#why are you penitent love your man

[aziraphales-library]

Hello!

I cannot thank you enough for everything you do for the fandom. It’s so incredibly kind and amazing and cool of you to do this :) I know that this might be a bit specific, but I’d still like to ask if you could recommend any fics where Aziraphale has either been hurt or has gone through something traumatizing but he hasn’t told Crowley about it, because he thinks that it doesn’t matter, but eventually Crowley finds out and comforts him. (Like in not alone by Lalaland666) it would be awesome if it could also not be a AU, but it can be.

Thank you so so so so much, I hope that you have a wonderful day :D

Hi! Here are some fics in which Aziraphale is struggling, Crowley finds out why and comforts him. Mind the tags and warnings on a few of these!...

A Shadow In The Light by VinnieTheDuck (T)

While having a nice walk in Saint James Park, then having quite the homophobic encounter, Crowley says something during it that accidentally triggers Aziraphale.

let your guard down, for me by ineffableserpent (T)

Aziraphale has never fully calmed down, per say. He’d been able to reign himself in back to a state of functioning, trying to busy himself with other tasks to avoid spiraling once more. Crowley, the angel had discovered, was an immense source of comfort. … He didn’t wish for the demon to find out about his anxiety, as much as Aziraphale oh so desperately wanted to confide in him. But that would lead to Crowley becoming upset, and inevitably, upset with Heaven — considering that Upstairs has almost always been the source of the angel’s anxious responses. Aziraphale has always been able to keep a brave face — to appear as the guardian he was made to be. No matter how many nights he spent alone and gasping for air, begging for his body to cooperate, he always made it out in the end. Until tonight, that is.

Father of War by AraniWrites (T)

There were three things Crowley could depend on every day with complete certainty. One, that Aziraphale loved him utterly and completely, just as much as he loved him in turn. Two, that he could consistently count on the angel to be present within their shared flat above the old bookshop, engrossed in his books for days and weeks at a time, only broken by Crowley’s presence. Three, that they had agreed not to lie to one another again, and both had upheld their agreement faithfully. He had never had reason to doubt these three truths. That is, until today.

The Penitent Man by charliebrown1234 (M)

"I believe that very few men are capable of estimating the immense amount of torture and agony which this dreadful punishment, prolonged for years, inflicts upon the sufferers; ... I am only the more convinced that there is a depth of terrible endurance in which none but the sufferers themselves can fathom... I hold this slow and daily tampering with the mysteries of the brain to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body; and because its ghastly signs and tokens are not so palpable to the eye and sense of touch as scars upon the flesh; because its wounds are not upon the surface, and it extorts few cries that human ears can hear; therefore the more I denounce it, as a secret punishment which slumbering humanity is not roused up to stay." - Charles Dickens on Solitary Confinement at Eastern State Penitentiary, 1842 Aziraphale and Crowley become trapped in an elevator post-Apocalypse, which brings back bad memories for Aziraphale. The resulting flashback is debilitating, and Crowley helps to walk Aziraphale through it.

useless, helpless, hopeless (safe) by Anonymous (M)

Crowley picked a bad day to drop by the shop. Gabriel had already gone, thank goodness, but the bruises on Aziraphale’s face most certainly had not, and the truth came out. Gabriel was raping Aziraphale, and there was absolutely nothing that Crowley could do about it.

What I Am by Anonymous (E)

Aziraphale knows what he is, in Heaven. He’s dirty, and tainted, and easy. He’s good for working off stress. He’s a lower angel, a demoted Cherub banished to Earth and forbidden from saying no. He’s Gabriel’s favourite, though he doesn’t understand why. He knows all too well what he is. But it doesn’t matter. Because Heaven is good, and all that they do must be good in return. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much he hates it. Heaven cannot possibly be wrong. Right?

And the one you mentioned...

(Not) Alone by lalaland666 (T)

Aziraphale had lost track of the days quite some time ago. He’d been counting the seconds in his head, before. Heaven was always bright, always lit by perpetual sunlight, and the Room was brighter than the rest of Heaven, too, so it made it quite difficult to keep track of… of… Aziraphale had lost track of the days quite some time ago. Aziraphale is punished by being put in solitary confinement. Eventually, Crowley finds out.

