#communion new york

[sydneyscarm]

carmen + catholic guilt

[royalpalmny]

Cherish Special Moments with a Baptism Communion Package New York

Celebrate your child’s baptism and First Communion with our thoughtful baptism communion package New York. Our packages include venue decoration, catering, and entertainment, making it easy to host a memorable event. We cater to your specific needs, ensuring a beautiful and stress-free celebration. Trust us to handle every detail so you can focus on celebrating this precious milestone with your loved ones.

[kosmia]

Alfred Eisenstaedt, Holy Communion (New York), 1944

[farfromstrange]

I Want To Fuck A Priest | Matt Murdock x AFAB!Reader

PART 6 of The Vault

See this post for more information on my Valentine's Day Special & Follower Celebration, but these fics can be read separately!

Pairing: Matt Murdock x AFAB!Reader

Summary: You have a thing for the priest you met at a farmer's market. Thankfully, he has a thing for you, too.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), porn without much plot, Priest!Matt, blasphemy (!!!), church setting, improper use of a priest's collar, improper use of a confessional booth, improper use of the act of confession, praise, prayer, oral afab!receiving, slight Dom!Matt, Catholic guilt, Fleabag reference, seriously if you are religious or triggered by the improper use of religion DO NOT read this!

Word Count: 2.8k

A/n: This is for those who watched Fleabag and then saw all the 'Imagine Matt as a priest' and 'Charlie Cox once played a Spanish priest' posts and thought, "Same!" when Fleabag said, "I want to fuck a priest." I see you, and I feel you. I wrote this after re-watching Fleabag one night, but I added a little poetic twist while editing because before, it was just completely plotless oral sex. While that isn't bad, I needed to add some vibes. You're welcome.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

The church bells ring as the clock strikes midnight. The night sky is void of dark clouds. In the darkness above the massive walls encasing the holy ground, the stars shine brighter than the city lights. New York City, the city that never sleeps, makes an exception for the house of God in the dead of the night, it seems.

It’s been…several years since my last confession. 

The graveyard attached to the church looks threatening in its vacancy. It’s void of human souls except for the dead ones buried there. A raven claps its wings in the distance, following the gush of wind that brushes through the trees. 

The bell rings twelve times before it stops, but the echo bounces off the stone walls and shakes the stained-glass windows, which seems to drag on for an eternity. 

The last time I confessed my sins was before my communion. I don’t know if that makes me a bad Catholic, but lately, I’ve been having sinful thoughts, and I need to get them out of the way before I collapse under the weight of them.

You considered for the longest time whether or not you should come here. Faith has been your enemy for the longest time. You don’t believe in the Catholic Church, and yet you have found your way here, in the middle of the night, when everyone should be asleep in their beds. 

This isn’t a normal night, by any means. You often lay awake at night and question your purpose in this life, but lately, you’ve been feeling like you’re drowning. Sins are subjective, and you never paid much mind to the term until now. 

The thoughts you find yourself having late at night when you’re awake and lonely are far from holy. They aren’t ideal. They make you wonder just why you are thinking this way now.

But no man has ever been like him. And the worst part about it is that wanting him alone is an unholy train of thought you should have never submitted to. 

You tried ignoring it, carrying it all by yourself, and trying to heal whatever complex you may have that could have led to this obsession in the first place, but your life has been a mess for long enough that it doesn’t even surprise you anymore, and no matter what you tried to do, you couldn’t stop fantasizing about him.

He is the reason you came to church tonight to confess your sins. But you’re not here to find your way. You’re not here to ask for guidance from God. You told yourself that the unholiness of your thoughts needs to be cured and that is why you came here—to make this situation better for yourself—but the thought is ancient; it’s the twenty-first century and you’re the kind of person who knows exactly what they want and how to get it. The truth is, you’re here to get what you want, even if it will land you in the pits of hell for all eternity. And even if it kills you.

“You don’t do this kind of thing often, do you?” the low voice asks from the other side of the confessional booth.

You shake your head. “Not at all, Father. When I went to Sunday Mass this weekend, it was my first time in a church in a very long time,” you admit to him, “and this is my first confession since I was a child. I…I’m not really a devoted Catholic, you understand. I’m merely struggling right now, and I…I am in desperate need of guidance.”

Your lip quivers. Your voice resembles a tidal wave that comes and goes as nature pleases.

He can’t see you. It’s not the curtain that is separating you and is starting to feel like worlds apart—he can’t see you. He can only hear and smell you, and that alone makes your thighs clench with need. 

Should you be doing this in a church? Should you fantasize about a man of God and want to claim him, coming to his sanctuary to tell him the truth and mess with his head? You know that it’s wrong, but the wrong thing often feels too right to stop. 

When you met him at the farmer’s market the other day, he was so endlessly kind to everyone, including yourself. He invited you to Sunday mass, and you went. You went on a walk with him afterward, and there seemed to be something there, but he couldn’t act on it because he is who he is and what he is. He made a vow. He can’t have you, no matter how badly he wants to, and one look into his unfocused hazel eyes when he took off those red glasses he always wears told you that he does want you. It led to another sleepless night among many, and now you’re here.

You’re so utterly selfish, but God, you can’t stop it. When you want something, you would do anything to get it. He makes you feel things you never felt before. It’s terrifying, but you have to allow yourself to jump into unknown waters if you want to learn how to swim.

He clears his throat, and you can hear the chair creak under his weight as he shifts. Is it possible that you’re doing the same to him that he is doing to you?

“I want to start by saying that you’re really brave,” he says. The sound of his voice is enough to make you shiver. “But God offers people guidance in a symbolic sense. I can take your confession, tell you how to repent for your sins, but I can’t tell you what to do.”

You sigh. “I wish you would though.”

A chuckle passes his lips. “Why don’t you start by telling me what’s weighing you down, sweetheart, and we will go from there?”

Sweetheart. 

Yes, you think, this is your one-way ticket to hell. 

“I’ve been having thoughts,” you confess.

“Thoughts?” he asks.

“Yes. Unholy thoughts.” Your breath comes in weak puffs of air. The booth seems to cave in on you. You wish he would step out of his booth into yours and stuff his cock into your mouth. For him, you would shut up. You would do whatever he tells you to do, and you would do so gladly.

Fuck. You want to fuck a priest. 

But lucky for you, Father Matthew wants to fuck you too. He’s here, at midnight, because you were lost and he was still there—he told you he spends his nights at church sometimes because the city gets too loud for him. You couldn’t go anywhere else because any place where he isn’t doesn’t seem worth visiting.

Matt sucks in a sharp breath. You imagine him swallowing, his white collar constricting his labored airflow. You imagine him pulling at it to free himself, but he can’t. Those sinfully thick fingers of his would feel even better on your skin. 

“Unholy thoughts,” Father Matthew asks, “about whom, sweetheart?”

He’s pushing your buttons with that nickname. It’s so not professional. The lines are starting to blur.

“A man,” you tell him. 

“A man?”

“A man of God.”

The confession causes a bout of silence. You could have heard a hairpin drop. 

His chair creaks again, and his voice reminds you of an animalistic growl right before an apex predator attacks its prey. “And what unholy thoughts have you been having about this man of God?” he inquires.

Your inner walls clench around thin air. Sweat drips down your temples, and the arousal soaks your underwear. Your nipples strain against your shirt. If you grip the seat any harder, you will soon find wooden chips under your nails.

You lick your lips. “I’ve been thinking about him touching me,” you whisper. “And I want to touch him.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“And in your thoughts, does he satisfy you?”

Your answer comes promptly, “Always.”

There is not a scenario in which Father Matthew could possibly leave you unsatisfied. 

The chair creaks again. Something in the air shifts. 

Your voice is breathless and needy, and so fucking desperate when you speak into the silence, “Just tell me what to do, Father.”

“Okay,” he says. His leather shoes drag across the floor of the booth and toward the curtain that marks the exit of his side. The next word out of his mouth knocks all the air out of your lungs, “Kneel.”

You don’t even have time to question his request. Within seconds, the curtain through which you’ve stepped into the confessional booth is torn to the side, and there he is, in all of his glory, right in front of you, and his thick cock is straining against his black slacks.

You pinch yourself, but you’re not dreaming. This is real. This is what you wanted, and you weren’t imagining the mutual attraction due to delusions. He does want you, and he is about to break every rule in his book—and the lord’s book.

You sink to your knees. The only thing you can see on his face is pure, unbridled lust and the ugly truth of Catholic guilt. He must loathe himself for wanting you. 

Matt removes his glasses, revealing his beautiful eyes to you. In the dim candlelight, they appear almost black.

“What’s my sentence, Father?” you ask.

His hand brushes your cheek. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he breathes.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“No.” He steps into the booth and closes the curtain behind him. “Tonight, call me Matt.”

That is the last thing he says before he gets on his knees before you, and he captures your lips in a bruising kiss that is strong enough to make the angels howl.

His hand rests around your throat, feeling your pulse. He may not be able to see you with his eyes, but the way he touches you paints a perfect picture of your presence, and you feel every last ounce of his devotion. 

He explores the depth of your mouth with his tongue, tasting you, loving you. His hands feel beautifully rough against your skin, just like you imagined they would be after years of praying. He sees himself as the hands of God. A messenger. His goodness makes your heart swell and your core flood with more than unbridled arousal—this is human nature in all its emotional glory, and you no longer feel ashamed. You can’t possibly when he is holding you like this.

He exhales into your mouth—no, he breathes life into your soul. “You’re the most sinful yet purest thing I have ever laid my hands on,” Matt says.

