. She paused, eyes wide and blinking away confusion. She hesitated long enough to question whether he was addressing her. Wearily, he looked up at her, confirming his intent.

When she found his eyes, they were darkened with tragedy. Bleary. Red-rimmed. It was a contrast from the confident, flirty man she saw the night before. Gently, he patted the seat beside him, beckoning her to sit.

Nervously, she urged herself forward. Sitting next to him, she had the strange sensation of joining an awkwardly-tense family discussion, in front of TV dinners over an episode of Jeopardy! 

Instead of a game show, Peter had been watching New York’s local morning newscast on mute. She was grateful, because having a TV on in the background had always been troublesome for her. She frequently found herself distracted, disoriented, and unable to distinguish each voice from one another. It made those awkward evening discussions much more tense—what are you, deaf? I asked you what you did in school today!

Idly, she glanced at the screen to see reporters mouthing silent words about a Nor'easter approaching. Powerball numbers scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Up next, footage of an early morning fire in the Bronx, and coverage of a press conference the Mayor gave last night.

“I know it’s probably hard to believe,” Peter began ruefully, pulling her back to the present, “‘specially seein’ me now. Like this.” 

He gestured to himself and around the room at the fancy house, as if they were the same thing. The spite in his voice piqued her focus.

“You probably look at me and think I’m some rich asshole, but it wasn’t always like this,” he explained softly. Honey thought of disagreeing, but he wasn’t waiting on a reply. “My parents died when I was little. And no one ever plans to die young, y’know? So when they left my aunt and uncle were it. The only family I had.” A crease formed in her brow. She was confused as to why he was telling her this, but she listened attentively. 

“We got along fine most of the time,” he continued. He sounded like he was recounting a fairy tale with a sad ending. “My aunt got sick when I was in junior high. Breast cancer. She fought it off, though. Into remission. She was always a fighter.” A bittersweet smile melted his lips. “Downright scary when she wanted to be.” The smile faded, as did the visage of whatever it was he was remembering. “Anyway, medical bills are a bitch. So this—now... Is, uh...more than I ever had growin’ up. But they tried. So hard. To make sure I had what I needed.”

He pursed his lips, lost in thought. She was unsure of what to say next, or whether or not she should say anything. Should she congratulate him on his financial success? Something like ‘I’m sure they’d be proud of you if they could see you now’ seemed in poor taste.

“I could be a real prick sometimes,” Peter recounted, dejected and regretful. She saw the faintest tremor reach his lip. He bit down to steady it. “When I was 17, I got into this big fight with my Uncle Ben. I was, um... goin’ through some stuff. Changes, I guess. I was supposed to be somewhere and I wasn’t. He got pissed. I got pissed. I end up stormin’ off. Even broke the front door on my way out.” He sighed, relieving the memory with each word. “I had to get outta there. Needed to blow off some steam, I guess. Didn’t even know where I was goin’. I stopped into a bodega, to get somethin’ to drink. And then this guy walks into the store and pulls a gun.”

His voice quivered, describing the odd twist of fate. “I see ‘em put the gun in this guy’s face, demand the money in the register. It’s like everything was moving slow. I couldn’t move. I just stood there.” Peter swallowed hard, and Honey followed the lump in his throat. “He takes off,” he continued delicately, “and then it hits me. I can’t let him get away.” Another deep breath. “So I go after him, chase him down this alley. He’s trying to get to a car waiting outside. But I catch up with him, bring him down first. The car speeds off. I look up, just a moment. I see the driver. His partner. He locks eyes with me. And he knows. I got ‘em.”

He described it carefully, with a sweet sense of victory attached. Seeing his eyes light up caused Honey’s heart to swell. It materialized as a smile on her face.

“By the time the cops get there, their job is pretty much done, right?” he laughed softly. “Bad guy’s tied up with an old clothesline. I got the money back. Handed it over. I tell ‘em everything I saw, figured that they’d handle it because it was their job.” He stopped suddenly, his voice growing thin. He swallowed hard. The pain in his eyes made it seem like he was swallowing glass. 