- Mod D

[beyondsuki]

Star - Shine

Star

/stär/

a fixed luminous point in the night sky which is a large, remote incandescent body like the sun.

Toji Fushiguro

The woman in the ring

Instagram - Masterlist

Pairing: MmaFighter!Fushiguro Toji x black f!reader

Genre: Romance, Smut, Angst

Summary: What happens when you help MMA fighter Fushiguro Toji —unbeknownst to him—in his time of need?

Toji thought himself a simple man. A simple man who had never fallen in love. Although he would never audibly admit that.

Yes, there was a period in his life when he was married but he never truly felt there. He was young, and a star on the rise. Temptation was all around him yet he stayed faithful and committed to his vows. For five years he was betrothed. Tied down, trapped. For five years his marriage was perilous.

The cause of the divorce was an affair accusation. She thought he was sleeping with a journalist. A journalist? He laughed when she vocalized her concerns. She was incandescent. “You really think that I would sleep with a journalist?” That one sentence matured into a fight neither of them came back from.

He left that night and returned the next morning with divorce papers. He allowed her to keep the house while he now resides in a penthouse that overlooks the city. Every once in a while, a feeling of penitence washes over him and leaves him wondering whether or not he should’ve just stayed. “Toji! Hurry up, we have to get going, the fight is about to start.” He finished wrapping his fists. He grabbed his silk robe off its hook and slipped it on. The coolness of it lasted a few seconds longer than usual before latching on to his body heat. As he walked out and the routine cheering of his fans filled his senses, an unfamiliar face in the crowd caught his eye.

You work hard. You’re currently in medical school earning your M.D. so you can cross the finish line with the label and job title ‘Neurosurgeon’. “(Y/N) Come onn why not?!” Your friend Stacey from your class based solely on muscles was trying to get you to come to watch a fight. “We are in Medical School Stace, why do you want to see people hurting themselves deliberately?!” “It’s not even about that for real.” She said tucking her brown hair behind her ear. Her green eyes flashing with a fierce incentive. “Then what is it about?” “Have you seen Toji Fushiguro!?” “No. And I don’t want to see him.” She pulled out her phone “Let me just show you.” You rolled your eyes and sighed heavily knowing you wouldn’t be able to win this fight. She pulled up a picture and tilted the phone toward you. “Wow.” He is.. “I know right!! So let’s goo I literally bought two tickets and they weren’t cheap.” “Fine.” She had finally persuaded you into getting ready.

You readied yourself and are now sitting in the front row of the Fushiguro Toji vs Alexei Morozov fight waiting for the star fighter to come out. A coalescence of music and loud screaming invaded your ears making you turn your head towards the back. He was much larger than you imagined. Standing at, at least 6’5 this burly man managed to win the hearts of more than a few thirst quenched women. His sinewy muscles stuck out like a sore thumb. And his very presence left a bitter sweet taste in your mouth.

Someone slapped your shoulder dragging you out of your daydream “He’s looking over here oh my god!?” His gaze robbed you of an essential part of human homeostasis—your breath.

You ripped your eyes away from his and looked to the floor. When he walked on stage and his back was to you, you looked up again. You watched as the ‘Fushiguro’ on his silk robe morphed as he slipped it off. When the fight started you winced at the first punch. Tricep, Bicep, Latissimus dorsi, gluteus medius. You named the muscles being hit as practice due to yet another test the next day. Suddenly, Fushiguro was hit in the head and started bleeding.. a lot. You stood out of habit to get a closer look. The ‘medic’ that was attempting to stop the bleeding was failing miserably at her job. You pushed past the journalists and photographers.

“You need to apply pressure!” You yelled trying to get as close as possible. “Ma’am I’m gonna need you to back up.” Some guy with long hair said. “I know I know but your medic is not helping him. She needs to apply pressure to stop the bleeding and he needs to be stitched immediately.” The man looked back at the ‘medic’ staring at the fighter with goo-goo eyes. He pursed his lips and lifted the tape. You walked through and made your way to the mat. You tapped on the woman’s shoulder “Excuse me” she moved out of the way instinctively. “Hello Mr. Fushiguro.” You said while sliding your hands through a pair of latex gloves.