You gasp against his luscious lips. “I wouldn’t want to make you turn your back on God, or–”

He cuts you off, “I did that when I first thought about your body on mine and coming so deep inside of you that you’ll carry me with you for days. I don’t care about God because if having him means that I can’t have you,” he says, “I don’t want him anymore.”

You swallow his words with a kiss. Turning a priest against God was never your intention, but you are not in charge of his feelings, nor will you ever be. Matt wants you badly enough to abandon religion, and you will carry that with you until the day you die. 

He lifts you back onto the edge of the wooden chair, pulling at your clothes and your undergarments. The moonlight hits his face as the cold air of the church hits your bare pussy. He looks ethereal like this, on his knees for you. His hazel eyes bore into your soul. He wears his heart on his sleeves and a collar around his neck. 

Your priest crosses his chest. He asks God for forgiveness. And then, with one gentle tug at your thighs, he buries his face in your wet cunt, and he feasts as if your sex was the last supper. As God’s disciple, he is determined to eat up every last bite offered to him. Every last drop from your cunt is his, and your lips part in a moan that echoes through the church like the bells did when it hit midnight.

“Fuck,” you cry out. 

He flattens his tongue against you, licking a long stripe over and then through your folds. He twirls the tip of his tongue over your clit, stroking the sensitive bundle of nerves with such precision, your walls clench at the sheer explosion of pleasure. You have never felt anything like it. He turns something unholy into heaven, and you’re drowning in the river to the Garden of Eden.

His lips suction around your clit. The obscene squelching of your velvety walls fills the booth. It sounds deadly noisy to you. You want to cover your mouth to stop the moans from traveling, but he traps your hand with his, guiding them to his hand, telling you to guide him.  

Instead, one of your hands moves to his collar. It’s his turn to moan. You tug at the symbol of his priesthood, forcing his tongue deeper into your hole. He laps up your juices as though his life depends on it. 

“Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned,” Matt murmurs against you. 

You moan again, louder this time. He is repenting for wanting to dive into your pussy until he gets swept away by the tide, but it is far too late to back out now. Your pleasure has become his priority. 

“Lord God,” he repeats, “in your goodness have mercy on me.”

The pleasure is turning into a tight knot in your lower abdomen. You can feel it consuming you and your senses. You’re floating. The light at the end of the tunnel is not so far out of reach anymore. Every suck and every lick at your folds, and every thrust of his tongue into your tight walls pushes you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy. 

In your goodness, have mercy on me. 

He bites down lightly on your clit. Your toes curl, and his name comes out in a groan.

Do not look on my sins, but take away all my guilt. 

Right now, you are his God. By drinking your arousal like holy water and pushing you toward an orgasm he is repenting. The symbolism makes your heels dig into his back as you buck your hips against his mouth, and when he adds one of those thick fingers, curling them up against that sweet spot inside of you, you can barely stand it anymore.

Create me in a clean heart and renew within me an upright spirit.

“God, Matthew!” your moan interrupts his plea for penance only briefly.

He swats your thigh. “No blasphemy when I feast at the altar,” he says. The vibration of his voice adds to the knot, tightening it, and threatening it to burst.

You’re almost there. Almost…

“Have mercy on me, a sinner,” he continues. His tongue slides between your folds once again, gathering your slit. His fingers curl upward again. He’s mixing different prayers, or maybe these are his own words, but you are not sure how much longer you can hold it. But he wants you to hold it. You don’t want to disappoint the man who is worshiping at your feet, your pussy, his altar, and you are his salvation as much as you are his saving grace.

“In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good,” he prays, “I have sinned against You whom I should love above all things—but fuck, I don’t.” 

Does that mean he loves you? It is too soon to tell that, but he is devoted, and devotion can be just as sinfully sweet as the rawest feeling of love.

“Have mercy on me, God. Amen!”

His collar is starting to tear under your vice grip. 

Matt thrusts his digit into you until it disappears, and he finally decides to show the mercy he was begging for to you. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he says. 

Your thighs lock around his head as the knot breaks in two. You come, hard, and the wave tears him down with you, shooting his cum into his slacks like the good Catholic boy he is.

You let go of his collar when your orgasm has done its damage. 

“No,” he stops you. 

“No?” you ask, still breathless.

“No,” he says, lifting his head to grin at you, not like a man of God but the Devil himself. “I have not done nearly enough penance.”

As a priest, Matt is used to being on his knees until they’re bruised; until he can’t stand straight anymore, so he has to remain there, cowering before a God he more often than not does not believe in.

Before you can protest, he dives back into your endless ocean, and you have no choice but to lean back and take it. 

He is not the only one doing penance tonight, after all—you both are. 

Matt Murdock Smut Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama

[bougiebutchbinch]

That Trans!A-Train Concept That's Been Haunting Me, feat. a tiny bit of Deeptrain

Rating: M

TW: transphobia, queerphobia, the threat of outing, and A-Train using 'tr*nny' self-deprecatingly. No one actually gets outed, but the fear is real. Also, Homelander is a creep. I love him, but poor A-Train does not.

###

“Deep. Blow A-Train.”

The world sharpens into focus. Reggie had been zoning, as is his habit when Homelander starts spouting shit and everyone dislocates their damn jaws to be first to agree with him. Now though, the meeting room at the top of Vought tower is inescapable – as is the weight of Homelander’s stare. That’s settled on Deep, for now, but Reggie still tenses.

No way did he hear that right. Right?

“What?” asks Deep.

Homelander’s expression doesn’t change. “Did I stutter? A-Train, stand up.”

Fuck. Fuck.

Reggie refuses to let his hands shake as he pushes back his chair, though his jaw is tensed so tight a muscle ticks in his neck. Homelander’s dead-eyed gaze remains glued to Deep, as he orders him onto his knees. But Reggie knows that this isn’t a lesson (a ritual humiliation? A sadistic game?) designed for one.

The fucker knows. He knows I sold out his Nazi bitch. He knows I’m fucking sick of eating Vought’s shit. He knows fucking everything…

Thoughts race through his head, fast as he can run. His heart – still fucking weird, to think of the hunk of muscle in his chest as his – pounds so hard he’s half-afraid of going into cardiac arrest again.

Hell, that might be a blessing. It’d get him out of this.

Deep looks up at Reggie with big spooked eyes. A silent communion passes between them. The only choice being exercised here is Homelander’s. They don’t get a say. They’re just… puppets. Fucking hand-puppets, with Homelander’s fists lodged wrist-deep.

“Sexuality’s just a spectrum,” mumbles Deep, pinching Reggie’s zipper. “Right, bro?”

Reggie rolls his eyes to the ceiling and lets them linger there. Behind his zipper, he’s dry and clenched and fucking terrified. On the outside though? Chill as a New York winter.

He has to be. The only thing worse than being publicly outed, like Maeve, is showing that you give a fuck. If you give a fuck, they can hurt you. Reggie learnt a long time ago that it’s safer to never give anyone that kind of power over you.

Down goes the zipper. Reggie doesn’t flinch at the rasp, but only because he’s doing his utmost to mentally evacuate his body, blowing out like he's emptying himself, watching from a distance, preparing for the inevitable –

“Get the fuck up,” snaps Homelander. He looks disgusted. Like he didn't just order them into these positions, on the implicit threat of burny, lasery death.

Deep springs away, relief shining bright on his dumb-bitch face. But he frowns when he notices Reggie’s hands (stupid fucking hands) wobbling too much to pull up the zipper. Doesn’t mention it though.

Thank fuck. Reggie hates the guy, not least because he’s thick as a post-pepperoni-meatfeast shit, but at least he has the sense to keep his mouth shut. It’s prey instinct, or something. The two of them cower like fluffy li’l bunnies under the piercing stare of an eagle, hoping that if they’re small enough and quiet enough, he’ll fly on by.

Reggie adjusts his packer in his boxers. He finally wrestles up his fly, and scurries back to his seat. Deep follows him. As Homelander launches into a diatribe against brown-nosing, Deep leans over.

“I wouldn’t have actually done it,” he whispers. Reggie just shakes his head and goes back to staring at nothing at all.

He’s first to leave once they're dismissed. It’s tempting to amp up the super-speed and sprint to his apartment, but caution drags teeth along the back of his neck.

Don’t show him that he got to you. Don’t show it. Don’t…

Homelander knows. That’s the worst part. He'd known ever since A-Train’s debut, back when he was all bright-eyed and shiny and unruined by the world. Like all of them start out. During Reggie's first week at the tower, the jackass cornered him in an elevator. He loomed over him, hands clasped behind his back, and breathed.

“My, oh my,” he said, head cocked to one side. Curious, almost. Like a scientist dissecting a bug. “Aren’t you excited. All this fame and power really does it for you, hm?”

Reggie hadn’t understood what he was saying. Yeah, he was revved. Sue him, he’d just come from his biggest press conference yet – fucking killed it, for the record. He’d made a save a few minutes beforehand (carefully staged, rehearsed, and captured from the optimal angles), and swaggered onstage to an eruption of applause so loud it was like Mt Saint Helens had gone for round two.

“Yeah, bossman,” he’d said, flashing a grin. “Happy to be here, I guess?”

“I’ll say. You're practically dripping.”

Reggie’s smile had frozen on his face. “Um. What?”

Homelander settled back on his heels, smiling blandly at the mirrored inside of the elevator doors. “Your cunt. It’s wet. I can smell it.”

Reggie felt like he’d grown twenty inches since strutting off stage. With those words, that extra height crumbled. Everything slowed down, like when he blurred into hyperspeed. It was always a strange feeling. Not like he’d sped up, but like the rest of the world had simply… stopped.