“When Uncle Ben found out what I did— I… I’ll never forget that look on his face. He tells me I did a good thing. Calls me a hero.” Honey spotted the first signs of overwhelming emotion threatening to break him down. A light glimmered from the rim of his eyes. “That was the last conversation I had with him,” he declared, gravely. 

Her brow dipped down, not expecting the sudden turn. “Went home,” he recounted. “Went to bed early.” He drew a shaky breath. “Next thing I know, bullets start flyin’. Guns goin’ off all over. Hundreds. Rapid fire. AKs.”

Eyes wide and entranced, she listened.

“I took a bullet to the thigh,” he explained, “but I don’t even remember it. All I could think about was my aunt and uncle. Gettin’ to them—”

The sentence cut off with a strangled noise. A weak, final breath before the darkness settled in. Peter looked decades older. Eyes staring blindly, haunted by horrible memories. “I found them on the floor in the kitchen. Arms wrapped around each other. Blood all over. So many bullets hit my uncle, I… I couldn’t recognize his face. He didn’t have one anymore. He’d tried to protect May, he was covering her body, but… didn’t matter. You never forget what a gun like that does to a human body.”

Honey was holding her breath unintentionally. Her skin crawled as she imagined what younger Peter must have gone through. 

Taking a shaky breath, he continued. “Cops show up not long after. Didn’t even have to call ‘em.” The pools in his eyes grew deeper. “I told them what happened. They didn’t believe me. Said I couldn’t have heard that many shots fired at once. They kept trying to change my story around. That’s when I realized those bullets weren’t meant for my aunt and uncle. They were meant for me.”

He practically spat out the phrase, a bitter taste left behind. The corners of his mouth pointed downward, ire in his words. “You see, the guy I caught was a little fish. He worked for someone bigger. And the cops were in on it. They told me I didn’t hear that many shots because those could only come from an automatic weapon. Police-issued.”

A breath caught in her throat as she understood his meaning. He pressed on, self-loathing in every word, “The second I ratted out their guy, my family was as good as dead.” He swallowed hard, almost unable to finish the sentence. “That’s when I realized that everything I knew was a lie.”

She tilted her head in confusion and he looked directly at her. “The good guys versus bad guys story is all a sham,” he explained, spitefully, “because no one is ever truly good. There’re monsters everywhere. All over.” She noticed the nausea overtaking his expression, like he was describing a roach infestation, and not the state of the world. “They’re in the streets. In the law. In the banks. They even hold office. Right all the way to the very top.” She grew more unsettled as she listened to his bitter summarization of humanity. “Corruption is the game. All the players are evil. Everyone else is just collateral damage.”

The coldness of his voice stunned her, chilling her. She pulled back her gaze, confused as to where this was all coming from. It’s like he could read her mind. 

“I know you think I ruined your life,” he explained. “That I destroyed everything. But bad shit happens to everyone, regardless of whether they deserve it.” He paused for a moment, and she noticed the glimmer in his eye return. He bit down on his jaw hard, in an effort to hold back. “Everyone that ever loved me is dead. Did they deserve that? Did I?” His words went over her like a dagger to the heart. She pitied him, even if she couldn’t understand where this was coming from.

“You asked me what my biggest regret was,” he explained. She recalled their earlier conversation and the question that was left unanswered. “It’s the night I tried to do the right thing, and I lost everything for it.” 

Her heart twisted as he said it. She was in awe of the bitter, broken man beside her. He’d lost so many things and isolated himself so completely, it’s a wonder that he was still alive. 

“That’s how I ended up on the other side of the law,” he preached from an invisible pulpit. “From this side, I have a clear view. People show me who they really are.” Reflexively, she shook her head, but stopped immediately. She didn’t have any evidence to support her argument.

“I can see now that the only way to fight fire is with fire,” he added, his voice growing stronger. More resolved. “So i'm all in with everything I got. Soon I’m gonna rain down hellfire like it’s the Fourth of July And when the smoke clears, the man who hurt your friends will be dead.” His voice echoed as he said it, as if she could hear bells in accordance, proclaiming his glory. “That's my promise to you, Honey. Whatever it takes, I’m gonna burn it all down.”