He looked at you confused. “You don’t know me but I’m here to help you.” You took some gauze from the pile of medical supplies and applied pressure to the cut above his eyebrow. You were wearing a black skirt with a white button-down top that slightly exposed your cleavage. His gaze could be felt even under the angry burn of the lights. You frantically searched the pile for an alcohol wipe. Once you found one you held it up to him “Rip.” He did as you asked “This is going to sting.” He pulled air through his teeth as you cleaned it. “Is there thread over there?” You asked the former ‘medic’ who just stood there in awe “Hello?” “O-oh me?” “Who else would I be talking to?” You said. Words coming out laced with venom “I-uh no there’s not.” “Of course not..” you glanced down. Next best thing you thought as you picked up some glue.

You applied it to the wound and squeezed. You grabbed some tape that specialized in holding wounds together and placed it on the cut. “Rag,” you said to the girl. She quickly handed you a rag and you wiped the sweat, dirt, and blood off the fighter's face. You paused for a moment as you looked into his eyes. The one thing you’d been avoiding all night. Brown pools of the sweetest honey. You snapped out of it though when you felt his large hands on your waist. He gently moved you out of the way to get up. You felt heat crawl up your neck, feeling grateful that your brown skin hid the blush appearing. This was when you noticed all the blood that stained your shirt.

You left the ring entering back into reality as you searched for your brunette friend. As you were removing your gloves you heard a familiar voice. “Oh my god!- Will you leave me the fuck alone! She’s my friend and I’m a doctor!” The man with raven hair lifted the tape reluctantly and Stacey ran over to you “Oh my god! How was it?! What was he like!?” She said frantically trying to look behind you to get a glimpse of the fight from up close. “We didn’t really talk..” “But I saw you talking?” “I was talking to the ‘Medic’” you said making air quotes. “Oh..”

You walked over to a man with white hair wearing a shirt labeled ‘Manager’ leaving your overly excited friend on her own. “Excuse me? Do you happen to have a shirt I could borrow?” “Hmm..” he hummed as he tapped his index finger on his lip “I do have an extra one but…” “But?” “It’s his” Oh “It should be fine. He doesn’t ever wear it.” He turned around revealing the ‘Fushiguro’ on his back. He walked to his bag and came back with a shirt. “Here.” “Thank you.” “Please hurry, it looks like we’ll be needing you again soon.” You glanced back at the fight just as Fushiguro took a hit.

You took the shirt and went to the nearest bathroom. You changed out of your button-down blouse and into the one Fushiguro’s manager had gifted you. It was huge. It stopped just before your skirt ended and it was three times the width you were. You placed your shirt in your bag and then went back to the ring.

You stepped in as they were hydrating him. “Hello again Mr. Fushiguro,” He nodded, his eye starting to swell. After slipping into another pair of gloves, you grabbed an ice pack and slapped it in your hand to get it to activate. “Hold this here.” You said to the girl. She obliged and you began to tend to his bleeding shoulder. You grabbed the bottle of alcohol and a cotton round. “You might need to hold on to something for this one.” Just then, you felt his hands on your hips. A chill ran down your spine causing you to pause. They were so warm.

You let out a tremulous breath and resumed to tend to his wound. He tightened his grip when you applied the round. “Sorry.” You apologized. He just stared at you. “What’s your name?” He spoke finally. “(Y/N)” “(Y/N)..” he repeated back, almost dazed “That’s me.” You finished cleaning his wound and could now move on to patching it. Once you were done you moved out of the way—well, at least you tried but he kept you there, in place. “Mr. Fushiguro- I- the round is starting in 10 seconds.” You said, your tone incredulous “Find me after the fight.” “What?” “Gotta go.” He moved you out of the way and stood up.