Homelander’s voice though? That just kept on going.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to tell. Why would I? It’d hardly be good for our viewings if one of us was revealed to be some sort of degenerate…” A dismissive shrug. “Whatever-you-are. Just take this as a reminder, hm? My team can enjoy whatever scratches their itches, but I do insist upon discretion.”

The elevator pinged, doors reeling open. Homelander winked – fucking winked – and strode out, leaving Reggie battling the urge to run and run and run, until Vought tower was lost to New York’s bustling skyline.

Eight years on T at that point – he’d started before he and Nate put their all into this superhero shit. Before he and his big brother took apart plain ol’ Reggie Franklin and built A-Train in his place. And for what?

Homelander sussed him with a fucking sniff.

He hasn’t brought it up since. Reggie has done his utmost not to give him a reason to.

It sickens him to think about. There’d be a media circus, like with poor fucking Maeve. Debates too, where he’d have to defend his continued presence in the Seven to their shareholders (are trans guys as marketable as lesbians?)

No one can be normal about a dude with a cunt. Ridiculous, really. For Reggie, it’s as normal as breathing.

He wants to be A-Train, fastest in the world. Not A-Train, fastest in the world, and he’s a tranny; oh my god, did you know? Let’s all sit around on a late-night chat show and discuss what’s in his pants and whether he’s a bad example for the children.

By the time he gets to his room (at normal, if slightly elevated walking speed, thank you very much) the stupid shake’s back in his hands. Reggie fumbles out his phone as soon as the door shuts. Opening his chat with Nate still happens on muscle memory, though Nate hasn’t replied to his messages in over a month.

Reggie types out a dozen versions of ‘I know you hate me and I know I deserve it and I know I fucked up and I keep fucking up, but please can I come over because I need a fucking hug from my brother’ before giving up. He backspaces the last half-formatted string of text and throws the phone on the bed, then follows it, flopping his face down in the pillows.

He hates the racist pig, but he can’t deny Bluehawk’s heart is doing a decent job. Better than his old one would’ve. He's still in tachy, no doubt about it, but there’s no warning clench in his back and down his left arm, no yawning sinkhole of dread.

He survived. Nothing happened. Nobody knows his secret but Homelander – unless he’s forgotten, which Reggie wouldn’t put past him. A-Train’s so far beneath his notice he’s practically an ant.

He doesn’t need coddling. He doesn’t need Nate. He doesn’t need anyone.

He focuses on the breathing exercises Popclaw used to make him do, until thoughts of Popclaw well up behind his eyes, along with every other fucking thing that’s gone wrong in his life. Or rather, everything he’s done wrong. Killing Campbell’s girl. Snitching on Supersonic. Not walking away from Vought while Nathan could still use his fucking legs…

Suffice to say, by the time the thump sounds at his door, Reggie is way redder around the eyes than anyone is allowed to see but the miserable face in the mirror. He unpeels himself from his damp pillow, dragging on his sunglasses.

“Fuck off!” he yells, in vague hope that’ll work. No such luck.

“Uh,” comes Deep’s low, nervous voice from the other side of the door. “Knock knock? We good, bro?”

“What part of fuck off sounds good to you?” But he’s already dragging himself to the door. Deep might be a dipshit. Might be a goddamn serial rapist with a fetish for sea creatures – but right now he’s also the closest thing to a friend Reggie’s got.

And – fuck. If that ain’t an indictment of the sorry state of the world…

Deep strolls in like he owns the place, thumbs tucked in his waistband. Reggie spent enough time studying the boys at the park, mirroring their swagger, to recognize how he’s bigging himself up.

“So,” he says, all gruff. He’s made his voice deeper, too. “That was fucking crazy, yeah?”

“Just the usual bullshit,” says Reggie, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Homelander’s screwing with us. S’how he gets his kicks.”

“Yeah.” Deep scratches the back of his head. “But you seemed… I dunno. Rattled?”

Why does he have to be a dumbass until it inconveniences Reggie most? “What’s weirder – to be freaked out by him ordering us to do that shit, or to just get on your knees?”

Deep shrinks back, eyes all big like Reggie kicked his pet lobster. Power rushes through Reggie: the sharp-tasting satisfaction of being able to hurt someone just with his words. It feels staler than it used to.

“Hey, I didn’t wanna get lasered. I’m not a queer or anything, yeah?”

“No shit,” drawls Reggie. They have different words for the sort of freak Deep is. Like fish-fucker. And pretty sure that’s a felony. “Is that all?”

Deep shrugs. “Just wanted to make sure we’re good, bro.”

I’m not your bro. But he’s the closest Reggie has to a brother too, since Nate decided he wasn't worth his spit. Even though he hates Deep's gill-slit guts and doesn’t trust him an inch.

“Yeah,” he says, sidling closer. Budging his shoulder against Deep so their biceps rest together, just for a moment, before pulling away. “We’re good. We were just playing along so we didn’t get lasered. Like you said. Now fuck off back to your aquarium.”

Deep flips him double-birds as he leaves, but his usual gormless grin is back on his face. Reggie does his best to match it.

Once Deep’s gone, he returns to his phone, tapping out a quick message to Nate and hitting send before he can wuss out.

Stay safe. I’m sorry.

That echoes all the other sorries that end his other messages, reeling up and up the one-sided text chain into infinity.

Funny, how Reggie never used to utter apologies, if he could help it – and certainly didn’t mean them, if he did. Nowadays, it feels like he can’t repeat them enough.

He selects another contact, one recently added, disguised with a picture of a massive pair of tits. This is both to dodge suspicion, should any of the Intel snoops peek at his phone, and because… well, what sorta whack-ass name is Mother’s Milk, anyway?

Just got out of a meeting, he sends. He absorbed enough of Homelander’s delusional rambling to pass on, even if it provides the Boys with no further information than ‘after executing anyone who dared stand up to him, Homelander’s suddenly decided he’s sick of sycophancy’. Still, his thumbs hover over the keys a full minute before he commits to the next words – we should talk.  

[illumins]

𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞—𝑙. 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑘 (#⁰³)

✦trope: fluff, spidey-mark, spiderman

✧first pov

▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭

It’s the kind of morning where the sunlight seems to perform, glittering through the leaves of the trees lining our school’s front walk like something alive. The bus, dented and smelling faintly of rubber and stale lunches, sits idling at the curb, and I am hyper-aware of my own heartbeat, the tap-tap-tapping against my ribcage as I shuffle in line to board.

I find a seat by the window, sticking my backpack onto the empty space beside me. I tell myself it’s to save the spot for Jenna, but she’s decided to sit up front, leaving me an island in a sea of noise. The other students buzz with the sort of aimless energy only a field trip can inspire. I watch them, trying to imagine how it would feel to be as light-hearted, their thoughts not tangled in a net of impossible hopes.

Mark climbs onto the bus last, his hair a tousled mess from the wind, a grin playing on his lips as he jokes with his friends. They’re talking about the new exhibit at the science museum, something about rare minerals, but all I can see is the way his shoulders ease back in laughter, the effortless orbit of his friends around him. He’s got this gravity, and I feel caught in it, helpless.

He doesn’t notice me, not yet. He’s recounting some anecdote that has them all leaning in, their expressions lit with shared amusement. I watch his hands as he speaks, animated and sure, the way I imagine Spider-Man’s might be when he’s scaling a skyscraper or swinging between the canyons of New York’s avenues. I try to picture telling him, confessing everything right there in the vibrating hull of the school bus. But the words knot in my throat, unspoken.

We arrive under a sky scrubbed clean by the wind, the museum rising before us like a monument to all things curious and unknown. Our teachers herd us toward the entrance, their voices raised over the clamor. I stay a few steps behind Mark, watching as he squints up at the banners flapping above the entrance, his profile sharp against the pale morning light.

Inside, the museum is a cavern of shadows and echoes, the air cool and tinged with the scent of metal and glass. We wander through the exhibits, the teachers giving us time to explore while they discuss logistics at the front desk. My friends cluster around a display of meteorites, their surfaces pocked and scarred like moons. I drift away, my sneakers silent on the polished floor.

I find him by the Foucault pendulum, standing so close to the barrier that his breath must be fogging the brass plaque explaining the physics of it all. His concentration is a tangible thing, and I watch the way his eyes track the slow, hypnotic swing of the pendulum.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” I say, my voice softer than I intend, barely threading through the hum of distant conversations and the distant echo of footsteps.

He turns, his smile quick and surprised, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to break his private communion with the exhibit. “Hey,” he says. “Yeah, it really is. Did you know—”

But I’m barely listening, too caught up in the way his hair curls just behind his ears, the earnestness of his gaze. I shuffle my feet, feeling suddenly clumsy, the words I’ve rehearsed slipping away like water through fingers.

“So, I was thinking,” I start, but my voice trembles and I have to start again. “I was wondering if—”

An explosion shatters the moment, the sound so loud it seems to consume the air. Screams slice through the museum as people start running, a stampede of fear. Mark’s hand shoots out, grabbing my arm, pulling me close. His body shields mine as the sound reverberates, the ground beneath us shivering with the violence of the blast.

“Are you okay?” he shouts over the noise, his eyes scanning the chaos, always looking for how he can help. I nod, words lost in the tumult.

We move together, his hand firm on my elbow, guiding me towards what I assume is safety. My heart is a wild thing inside my chest, not just from the blast, but from him, from the heat of his hand through the fabric of my shirt.

As we reach a quieter corner, his friends gathering around us, his face is inches from mine, his brow furrowed with concern. The chaos around us blurs into a backdrop as I’m suddenly, acutely aware of his closeness, the faint smell of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of fear.