Peter’s eyes left her face and focused on the television. “I’m gonna make him pay,” he said darkly. He took the remote and turned up the volume. 

The sound of the Mayor’s voice cut in, stretching the limit of her focus. She struggled to ignore it, trying to process what Peter had just said, but the volume was turned up too high. It was footage from an earlier press conference.

She watched as the stocky man stood behind a podium at City Hall with a dozen microphones fixed at his mouth. He towered against the backdrop of the American flag, his deep voice bellowing, “The crime element that poisons this beautiful city is out of control. Abhorrent acts of violence, like those perpetrated against those women in Midtown this week, will not go unpunished.”

Her eyes lit up, recognizing who he was talking about. 

“I’m committing to working closely with local law enforcement, and will not stop until the animals responsible for these horrible crimes are brought to justice,” he proclaimed. “Whatever that looks like.” 

Against a valiant array of uniformed police officers and banners of patriotism, it seem like more of a joke than it actually was. Another politician’s promise to be forgotten after a few weeks. 

Except that it didn’t feel funny. There was nothing remotely humorous about the tone.

Perhaps it was the tension in the room sitting with Peter that gave her pause. She felt something ominous building. Something threatening. Like crawling through brush and hearing the slithering rattle of a snake.

“Whatever it takes,” the man on TV declared. “I will restore law and order to this city.”

She heard a slow exhale release from the man beside her. She glanced over at Peter to see his eyes narrowed into slits. Intense. Focused. Possessed.

Honey blinked at him, and looked back at the Mayor of New York, dread filling her. 

He wasn’t…? Wait, was he talking about— 

“Are you talking about him?” she asked, trepidation filing her voice. Her eyes went wide. “Are you talking about Mayor Fisk?”

Peter’s jaw twitched. He kept his eyes glued to the screen. “We don’t say that name,” he muttered with a look of pure loathing. 

A chill came over her as the pieces connected. The name he had spoken the night of her kidnapping. Wilson Fisk.

“To me, he’s the Kingpin.” Peter looked her dead in the eye, aflame with righteous fervor. “And I’m gonna kill ‘em.”

Continue to Part 8

a/n hee heee heeeeeee

i'm excited for what's next. are you??? thank you for reblogging! if you want to be tagged in future chapters, you must reblog. (it's the only way I can keep up)

[swarehime73]

Psalms 34:18 - The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, And saves such as have a contrite spirit. ,,, What is your reaction to YOUR sin? Is your heart broken and you are sad and remorseful or do you just not think much about it? Jesus died for your sin. God sacrificed His son for your sin. You must take your sin very seriously. God does.

[nobetafortomorrowedie]

"God won't refuse you if you come to him with a broken heart and a contrite spirit," "be like a little child," "be meek and humble" etc...they want you to be small and guilty they want you to be as naive as a child and as innocent as a lamb. They are wrong. I love children and I love lambs but there is nothing easier to hurt and more vulnerable. Much better to be the wolf.

[seeruthievonrun]

Can You Hear Me?: digital + analog collage (2021)

When I created this piece I was deep in the throes of questioning my religious beliefs. I'd been told my whole life that if I suplicated to god with a "contrite heart and a broken spirit" that they'd hear me, that they'd listen, that they'd bring me peace and clarity and love.

and when I asked the questions that plagued me the most-- about my sexuality, about my gender, about my place in a world that didn't want me the way a was, a church, a faith that told me I needed to abandon myself in order to be worthy of god's love-- I heard nothing. No whisperings of the spirit, no burning in my heart.

And I began to wonder if anyone was actually listening.

[pray-like-nehemiah]

The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles. The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.

> Psalms 34:17 & 18

Today was the first day since I started following God again that I was brought to tears at work, which used to happen on a weekly basis and was part of what led me to therapy. I won't go into detail but it's hard when the someone who is the cause is someone you have to work with daily.

But today is also the first time that I was able to bring my troubles to God instead of venting to the coworkers I'm close with, when they can't really do anything about it. In my mind, I forgive them as Jesus forgives us, but that doesn't make me want to be around them. That's the hard part when they work at the same level, in the same office.

I just have to have faith in Him, because I know He will take care of me. These verses are proof of that fact.