You left the ring confused once again. You took the gloves off and decided to watch the rest from where you were standing. Fushiguro ended up winning causing an uproar in the arena. Stacey on the other hand hit it off with some journalist. “Are you sure you don’t need a ride?” “Positive.” “Okay! See you tomorrow.” She walked away giddy. You tapped on a blonde man wearing a Fushiguro shirt. “Um- Excuse me?” He turned around “I was told to find Mr. Fushiguro after the fight?” He cocked his eyebrow while his eyes scanned your body. “By who?” “Mr. Fushiguro…” Just then the man with the white hair came out “Kento what the fuck? Why isn’t she halfway to Toji already?” The man shrugged. “C’mon,” the manager led you through the tunnels to where you assumed the fighter would be. “He’s right in there.” He said pointing at a room labeled ‘Fushiguro Toji’ “W-wait you’re not coming in?” “Oh no, I don’t bother him after fights.”

You cautiously walked over to the door and gave a light knock. “Move.” You heard from behind the door. “Hi..” you said when he opened the door. His face was smug “Hi.” He smirked. Your eyes traveled down his figure. He was lacking a shirt, revealing his sinewy abdomen. “Everybody out.” “But sir- we haven’t finished your trea-“ “She’ll handle it.” He opened the door wide enough for the nurses to leave while he leaned against the frame. They all gave you dirty looks as they made their way out. “You just gonna stand there?” He said walking back to his seat. You walked in and closed the door behind you. He cocked his eyebrow “So this is that kind of visit?” “W-what?! I-I didn’t know if y-you wanted privacy!” He laughed “I’m teasing.” You shook your head while he chuckled. A deep, sexy chuckle. One that made you tingle and throb in all the right places. “I knew that..” “Oh did you now?” “I did.” You said before walking over and grabbing the medical supplies.

Toji felt a chills where your fingers graced his back. “Y’know..most people are scared of me.” He said slightly looking back “You? No way” You said, sarcasm laced in your words as you applied ointment to a few of his wounds. “Your possy seemed to have no problems with you. I mean, they all looked pretty disappointed when they had to leave” “Tch yeah...no matter how many times I kick them out they never get used to it.” You laughed. Toji felt his heart flutter. You walked around to his front, moving his slightly sweaty hair out of the way to look at the scar you had patched earlier. “Everything looks good. Well, not good but you know.” Your eyes scanned his face, skillfully avoiding his eyes. “How’d you get that?” You pointed to the scar on his lip. “Accident.” You finally found his eyes. “..You are a vague man.” You felt your pockets. “Do you mind?” You asked, showing him your chapstick. “Only if you come back to my place.”

You froze and tried to read his expression but you couldn’t. You smiled “I don’t give it up that easily.” He grabbed your wrists and slightly pulled you forward. “You sure?” Yes “…no” he cracked a smile and you applied the chapstick. Dipping it slightly when you reach his scar. “Is that a yes?” “Only if you want it to be.” Your heart was beating so loud you were sure he could hear it. He stared at your lips and you sheepishly glanced at his.

He let your wrists go and your lips connected. You felt a burning heat erupt in the very pit of your stomach. You’ve kissed men before but never like this. You loosely wrapped your arms around his neck as you stood up straighter. You both pulled away at the same time. He swiped his tongue over his teeth before standing up. Your arms fell back at your side as he grabbed his shirt and slipped it over his head. He grabbed his bag and then your hand. It was so large in comparison that he completely encased it. “Mr. Fushiguro wher-“ “Toji.” “What?” “Call me Toji.” He said looking back at you. You were struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Toji.” “Yes?” “Where are we going?” “You’ll see.” You walked with him as he pulled you through the tunnels.

On your way there, more of his security started to surround you. When you finally made it out you entered an epileptic’s worst nightmare. You put your arm over your eyes to help shield them from the flashing lights. You felt Toji’s arm wrap around you as you pushed through the photographers.

You sighed when you finally reached the car. “Shit.” “It’s not over.” You watched as they migrated around the car. You finally pulled off and you were on your way. When you arrived, paparazzi swarmed the car once again. His security opened his door and he got out. He then helped you out of the car. As you walked, your hand slipped out of his and you began to drown in the sea of paparazzi. You fell and scraped one of your knees.

Toji stopped immediately after he no longer felt your hand in his. “Mr. Fushiguro! Mr. Fushiguro!” He pushed five reporters out of the way with one swing of his arm. Suddenly, you felt yourself being picked up, bridal style. “T-Toji I can walk.” “I’m not letting you get run over again.” He carried you into the lobby and to the elevator before setting you down. He opened the door to his penthouse when you got there and told you to sit on the couch “Yes sir.” You said throwing your hands up.