“Seriously, are you all right?” His voice is steady, a contrast to the trembling of my own limbs.

I manage a nod, my throat tight. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks to you.” The words tumble out awkwardly, carried more by relief than by courage. The truth is, I want to say so much more, to rewind to the moment before the explosion, to the question I had been about to ask.

He smiles, a quick, reflexive thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he scans the area, still in protector mode. His gaze is everywhere, taking in exits, assessing threats, so unlike the carefree high school student he plays in the daylight of ordinary afternoons.

Mark turns back to me, his hand still gripping my arm lightly. “We should keep moving. It’s not safe here.”

As we walk, I can hear the sirens in the distance, the sound growing steadily louder. The museum staff are directing visitors toward emergency exits, their voices calm but urgent over handheld radios.

We reach a side exit, the cool air outside a slap after the stifling fear inside. Police cars and fire trucks are converging on the scene, their lights painting the world in harsh strokes of red and blue. Mark's friends cluster together, everyone speaking at once, trying to make sense of the chaos.

I stand slightly apart, the weight of my unasked question heavier than ever. Just as I gather the remnants of my scattered courage, ready to reach out and touch his arm, to pull him aside and finally speak my truth, he looks over, his expression shifting as he sees something beyond my shoulder.

“Stay here,” he says abruptly, and then he’s gone, melting into the crowd with a swiftness that speaks of more than just urgency—it speaks of necessity, of duty.

The others don’t notice his departure, not at first, caught up in their own relief and recounting of the event. I watch where he disappeared, the cold knot of disappointment settling in my stomach. Not because of the missed chance to confess, but because I know, with a sinking certainty, where he’s gone.

To change, to swing into action as someone else entirely. As Spider-Man.

I wrap my arms around myself, watching as the first responders begin to corral us further away from the building. The sound of distant thuds and muffled shouts suggests that the danger isn’t over, that whatever caused the explosion might still be unfolding inside.

And there, under the relentless sweep of emergency lights, I realize the truth isn’t just in the words I’d failed to say. It’s in this moment, in the pulse of fear and the clarity it brings. It’s in the understanding that my confession wouldn’t just be about a crush; it would be an acknowledgment of his double life, a step into his world of constant peril and masked identities.

As I watch, poised on the edge of something vast and terrifying, a new resolve forms. When this is over, when he comes back, I’ll be waiting. Not just to confess, but to stand by him. Maybe then, he’ll see me not just as a classmate, but as someone who knows the weight of his secrets and chooses to stay.

But for now, I wait, the sirens wailing a lament, the flashing lights casting shadows where I stand—alone but undeterred, ready for whatever comes next.

[woundgallery]

I don't submit many poems for publication, but I am truly delighted that this old piece found a home in a beautiful volume of Prairie Schooner. I wrote this in April 2016, when I was re-emerging from the most deadening period of my life. As much as this poem, on the surface, is about heartbreak, it is much more about the gift of opening myself once again to communion with others and communion with the mystery of our fragile, interconnected world. The person I wrote this for took me by the hand and--with gentleness and understanding--helped me put aside weariness and remember that the world was a place that could still surprise me with a beauty that surpasses explanation, that cannot be neatly explained and shut away. Though it's been years since we have spoken, I am forever grateful for him.

And, as spring quickens in New York City, I am grateful once more to reflect on all I would have missed if I had not made it through the gauntlet of 2015. I would never have met my cat (and love of my life) Willa who wakes me each morning by wildly purring, head butting me like a baby goat, and nibbling my cheeks and nose because she’s just so happy to see me; hiked on Orcas Island with Michael and found a surprise lake which we named Lake Ineffable (because no name was beautiful enough for it) where we stripped off our clothes and swam and embraced each other, blissfully alone and dazed by superfluous beauty; found out that George Washington National Forest may have more fireflies than anywhere in the world; grown into my vocation as a social worker and been blessed to sit in communion with my clients for eight years; built a beautiful relationship with my parents based on mutual respect, affinity, and humor; seen my friends’ babies discover the world; slept beneath a meteor shower sky on a NYC beach in the arms of a man I was suddenly and entirely falling in love with; discovered Eric Rohmer; discovered Wim Wenders;  moved to Laramie, Wyoming where everything looks like the abandoned set of a Western film where the paint has flaked off but he extras are still wandering around despondently; moved to Montana where I remembered that I am part of the whole, not just a body in passing; woke in Missoula to the cold air seeping through my window—still half in a dream of Oregon in October—and stirred, deliciously alert beside the boy I loved, craning toward his sleepy, freckled back, to clutch him closer, the brisk quickening of fall making my body a new thing—wild and tender and alive; swam naked in the ocean; had the chance to work with my best friends and fall even more in love with the people they are based off the kindness they showed our clients; had my best friends, in turn, respect and love me more based of what they saw me showing clients; sat by a lake at night and felt an earthquake swell like a heartbeat beneath my body; drove from Missoula to Washington, Ryan’s van weaving through a forest fire zone until we reached the pure, amnesiac sweep of the Pacific; discovered Simone Weil; been, not only forgiven, but embraced by the person I most wronged after six years of estrangement; made up a silly-serious shared mythology with Steven about a vulture God named Hamm who watches over us with a severe equanimity; backpacked through Olympic National Park with Michael and seen and been seen by the strange shaggy haired deer and rabbits who looked at us without fear; discovered Agnes Martin; read poetry with my sage & strange Mara; discovered Olivier Messiaen; discovered Mary Ruefle; discovered Ana Mendieta; realized that I like the color yellow; moved to New York City; discovered Carol Rama; learned how to enjoy dancing to music other than punk rock; seen a moose in the wild; spent a summer in that yellow shotgun house with the overgrown yard and the porch overlooking the river where we made dinner each night listening to recordings of bird calls; experienced the delights of solitary sunbathing on Brooklyn roofs; encountered places named Hellgate, Bitterroot, and Rattlesnake; recited The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock at 3 AM, wading in the waters of the Long Island Sound; realized I am capable of keeping houseplants alive; heard the thrumming ecstasy of the grouse's wings; learned the name of those clustered, mustard-colored flowers that grow on the Oregon coast; grew grateful for beauty again, remembering the world is not a place I can neatly explain, cannot fold in linen and shut in a drawer; and, most of all, remembered the daily ways we concede—plainly, without theatrics—to live.

Today I am thankful for those who love me and those who allow me to love them.

[suraemoon]

MOTA: Post-war

~ Easter Sunday Headcanons ~

🐣: Easter Sunday lends itself so easily to daydreaming about post-war suburban life. Here are some ideas I thought up yesterday of how some of the boys and their families celebrate Easter. I hope you like some fluff. (Bunnies, eggs, and happiness galore)

💛: @precious-little-scoundrel gave me the idea to post these after I was yelling them to her yesterday. I hope you all aren’t Eastered out just yet.

Being some of the earliest birds to the nationwide baby boom due to a four-week New York getaway, the Crosby’s quickly become professionals at the Easter Sunday routine

After an hour of hiding yawns and dozing off while standing in their pews at Easter Sunday Service, all the neighborhood kids show up at the Crosby house for their famous annual Easter Egg Hunt.

As soon as their car rolls into the driveway, Jean and Harry watch in wonder as their crew of excited kiddos doubles, triples, and soon quadruples in a matter of minutes

Hiding spots are determined days in advance and as the years go on, the amount of eggs that Jean has to buy grows exponentially to account for the adopted little bunnies that come strolling by with baskets the size of their whole torsos

Mrs. Jean Crosby puts out chairs and a group of adoring parents get to gradually watch their children grow up before their loving eyes every April

The same toddlers who first waddled around on the newly mowed grass trying to find their footing all those years ago soon become elementary school kids with minds enthralled by the competition

Soon these toothy grinned kids become teenagers who keep the magic alive for the newest toddlers while also taking the time to show the next-gen elementary kids who are the professional easter egg hunters

The Crosby’s haven’t always had the holiday nailed though

One year after much convincing from his wife throughout the whole month of March, Harry agreed to dress up as the easter bunny

When he suddenly stuck his costumed head out from the top of their white picket fence, a church choir of crying and screaming ensued

Instead of being faced with the excited wonder-filled faces that he expected, Harry was met with wide eyes full of terror and dropped jaws full of shock

Children flailed to the protection of their mamas instead of going to hug the famous mascot of the season

He spent an hour going around to every child with his furry head off and shamefully cradled in his hands

apologizing and ensuring that yes, it was just Mr. Crosby, not a giant rabbit who hopped out of nowhere and scared the communion wafers out of them

In his adult life, John Bucky Egan never really cared for Easter festivities up until his eldest daughter was born

When sunny April came around the year that Little Miss Egan turned two, Bucky was excited to take her to the Easter egg hunt ran by the local Church

While the older kids go haywire in their now dirtied church suits and fancy dresses trying to pick up as many eggs as people they counted in church pews just a half hour before, Baby Egan waddles around gently.

Every egg she picks up is taken slowly and carefully from the soft grass beneath her Mary Jane’s, looked at with soft eyes as if being examined and if found fit, is put into her pink basket

Bucky, being impatient and full of excitement for this newly unlocked family activity, sneaks a few extra eggs into her basket to make it look like she has more

His little princess shouldn’t have to hunt for all her own eggs and risk getting her white lace dress dirty anyways

Egan is the only adult collecting eggs with a bunch of random kids. His excuse is that he and his little one share a basket of course. She needs her daddy to teach her how egg hunts are done in order to be better prepped for next year.

The Egan’s aren’t the only ones with a knack for egg hunts.

The Rosenthal children do not celebrate Easter but it does not stop them from showing up to the park’s “Eggstravaganza Hunt” every year

Being the determined little Rosies that they are, they dominate the competition. These kids will have their baskets full to the brim with eggs in a matter of minutes.

You notice a child with a head full of bouncy brown curls, pink cheeks, and grass stained knees run by you? You better hope that your little Bobby can keep up.

Rosie watches on like a focused parent at their child’s soccer game

His children with their chocolate and sugar covered faces furrow their eyebrows and tilt their heads when a random woman with a crying child tells them “Do y’all really need all that candy? Jesus would want you to share, don’t you think?”

The Mini Rosenthals come back home with sugar rushes that can power the whole neighborhood for a week straight

An upside for Rosie and his wife who have to deal with these energized little roadrunners is that the kids crash an hour earlier than usual

leaving room for extra alone time on a cool Sunday night

One easter, Benny Demarco randomly walks through the foyer of his home with a white floppy eared bunny wearing a perfect little bow tie

Is that the one you wore to our date last weekend? His wife can’t help but shake her head at her husband’s audacity as the children gather around their newest sibling with eyes full of happiness

The kids are excited but Mrs. Demarco has to try to put on a smile because “Who the hell is going to take care of that thing?”

Soon enough, a hutch is built in the backyard and more bunnies are added to the family

Mrs. Demarco falls in love and calls them her “bunny babes”

She’s met with a “I knew it was a good idea” from her husband every time she is seen cradling and baby-talking to one of their beloved pets

I mean…they are both major pet lovers. It’s one of the reasons they work so well together. But is one more responsible of the two? Definitely.

The excited squeals of children and adorable nose twitches of cute little bunnies makes it all worth it

The Demarcos aren’t the only 100th household with their own personal Easter Bunny

When John Egan jokingly told his four year old that leaving a baby carrot under her pillow would lead to a special gift from Mr. Easter Bunny himself, he did not expect her to take it seriously.

At midnight, Bucky wakes up with eyes hardly open and gets out of bed with a mission

This annual mission is to tiptoe into his daughter’s bedroom and carefully exchange the aluminum foil wrapped baby carrot tucked carefully under her soft pillow for a few cents from his wallet

As more children are born, the tradition continues

Even future generations of Egans continue to buy bags of baby carrots as Easter Sunday approaches

Not only to snack on them all of Spring Break but also to place one in a sandwich bag or wrap one in saran wrap to hide underneath each child’s pillow

Not necessarily knowing why they’re the only house that participates in this unusual tradition

Not knowing that it started from the unbreaking belief of a wide-eyed four year old and her father who stopped laughing when he realized that he was stuck playing off-brand Tooth Fairy for the rest of his life

Gale Cleven’s household has a more relaxed Easter Sunday compared to the rest

After Church, some Easter themed activities, and a well-needed nap upon arriving home, the Cleven’s go to their garden to plant new flowers

Fresh tulips, chrysanthemums, and pansies are all beautiful, refreshing signs that spring is here

Why do the Cleven’s have such green thumbs you ask? Maybe their blonde hair resembles the comforting sun, the plants can’t help but feel warmth. Maybe their caring blue eyes are as nurturing as water, the plants can’t help but thrive.

They started growing flowers and vegetables in their garden when the first after they bought their house

It was the Clevens’ first step towards making it a home

The flowers represented new beginnings, fresh starts, and growth. Essentials after everything they have been through.

————————————————————————

Hope you enjoyed! Wishing everyone a happy, happy Spring🌸 My first time writing something and posting it in 4 months…ahhhh. There’s more where this came from, my mind just does not stop.

[portraitsofsaints]

Blessed Dina Bélanger

April 30,1897- September 4,1929

Feast Day: September 4

Beatified March 20,1993 by Pope St. John Paul II

Blessed Dina Bélanger was born in Quebec into a prominent Canadian family. She had a normal childhood where she excelled in music. She studied in New York City, planning to be a concert pianist when she decided to enter the Congregation of Jesus-Maria religious order taking the name Marie de Sainte-Cécile de Rome and as a nun taught music. Her life plan was one of daily Mass, Holy Communion, prayer, especially the rosary and meditation, which was deeply developed. She was a mystic who received revelations from Our Lord and the invisible stigmata. During WWI, she offered herself in reparation for those who suffered. Dina died of tuberculous and is called “The Little Flower of Canada”. 

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

[jgroffdaily]

How does it feel to be nominated alongside Daniel and Lindsay after doing Merrily together for nearly two years?

I'd known Lindsay forever; I didn't know Dan. I knew his work, but I didn't really know him personally. And I remember feeling, the first day when we walked into rehearsal, that so much has come for free, like when you go on a good date and the conversation is flowing.

It's really emotional because now, we're actually friends in a deep way. We've seen each other go through so many different things. We were at Lindsay's wedding; Lindsay's pregnant; Dan had a baby with his girlfriend — all in the last two years.

So much life has happened. We've lived the experience of doing the show both personally and as characters. There's so much real feeling that now I don't know where one of us begins and the other one ends. It's such a symbiotic relationship at this point, and to be here celebrating a show like this is phenomenal.

Did you have a connection to Merrily before joining this production?

[Actor] Gideon Glick, who I did Spring Awakening with, texted us all on the Spring Awakening chain years ago and said, "Oh my god, you guys have to see this Merrily documentary. It's us. It's reminding me so much of us."

In 2021, in November, we did a 15-year anniversary reunion concert of Spring Awakening. I invited [production company] Radical Media to come and record the concert and do a documentary that was, in large part, inspired by that Merrily documentary because I wanted to capture us from 15 years before and us now.

A couple months later, I got asked to be a part of this production. I watched Maria's British production of Merrily on YouTube, which is still there. When the character of Frank [...] said, "I've only made one mistake in my life. I made it over and over and over again, and that was saying yes when I meant no," that was the moment where I was like, "I have to play this part." I feel that so deeply.

Is there anything you wish Sondheim could know about this production?

I feel him talking to us every night. A gift that he left our whole community is his work. Between Off-Broadway and Broadway, we've done Merrily over 300 times. As a performer, that's really kicking the tires of the material if you still feel, over 300 performances in, like there's still so much more to learn. In his work, in his music, in his lyrics, honestly, last night — I'm feeling new things that I've never felt before.

Great art, when you get the chance as an actor to perform it, changes you from the inside out. I feel like I'm learning every day. It's like free therapy to do his work because it's so poetic and so thoughtful and so emotional.

What was your first experience with Sondheim's work?

[My] Sondheim gateway was a VHS from Suncoast Video at the Park City Mall of Into the Woods when I was in seventh or eighth grade. I brought it home. I was like, "What is this? I love musicals. I love fairy tales."

I watched it in one sitting and then I rewound it and then watched it all a second time.

What did theatre mean to you when you were younger?

Getting the chance to do theatre in [middle] school was life-changing for me. Same thing in high school.

[I had] the opportunity of being on a stage and getting to express myself as a teenager, and then going to see theatre and [discovering] that's it's so easy to understand the medium because you can perform it at school and then also see it. It's the actor's medium — you see people out there doing it live, and there's a real communion with the audience.

Being closeted when I was in high school — as I look back now, I didn't realize it then, but theatre was where I went to express myself, express joy, express sadness, express love, express myself physically, just even the act of singing. When I look back now, I realized that theatre, as a teenager, completely saved my life.

Do you have a favorite memory associated with the Tony Awards? The annual broadcast is many people's introduction to Broadway.

Oh my God, so many. I would record the Tonys on a VHS, and then I would bring them into school and show them to my fellow students in math class.

I taught a unit on the Tony Awards at York Little Theatre summer camp in 2004 with a bunch of 10-year-olds. It was the year of Wicked and Avenue Q and The Boy From Oz and Caroline, or Change. They all held a vote on who they thought should win Best Actress.

Probably the Tony performance I've watched the most is Sutton Foster doing "Forget About the Boy" [from the musical Thoroughly Modern Millie in 2002]. I was in high school. I saw the show six times. The heat coming off her as [...] she's playing this character of moving to New York and wanting to make her dreams come true — I was just lit on fire by her and that performance.

[cinberella]

My Dandelion

“This fic was created for the Shadowhunters Reverse Bang 2024: Presented by the @malecdiscordserver.”

Credit for the art: @demy85

You can find the art here: Tumblr

Fic: Link to AO3

Prologue - 2nd September 2010 - somewhere on the Italian side of the Alps

                  Praying to God that one day you'll be mine, wishing on dandelions all of the time, all of the the time                                                                                     (Ruth B. - Dandelions)

This isn't the first time Alec has lain down in the middle of a sunny clearing; well, it is not anything he has done all his life either. It is just one of the many new pastimes he has started to appreciate. Alec discovered this secluded meadow a couple of weeks back and now he likes to come here almost every day. Alone. He rests, in complete relaxation, sitting directly on the grass so that he can feel the power running deep underground, trying to connect with it. He has learned to perceive the ley lines streaming beneath his feet, wherever he is. His blood senses them. Even the amulets he wears around his neck - and both his wrists- react softly but soothingly to the lines. Alec comes here to seek a perfect communion with nature and the magic that permeates it. He does so in solitude - which is a rare condition for him nowadays since he is always surrounded by noisy, lively - bordering on wild - kids. So, even if he adores spending his time with the kids, Alec treasures his daily me-time, as brief as it can be. In fact, when he is alone in this peaceful place, he can think of the man who is and will always be in his heart. Inexplicably, thinking of Magnus is as much a solace as a torment. In any case, being outdoors, in the woods, and walking on little-traveled paths, is another simple pleasure he has started indulging himself with in recent times. A bitter-sweet pleasure. Sweet as the memories of the time he spent with Magnus, bitter as the awareness that that time is over now. He regrets nothing. Alec was so lucky to have found Magnus in the first place, right? Blessed, even. He wouldn’t be here if that day he had not gone to him, to his private residence seeking help. He was brave, wasn’t he? Well, somehow he knew Magnus would have helped him.