He disappeared into a room and when he reappeared he was holding a first aid kit. He set it on the couch as he knelt between your thighs. “Oh Toji you really don-“ he glanced up at you, causing your talking to cease. He cleaned it with an alcohol wipe and as he placed the bandaid on your knee, he looked up at you. “Thank you..”

He squeezed as his hand traveled further up your skirt. “Let me know if you want me to stop.” You nodded slowly. When he got to your panties he swiped his thumb across the wet spot. You shuddered and closed your eyes. “Aht aht. Look at me.” You opened them again to look into his. You felt him use his other hand to pull your panties to the side and open your legs wider. “What a pretty pussy…and so wet too.” He ran a finger through your folds and you tried to close your legs. He held them open and rubbed circles on your puffy clit. “Fuck..” you said, breathless.

He pulled at the hem of your lace panties before sliding them off. He placed them in his pocket before sliding his middle and ring fingers into his mouth. He went back to rubbing your clit as he slid a finger inside. A loud moan ripped through your throat. You placed a hand on his shoulder for stability. He slipped another finger in and curled them. You trembled. He stood up as he fingered you, placing a knee on the couch.

He began to kiss you, traveling down your neck with sloppy, wet kisses. Kisses that left you wanting more. Lewd squelching filled the room as his fingers fucked into you tirelessly. Suddenly, you felt your stomach tighten and your moaning became louder. You tried to speak but nothing came out. “Are you gonna cum? Hmm?” He hummed against your neck sending chills down your spine. He could tell by the way you were clamping down on him that your orgasm was near.

Chills ran down your entire body when he spoke to you. “You gonna cum on my fingers? Hm? Go ahead…make a mess for me.” “Tojii” you spoke finally. You let out a loud whine as you came around his fingers. “Good girl” he said as he helped you ride out your orgasm.

You watched through half lidded eyes as he slid his fingers out and placed them into his mouth. He sucked them clean and pulled them out with a ‘pop’. You felt yourself being picked up and carried. He laid you down on his bed, “I’m gonna go shower. Do not touch yourself until I get back.” You nodded “I need words.” “Yes daddy” You said, your voice feigning innocence. Toji felt his cock twitch. He walked away and to the bathroom. You writhed on the bed, more horny then you’ve ever been. About twenty minutes later Toji came out in just a towel.

You sat upright. You looked so small on his abnormally large bed. He walked over to you and you could feel the blush creeping up on you. The towel he wore didn’t cover much. He placed his fingers on your jaw and lifted your head to make sure you looked him in the eye. “There’s no turning back after I start.” He said with an expression that made you feral. You nodded. “Words.” “O-okay” he smiled. He leaned in and kissed you. It was deep and sexy. The way he grabbed your neck with his warm, calloused hand. The way he moved them across your body. Squishing the plush of your ass, stomach, and thighs as if he was memorizing every inch of you.

He started to kiss down your neck. You shuddered underneath him as you let him take full control. You felt his hands slide up your shirt as he kissed and licked around your collarbone. He unhooked your bra with ease and slid it off under your shirt. “Leave the shirt on.” He’s been wanting to fuck you in it since you first put it on. It was bunched up over your breasts. He sat back to admire you. “So pretty…” before you could be embarrassed, he ran his tongue over a nipple. You moaned as your hands found purchase in his short cut raven hair. He bit, pinched, and soothed with his tongue.

He guided you out of your skirt and licked his fingers. He slowly rubbed down your slit, smearing the cum from twenty minutes prior. Placing his hands on your knees, he pushed them towards your chest. He squeezed on your thighs before wrapping his arms around them and pulling you to the edge of the bed. He made his tongue flat and wide as he licked up your cunt. You shivered with a moan “fuckk”. You placed your hand in his hair and tried to push him away. Everything was so sensitive. Too sensitive. You felt him smirk against your pussy as he held you against him with more force. He was enjoying this as much—if not more than you were. He loved the way you smelled, the way you writhed under him with every touch, the way you sounded. Everything about you was sheer perfection in his eyes.