The Warlock is now thousands of miles away, at that same place in New York that Alec had called home for a while. God, Alec misses him so much. Magnus was his savior. And a wonderful mentor. 

A friend, and a lover. Magnus showed him a new way, gave him a new life entirely. Alec learned over the days they spent together how resourceful, multi-talented, and eclectic the man was. Despite Alec being very different from the Warlock in every aspect of his personality they worked together in a perfect way, becoming joined at the hip in no time. In fact, Alec used to think of himself as a boring and bland guy - even if Magnus never agreed with that, always telling him how amazing and fun ( seriously ? fun ?) he was. The Warlock, instead, was one of a kind, wasn’t he? 

It was impossible to get bored with him around. Magnus would take Alec on a shopping spree on 5th Avenue, proclaiming that he was in absolute need of new clothes - come on, darling, let’s get something a bit more colorful and soft, something to complement your pretty eyes and caress your skin of porcelain -  and a couple of days later, he would surprise him with an impromptu visit to a Buddhist temple in Nepal - you see, Angel, I think some meditation could do you good, you need to center yourself, don’t you? They could even spend a whole night in a casino in Las Vegas gambling like crazy billionaires and uncaring of the other patrons glaring at them for Magnus’ impudent luck . Okay, it was obvious that the Warlock cheated, of course, he would do that, just pointless to deny it, but then he would end up giving all the winnings to charity so Alec never put too much effort into complaining about that. The morning after, after no more than three hours of sleeping in the fanciest hotel in the city, and a night of tender, slow sex, he would portal them to Italy for a fancy Chianti wine tasting at a small winery in Tuscany and a romantic dinner to follow.

What a wonderful, exciting life, right? So carefree and fun, unpredictable and a bit crazy. Alec had had more experiences and lived more intensely in the six months he spent with Magnus than in the twenty years he lived at the Institute before being kicked out of it for good. 

Perks of living with and working for one of the most powerful Warlocks in the World. And of being friends with him. 

Friends.

That is what they are still supposed to be. Alec wants to believe they are. Alec wants them to be friends so badly. Sure, they had been more than friends, but that phase was just that… a phase. It wasn’t meant to last forever. Alec needed to move on, to give a new meaning to his life, to do something good with it. Before he settled to resort to the High Warlock’s help, he had almost resigned himself to losing that same life he treasures so much today. He had come so close to finding comfort in the idea of dying.

Magnus changed Alec’s mind. He saved him, not with big words or vain promises, but by showing him every day what life could still have in store for him. That was the most fantastic gift Alec could have been given in his darkest hour. 

Hope.

Alec smiles at himself. It is just incredible how deeply and drastically his life has changed! He went from slaying Demons for a living to working full time for an eccentric and unconventional Warlock - falling madly and desperately in love with him in the meantime - to eventually moving to Italy for a fresh start. Alec isn’t Magnus’ personal assistant anymore. Now he has another job here, a job he adores, truly, a job that brought him to settle in the mountains, in a setting so similar to Idris, and yet so different. 

Here, he is helping the local High Warlock and her husband to run a small shelter for young Warlocks they opened in a little village on the border between Italy and Austria. Here, where the air is fresh and clean and the people are hard-working and reserved, Alec has the chance to be happy. 

Admittedly, he gets along well with Carlotta and her husband Vito, a passionate and very loud man from Sicily, and loves taking care of the kids. Alec is already smitten with all the five of them. They are funny, smart, at times vulnerable and tender, in need of someone to tell them that they are beautiful and loved for who they are. They have been rejected, abandoned, and Alec feels somehow akin to them. He looks up at the clouds, and at the shapes they form in the sky. He keeps seeing Magnus’ beautiful face everywhere. His kind and warm eyes, his soft smile, and his delicate but so masculine features are always on his mind. Who knows if he will see him again any time soon... He already misses him like air, but this was the plan from the start, after all. Moving here, working with Carlotta, maybe falling in love, and starting a family with a local guy? If only he weren’t already in love with Magnus, that would be a nice plan.

Of course... His love will remain unrequited but that's okay. Alec has come to terms with his feelings. He will never fall out of love with the Warlock. He may not be a Shadowhunter anymore, but he is a Nephilim nonetheless, and Nephilim love once, fiercely. Maybe Magnus will come visit him one day, or he'll call him to see how he's doing. Maybe he'll surprise him for his birthday in a few days. Shit… It has already been a month since they went their separate ways! 

26 days , to be precise. Yes, Alec is counting. No one will judge him for it, right?

On the other hand, nobody knows about his feelings. Not even Magnus, despite everything they shared. Hot (in more than one way) nights and bustling days. A small sigh escapes his mouth, but no, Alec won’t give in to this melancholic emotion, he won’t wallow in misery. Magnus wouldn’t want that. Therefore he will keep his promise to the Warlock. He will try and be happy, he will strive to ensure that this life Magnus gave him could be fulfilling, carried on to the best of his abilities.

Alec squints his eyes looking up at the sun, but the light is too intense, so he lowers his gaze again and looks around himself. This place is truly amazing. There are several dandelions around him. The intense yellow of their tiny petals makes him think of the Warlock of course. It was he who explained how that little flower is an incredibly resilient, energetic, and adaptable flower. 

You see, Alexander? This flower entrusts its seeds to the wind, with confidence and survives even on the roughest terrain, in the most adverse conditions. You are like a little, brave dandelion, dear. You are my dandelion. 

And then he kissed him and Alec felt a love like he had never felt before explode in his chest. That day, Alec also learned how to blow on the fluffy cloud of minuscule feathered fruits to make a wish. He wished to be able to stay with Magnus forever.

Later on, he did that again countless times, and each time he made the same wish. But enough is enough. That wish can’t come true. Absent mindedly, he picks one fat, soft pappus that was standing proud next to him , and looks at it with calm resignation. He won't blow it this time, wishing in vain. It would be meaningless. Magnus is unreachable. Alec left New York for a reason and Magnus… let him go. Today Alec can linger here a bit longer, he has the afternoon free and nowhere else he needs to be. He lies down and crosses his fingers behind her head, the pappus left to rest on his chest for the wind to take it. The thick grass pinches his back through the cotton of his T-shirt, the sun is warm and pleasant on his face, and Alec lets the sounds of nature envelop him. Effortlessly, once again, his mind goes back to the events of that fateful day at the beginning of March. The day that changed his life for good.

READ THE FIC ON AO3

[royalpalmny]

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[queenlucythevaliant]

Heartstrings

Written for the @inklings-challenge Christmas Challenge 2023.

It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.

Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë

The string was still there, knotted beneath Rose’s left ribs. She was driving 75 miles an hour down the freeway in her ten-year-old Carolla, the radio on at a buzz. Outside the window, miles and miles of monotonous New York forest passed by. 

Her sister Joan was asleep in the passenger's seat, medical gauze still visible beneath her pale pink blouse. She dozed uneasily, turning her head occasionally from side to side, or else sniffling faintly. Rose hummed along to the radio and tried not to focus on the pulling sensation in her chest. 

Everyone has a heartstring that leads them home, which for Rose meant Eastledge Church in the Massachusetts town of the same name. Heartstrings are thick and fibrous, made of many smaller cords all twisted together. Rose's string had been wrapped round her heart in many tight loops over the course of her childhood, constricting her cardiac muscle while simultaneously holding it safe and secure. She didn’t know if her heart could beat without it. 

So: she drove. Exit in 143 miles, rest stop in ten. 

Eastledge Church was rotten. It had black mold in the walls and liars in the pulpit. Rose knew she should cut the string that tied her there. She wanted to. Joan had managed to yank out her own heartstring, but it had bled and bled and she’d needed two trips to the ER before it was safe for her to travel. Even now, she was pale and weak from the bloodloss. 

Still, Rose knew she should cut the string. She kept a pair of scissors in the glove box, in case she ever got up the courage to do it. 

“Where are we?” murmured Joan. She stirred a little, carefully shifting her weight away from the left side of her body. 

“You missed the Erie Canal– or, well, the picnic area anyway. There’s a rest stop with an Arby’s in like ten miles if you want dinner.” 

They arrived at their hotel in Buffalo just after two in the morning. Rose had an ache in her hamstring from working the gas pedal, but it was nothing compared to a chest wound. Both she and Joan had forgotten to call ahead from the road, so they had to wait while the front desk concierge went to find the manager and ask if he could still check people in once they’d started the night audit. The manager appeared at the front desk a few minutes later and told Rose curtly that it would be a while yet. 

“It’s standard practice at hotels.”

“I know,” said Rose. “I’m sorry. There’s a problem with my heartstring, see? And my sister’s got ripped out. We had other worries. I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” the manager answered dubiously. “Well, make yourself comfortable in the lobby and we’ll let you know when we can check you in.”

It was three by the time Rose finally stumbled into the room and collapsed onto the hard mattress. Joan came in behind her, barely coherent through the fog of her exhaustion. The light in the bathroom was flickering, but Rose didn’t care. Her heartstring hummed with promises of rest. Turn around, it seemed to say. You know you won’t be able to sleep the night until you’re back home.

“Screw you,” Rose said aloud. 

“Hmm?” 

“Not you. The church, Pastor Mark, and this stupid string in my chest.”

“Hmm,” agreed Joan. 

Rose indulged herself for a long moment in imagining the violent demise of an elder who had taught her to play Go in the welcome room once, and who had made excuses for the rot in the walls many years later. Her heart thrummed like a violin string. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. 

The next day, they drove as far as Gary, Indiana. Rose could feel her string getting tangled whenever she got on another exit; she worried about it even changing lanes. 

“Mind if I put on something a little more upbeat?” said Joan when Rose winced on a long merge. “I think we could both use it.”

“I don't think it'll help, really.”

“Alright, but maybe it'll get us singing along?”

Rose waved her hand in a way that meant “fine.” She bobbed her head to the peppy pop song her sister selected and tried to enjoy the drive. It was pretty country, a sunny day, and they kept passing signs for different scenic lakes along the way. 

“Finger Lake, Elbow Lake… do ya think we're building an arm?” she quipped, feeling lighter. 

But when Rose tried to start the car outside the diner where they’d stopped for lunch, her key wouldn’t turn in the ignition. Joan was paying for parking, but when she slid into the passenger's seat, careful not to jar her stitches, Rose threw her head down on the steering wheel and sobbed. She turned to her sister, questions about oil cans and engines on the tip of her tongue, but right then her heartstring yanked so hard on her heart that all she could manage to say was, “It hurts.”

“I know Rosie. I know it does,” Joan said back. “Mine does too.”

Fortunately, there was an Ace Hardware half a mile away. Rose left Joan with the car and walked there, then paid for the lubricant Google said she needed and headed back. There were still so many miles to drive that day, so much string left to unspool.  

On the way to St. Cloud, they changed time zones. Rose felt it deep in her chest when they passed from Eastern to Central time: a jolt on her string, like lightning down a kitestring. 

“Did you feel that?”

“I didn’t feel anything,” said Joan. 

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.” Rose stared at the glovebox a long moment before she remembered to keep her eyes on the road. There was only an hour difference between Eastledge and here, but with all that time pulling steadily against her ribs, Rose could feel every minute of it. 

Joan suggested calling their parents when they reached their hotel that night, before both sisters remembered that they would be asleep by now. Rose wondered if Pastor Mark was sleeping too. She hoped he had nightmares. She hoped he woke up with guilt pressing hard on his chest. 

They drove past Chicago in a heavy drizzle and spent two hours sitting in traffic. Joan tried calling their parents again, since there was nothing else to do. “I don’t know how you and Dad stand it,” she murmured. “Staying in town with your strings half-frayed. Isn’t it killing you?”

“Sometimes,” said their mother. “But your father and I have spent our whole lives reorienting our hearts. We've had to do it many times, and it never gets easier, but we get better at it.”

“Do you blame Rose and me at all– for leaving?”

“Of course not. But we'll miss you at Christmas.”

That night, Rose and Joan snuggled up together on a hotel room queen bed and watched the second half of some Julia Roberts movie that was playing on cable. Joan cracked jokes about the female lead's neuroses and by the time the credits rolled she was lying half on top of Rose. Their hearts were beating in time, and suddenly Rose was grateful, so grateful not to be alone with this grief.

They'd been traveling for days now and Rose's heartstring grew more and more taught by the mile. Now, if she touched it, blinding agony would shoot through her chest. Even just the glancing brush of a fingertip over the fibers squeezed her heart until all she could think of was the place under the stairs where she’d hidden for hours once when she was eight, sleeping bags spread out across the sanctuary floor, or sneaking into the kitchen during summer VBS. 

“Do you remember those lantern light picnics they used to do for a while? Right as summer was ending, you know, and the whole congregation came out for it, and it was just kind of magic?”

“Yeah. I also remember ditching it that one time and running out to the creek with Olivia and Liam.”

“What about that tea and testimony women’s event when they asked me to be on the panel?”

“Don’t remember that one. I didn’t think you ended up doing it?”

“I didn’t. Prior commitment. But it felt nice to be asked.”

“Mmm. I felt the same way when they asked me to do the layout for the new photo directory.”

“Teaching Sunday School. Nursery. Organizing the craft closet and going crazy with the label maker.”

“Mmm. Food drives, clothing drives, and silly little theatricals.”

“Remember when I got to sing ‘Do You Hear What I Hear?’ at the Christmas pageant? And the year you were Mary? And that one play after I aged out where you spray dyed your hair gray?”

“Some of it. I was pretty young for the first one. And I’m trying to forget as much about church plays as I can. Mr. Pierce directed them all, and I don’t want to think about him at all if I can help it. Not after what he said to Mom.”

Rose sighed. 

“Yeah, that's true. It's a bad lot, top to bottom. Anyway. How’s your heart?”

“It’s doing better, I think. The wound’s not seeping anymore. Sometimes, it barely hurts at all.”

It was Christmas Eve when they arrived in Helena. A Wednesday. Rose pulled into their aunt’s driveway and parked, then they both went inside to greet the extended family. Joan called their parents to tell them she and Rose had arrived safe. 

They had dinner with the family, but then the sisters went and sat together on the guest bed for an hour trying to figure out what came next. Rose pulled at the string beneath her left ribs until she could barely stand it, trying to decide if she could bear the Christmas Eve service her aunt and uncle attended. Joan just sat scrolling mindlessly on her phone, trying to forget for a while. 

They both wanted to go to church on Christmas Eve. That was maybe the cruelest part. Rose’s heart longed for carols and Scripture readings with a tender ache altogether different from the ever-present, stripped-raw yanking of the string. Joan was healing, and didn’t want to dwell on losing Eastledge any more than she’d already done. 

“I’m going, I think,” Joan said finally. It was nine p.m. and the service began at eleven. 

“I’m not,” whispered Rose. “I just can’t. It hurts too much.”

She made an apology to her relatives while Joan went to get dressed, gesturing vaguely at the place beneath her left ribs. Once the house was empty, she resigned herself to the tinny sound of carols played over her phone speaker and a few whispered prayers. When she prayed, Rose heard Pastor Mark’s voice as often as her own. Sometimes he told the truth, but most of the time he lied.

Oh God. This time back home, they’d be singing “The First Noel.” They’d be lighting candles soon, and the upstairs sanctuary under whose stairs she used to hide would glitter when they turned off the lights. 

When the churchgoing party got home, half an hour after midnight, Joan found her sister in the guest bath. She was sobbing and covered in blood. 

“I cut it,” Rose whispered. “I cut my heartstring. I couldn’t bear not being at the service–not the one here and not the one at home– so I cut it out of me. I took the scissors and I just– I– I think I’m bleeding.” She looked up. “I am bleeding, right? This is all my blood.”

There was blood oozing out of the wound in her chest, but it was on her hands too. It was on her lips, her nose, and how had even that happened? “I’m bleeding,” Rose said again. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

Joan called an ambulance, but first she reached back and unzipped her dress. She pulled it over her head and stood there, in her bra and black tights and nylon slip in front of her bleeding sister. “Mine stopped,” she said, slowly peeling back the gauze that covered her heart. The wound was shut, though the scar was still red and angry. “It hurt a lot tonight, Rosie, but it’s not bleeding. Yours will stop too. I promise.”

They spent Christmas night in the ER. “It’s a busy night in this ward,” one of the nurses remarked. “Lots of people pick tonight to tear away their heartstrings. It’s the worst night of the year for people who can never go home.” 

The Sunday after Christmas, Rose felt light-headed as she stepped into her aunt and uncle's church. She’d missed the carols, but some of the decorations were still up. The altar cloth was still white and gold, and so it would remain for a few days yet. 

Everything was either an echo or a contrast to Eastledge. “I wish they wouldn’t sing this song,” said Rose in her sister’s ear, pressing a hand to the place beneath her ribs where her heartstring had been. 

After the service, Rose went up to the front of the church and stood in front of the altar. She reached out and ran her fingers over the scalloped edge of the cloth, wanting to salvage some Christmas joy but instead only able to imagine the corresponding cloth a thousand miles away in Eastledge, Massachusetts. 

No, no, none of that. Rose screwed her eyes shut and she forced her thoughts back into something like order. She thought about Christ Incarnate leaving his home in heaven. Which way had his heartstring pulled him, she wondered. Had it tied him back to the Father, or had his heartstring led him straight to the cross?

“Eastledge Church broke my heart,” she didn't quite whisper. “You broke my heart, God, and I don't know what comes next.”

There was no immediate answer, but the gold threads against her fingertips were rough and scratchy. They ran along the white cloth in embroidered images of starbursts, crowns, and crosses. Her fingernail caught on a loose end, which unraveled a little when she drew her hand away. 

Before Rose quite understood what was happening, that loose end of golden thread had disentangled itself from the altar cloth and was hanging in the air before her eyes. As she watched, one glittering end wove its way towards her chest, underneath the bandage and through her skin. With a strange gentleness, the thread wound its way past her left ribs and tied itself, she was certain, in a knot around her heart. The string gave a little tug, but it didn't hurt her; Rose felt only a delicious warmth that began in her heart and seemed to radiate all through her body, from the hairs on her head to the tips of her toes. 

For an instant, Rose assumed that the other end of the thread was still embedded in the altar cloth; that this was God's way of telling her that she belonged here, at this church. Yet as her eyes traced the length of golden thread, they found themselves gazing up, where a faint shimmering was just visible high up in the rafters. 

“It doesn't end there,” she realized. With that, Rose turned and sprinted down the aisle and out of the church. 

The gray December sky was dotted with snowflakes. When Rose raised her head, they fell in her lashes and she had to blink them away. Yet there, high above her, she could see her golden heartstring vanishing into the clouds. 