You whined as he hummed into you. Your legs shook as a thin layer of sweat started to coat your skin. “Toji..” “Hm?” He hummed. “I’m- ouu” you couldn’t get the words out. “What is it baby?” “I-I’m uh-gonna c-um” “mm cum on my tongue princess.” And almost as if on command, your orgasm washed over you.

Once again, he helped you ride it out. Lapping up your orgasm along the way. You panted as he backed away. Even through half-lidded eyes you could see the glistening of his chin from your juices. He wiped his mouth with his arm and then bent down to kiss you. The kiss was sloppy and allowed you to taste yourself. You moaned into it and that was his last straw. He pulled his towel off and threw it to the floor, allowing you to see a glimpse of exactly how big he was. You quivered when you felt him rub his tip through your folds. He kissed you again and you gasped when you felt him slowly sink into you.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as you felt him stretch you. He kissed them as you dug your nails into his shoulders, creating little crescent moon impressions. “I know, I know. You’re doing so good for me baby.” Butterflies erupted in your stomach as you slightly relaxed. “That’s it, just r-relax” his hot breath fanned against your ear. He pushed his lips into your swollen ones. Swollen from how much abuse they had adhered from both you and him. He swallowed your whine as he pushed all the way in. “Shit s-so tight.” his voice broke as he almost bottomed out. He sat there for a moment letting you adjust to his size. After a few moments he felt your grip on his shoulder loosen a bit. “P-please move T-toji” he obliged and moved slowly at first, giving the pain a chance to cease.

The moans you released were like music to his ears. The way you tried to talk but ended up just babbling something that ended with his name. “Faster.” You managed to get out. He obliged once again. The room was filled with lewd slapping and squelching noises. He buried his head into your neck allowing you to smell his..vanilla shampoo?

“(Y/N) fuck- your pussy’s s-ucking me I-in so goood mm” he was practically whining. His words turned you on even more. “ouu” you moaned next to his ear. He backed away to sit up on his knees. He looked down to see the ring of white that sat at the base of his cock. Watching the way he completely disappeared inside of you. He moved his hand down to your clit and rubbed in slow circles as he fucked into you. Your moaning crescendoed and your legs shook. “Wait wait- ouu fuck wait.” You put your hand out in an attempt to get him to slow his strokes. He intertwined his fingers with yours as he continued to play with your sensitive nub. Tears graced your lashes as the shaking became more intense. “You gonna cum? Hm? Cum with me baby. Can you do that?” You were clamping down on him so good.

That familiar knot in your stomach was about to snap. He leaned into your neck anew. You bit down on his shoulder as you ran your nails down his back. “Tojii- ouu- mm I’m gonna- shit I’m gonna c-cum.” Your eyes rolled back and your vision went white when you came. Your entire body shook as his thrusts became sloppy. He whined as he pulled out and came on your stomach and shirt. He leaned his forehead against yours as you both caught your breath and came down from your high.

He peppered kisses all around your face as your body relaxed. “You did so good.” Was the last thing you really heard him say.

He went to the bathroom and cleaned himself up. He threw on a pair of boxers before coming back into the room. He cleaned your stomach and thighs with a warm towel making sure to be extra gentle. He pulled that shirt off of you and replaced it with the top to his green silk pajamas. You looked so cute in his large shirt. He then carried you to the bathroom and sat you down on the toilet. “(Y/N), wake up.” You opened your eyes to find a squatting Toji in front of you. From what you could make out, he had green pajama bottoms on with no shirt.

“What?” You were so cute. “You need to pee.” You nodded slowly. “Can you turn around?” You said, slurring the words together. He laughed. “(Y/N).” “Mhm?” “We just fucked.” “So? Nobody can pee with a six foot five man staring them down...” You said in protest. “Absolutely adorable…fine.” He turned around and you peed. When you were finished he helped you to the sink and then carried you back to bed. He covered you and then grabbed your clothes from earlier. He put them in the washing machine and cut all the lights off.

When he got in bed, you were facing away from him. He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you close. He kissed the top of your head before slowly drifting to sleep with you.