“It leads to the Throne Room,” said a voice beside her. Rose turned and saw Joan standing beside her, with Rose's own coat draped over her arm. “I think it must.”

“Yours too? I mean, did your heartstring–”

“Yes. Christmas night, in the hospital with you. I looked up and it seemed to be unfurling down from the ceiling like Jacob's Ladder.”

“You never said.” Rose sniffed hard, not sure if it was the cold or the overwhelming emotion that caused it. 

“I don't think it's the sort of experience you can talk about, much. Put on your coat, Rosie. I won't say let's go home, not now– but the car is warming up, and I bet I can get Auntie to make us some cocoa.”

[andrewuttaro]

The Stations you don't know

Lost to us by time or place can be some of the most interesting devotional treasures. As a teenager I was made aware of the Stations of the Cross for the first time though I cannot recall praying them with any regularity until well into my twenties. Now as I approach my thirtieth birthday, I am a little embarrassed to admit that rarely do two to three weeks go by when I don’t pray the Stations of the Cross. I am talking about outside the season of Lent when they are traditionally prayed socially: I can’t get enough of them! Perhaps it’s that awkward preteen in me who liked pop punk music expressing himself anew.

To return to humility: I think this devotion of mine was greatly assisted by a small pamphlet called “Cross Wise: A Pocket Way of the Cross”. This reading material contains all the Station of the Cross with a brief reflection and three interjecting prayers along the way. This version of the traditional “Via Crucis” also provides the traditional prayer before each station:

“We adore you, O Christ, and we praise you, because by your Holy Cross you have redeemed the World.”

As well as the traditional prayer after each station:

“Father, not my Will but yours be done.”

Don’t ask me how I first found this pamphlet. As best I can ascertain it has a copyright year of 1989 and the official Catholic Church seal of approval in latin known as the “Imprimatur” administered by the Monsignor Maurice Byrne of the Archdiocese of St. Louis. I discovered a stock of these pamphlets in the Parish of my Youth during a recent visit. Perhaps this was where I first found this devotional tool?

The Stations of the Cross are the ultimate devotion of humility if you ask me. They are also uplifting in a way that I can’t quite put into words, so I won’t be attempting to here. They are a school in meditation because they require you to open your heart to what God might be telling you, and then go deeper. Without such an open heart these Stations can seem plainly morbid. We’re talking about Jesus Christ’s death here so that comes with the territory to a degree.

However, the very nature of devotion itself is also instructive with this. When we open our heart to the divine unexpected, not seeking to conquer an idea with our mind’s comprehension as we moderns so eagerly prefer to do, then these Stations become the very epicenter of Christ’s saving work. The charming tradition of adding a fifteenth station for the Resurrection really completes that arc.

But chances are if you’re reading this you already have some passing familiarity with the Stations of the Cross. You’re reading this far for the Stations you didn’t know as the clickbait title so successfully lured you! You want something different. Well this year I have uncovered two sets of other “Stations” related to Holy Week that may intrigue you or even enter into your devotional practice in some way.

Last Year was my first Holy Week back in the city of my birth: Rochester, New York. My wife and I are attending her childhood Parish, so we get a lot more Church time with my in-laws. Hold your jokes, this is truly a blessing. For two years straight we have participated in a Christmas pageant I can only describe as adorable.

Last year on Holy Thursday my father-in-law and I attempted to visit other Churches displaying the Blessed Sacrament for Adoration. It is an old tradition on that particular night to travel to Seven Churches where the Blessed Sacrament is so adored. Holy Thursday matters so much for us Catholics because its when we commemorate the Last Supper and, ergo, the institution of the Sacrament of Communion (the Blessed Sacrament) by Jesus Christ. If there is any day of the whole Church year for Adoration of the Sacrament, it’s the night of Holy Thursday.

Indeed, the Mass of Holy Thursday doesn’t end. It is merely the beginning of the shortest liturgical season on the Catholic calendar: Triduum. Technically Holy Thursday begins one long liturgy that doesn’t end until Easter Vigil the following Saturday. The Seven Churches Visitation is in some respect then the way some choose to honor this sacred moment as Good Friday beckons in the morning. I don’t know where this tradition originates from, but I faintly remember a retreat starting that night in my Youth Group back in High School. We called it “Passion Immersion”.

I said my father-in-law and I attempted to visit other Churches that night because we failed to do so. We only looked at the three Churches of our Parish and discovered there was no such Adoration taking place. This year I decided to prepare and found a dozen Churches within a short driving distance that we will venture out to come Thursday night. Along the way of this research, I discovered the Stations these Seven Visitations are supposed to represent: the Seven Movements of Jesus between the end of the Last Supper and the Crucifixion. Here they are:

Jesus prays in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Jesus arrested, bound, and taken before Annas.

Jesus taken before the High Priest, Caiaphas.

Jesus taken before Pontius Pilate the first time.

Jesus taken before Herod.

Jesus taken before Pontius Pilate the second time.

Jesus is given his Crown of Thorns and condemned to Crucifixion.

In a way, these are the Seven Stations preceding the Stations of the Cross. That’s a total of 21 stations, 22 if you count the Resurrection! Color me positively bedazzled upon learning this. You might also notice there is a lot of Jesus being paraded around in this sequence, twice getting thrown in front of Pontius Pilate who found the whole experience distressing at worse and bothersome at best.

That parading around lends itself to Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. We Catholics believe that little consecrated host is Jesus after all so parading him out on Holy Thursday in the interim before Good Friday feels appropriate with these Stations. Adding on the physical act of traveling to Seven different Churches really makes it feel like a pilgrimage, not unlike how the 14 Stations of the Cross developed from pilgrimages to the Holy Land where it actually happened.

But before we wrap this up, I have a parting gift for you: yet more Stations I was not aware of before this trip around the Liturgical calendar! These Seven Stations, we’ll say four because you’re probably familiar with at least three of these, are what each Day of Holy Week might be focused on in one’s devotional practice:

Palm Sunday: Jesus Triumphant entry into Jerusalem.

Holy Monday: Judas scorns Mary of Bethany for anointing Jesus’ feet.

Holy Tuesday: Jesus announces the impending betrayal of one of the twelve and Peter’s denial of him later.

Holy Wednesday: Jesus confirms Judas’ betrayal.

Holy Thursday: The Last Supper when Jesus institutes Holy Communion and the Priesthood.

Good Friday: The Passion and Death of Jesus Christ.

Holy Saturday: Jesus harrows Hell and defeats death.

Easter: the Resurrection.

I will assume Palm Sunday, Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter are probably not unfamiliar to you. These aren’t Stations as much as they are devotions for each day since Holy Tuesday and Holy Wednesday’s devotions occurred on Holy Thursday with the Last Supper. Nonetheless, there is spiritual depth here I discovered this year.

Judas taking issue with expensive nard being used to anoint Jesus’ feet instead of being sold to support the ministry is a bit of foreshadowing if you will. But consider how Jesus’ response, a call for Judas and the others to treasure him while he is still with them, speaks to a right reverence we so desperately need nowadays. We often miss the true holiness of an event or thing because we are assessing bare value and not the deeper blessing at work. This is not a bad way to re-evaluate our own personal relationship with Jesus.

Jesus announcing his betrayal in the middle of the meal sending his Apostles into a drama seems unhelpful. Yet Jesus is calling all his Apostles therein to a more sincere self-knowledge as they are about to lose him. That’s not to mention they would all be thinking Jesus knew who the betrayer was and included him nonetheless. Frankly, I can’t help but think of contentious family meals around the holidays at this juncture. Jesus shares a meal with his betrayer, can we not share a meal with those who betray our worldviews?

Peter, our favorite overzealous hothead, pledging his loyalty to Jesus in this panic only to be told he would in fact deny Jesus three times, is flatly poetic. Nobody is above betraying their most intimate relationships and values. We all betray Jesus and we all might be great leaders and advocates for his Gospel nonetheless!

Jesus confirming Judas’ betrayal is difficult for me to process to be honest. This likely refers to Matthew 26:25 when Jesus, once again in the midst of the panic he has just induced, answers Judas’ insistence he is not the betrayer by responding: “You have said so.” What are we to make of that cryptic, non-committal response? Here’s a clue: Jesus will later respond to Pontius Pilate with a very similar retort: “You say so” (Matthew 27:11). This is after Pilate asks Jesus if he is King of the Jews in a clear attempt to trap him in bogus charges against the Roman State.

It’s as if the Gospel is telling us that when we are insistent on our bad faith assertions, if not outright lies, we force Jesus into something that some theologians will tell you Jesus is not even capable of due to his divine nature: biting sarcasm. When we lie to Jesus we wound the relationship. We sin. Coming from Jesus I cannot imagine how sarcasm would not rend the heart asunder.

Lastly, skipping ahead to Holy Saturday we find Jesus’ harrowing Hell itself between Good Friday and Easter. Don’t think of this as some kind of battle, he’s God and the fight was already won on the Cross, think of this as Jesus leaving no sheep behind. Before his saving act there was a waiting room for the righteous. Heaven wasn’t open quite yet, but there were some folks who were worthy of entering nonetheless. This harrowing of Hell is Jesus going into the most miserable of all waiting rooms and retrieving his beloved sheep.

And with that we arrive at Easter, the greatest celebration Christianity has to offer. If I haven’t bored you to death with journaling my favorite devotions or sermonizing obscure Holy Week devotions, then I hope I have given you some spiritual food for this special week we find ourselves in. It’s amazing what we discover can spiritual feed us if we open our hearts to be filled with something anew.

Jesus awaits there for us.