@kazushawty

[rqgnarok]

orange juice - tommy miller (ii)

fandom: the last of us (tv show & video game)

wc: 7,664

warnings: mentions of alcoholism, ptsd, death and gore as seen on the show and games. no pronouns for reader.

summary: a surprising turn of events brings tommy back to your life and he won't let sleeping dogs lie.

sequel to dial drunk and loosely inspired in noah kahan's orange juice

masterlist / ao3 / ko-fi

“He’s looking at you again.”

“Let him,” you tell Maria, picking at your pancakes with your fork. It’s almost 10 PM and she took you out to eat breakfast for dinner, but it was enough incentive to get you out of the house after two weeks of no human interaction. That, and the fact that she’s paying. “He can stare all he wants, it’s not a crime.”

“Feels like one,” she shrugs, eyesight momentarily stuck to the corner of her eye where you know she’s scouting her target, her lips a tight, displeased line. “And your shoulders say otherwise, all up against your ears. You look like you’re waiting for the electric chair.”

You roll your eyes so hard it brings back to life the headache you’ve been nursing for the last couple of days. It had gently placed itself as a quiet dull in the back of your head and returns full force now. 

The diner is half-empty– not an unusual occasion at this time of night, but the voices and laughter from fellow Jackson citizens only worsen the ache of the giant bruise that is your body right now. 

“It would be a kinder fate, I think.”

Maria stands her ground, grimacing. “God, who even is this guy? When you said there was some bad history I thought you meant, like, a nasty ex. That man is looking like a cloud belongs permanently above his head.”

Who even is Tommy Miller? It’s a good enough question, one you never thought you’d have to answer in your life after the world ended.

You’d been in New York when the infected spread like wildfire across the country. There was barely enough time while running for your life to think about what might’ve happened to the Miller boys.

You hoped. By God, you hoped like you rarely dared these days that Joel, Tommy, and Sarah made it out safely. Guilt swallowed you whole the second you thought about it for too long. 

You relinquished any rights you had on them when you abandoned them. You ran out of Austin with your tail between your legs and cut off all contact with them, one last futile attempt to put Tommy’s life back together. 

Why are you being so fucking difficult?

I’m done watching you wreck your life, Tommy. I’m not picking up again tonight, or ever. Call Joel. 

The first time you saw Tommy Miller again after two decades you were too in the throes of a panic attack to believe he was real. 

It wouldn’t be the first time you confused the sight of a stranger for your long-lost friend. Freckles on fair skin, cow eyes so brown they could be black and broad shoulders under jean jackets; they’re more common than you’d think. 

But they always turn around and the illusion always breaks. It’s your designed personal penitence, to chase after the man that knew how to hurt you better than anyone in your life, and that you let because you loved him. Love, still. Time and distance and the fucking apocalypse weren’t enough to diminish what you’ve always felt for Tommy Miller. 

You loved him even when you left him. It’s why you left him, even if it killed you in the process. 

But this time it was him. Along with a group of newcomers, he stumbled across Jackson and you found yourself trying to blink away the sight of a ghost in the town square to no avail. His expression was tight and distrustful, so Joel it created a vacuum of longing in your belly even through the panic. 

And fuck, man, Joel. The last time you talked to Tommy was the last time you talked to his brother, too. A call right after you hung up on the youngest Miller that had him using all the curses available in his vocabulary on his brother’s name.

How many times has he done this to you?

Too many. 

Fucking dumbass. Hope you keep ‘im in the doghouse a little longer this time. 

I’m serious, Joel, I’m not picking after him again. 

Joel had tried to convince you otherwise, but you both knew his heart wasn’t in it. You’d both witnessed Tommy’s mishaps once too many times and he knew dropping Tommy wasn’t a decision you’d make lightly. 

Because it meant dropping him as well, and Sarah. It meant giving up on the realest family you had, most likely for good.

He’s gonna hate this. I think that boy would rather lose an arm than lose you.

He can live without me, Joel.

No, he’d said, oddly solemn, like he knew something you didn’t. No, he can’t. 

But he’d been wrong. Here Tommy was, stumbling into your life as if he hadn’t left it at all. He'd locked eyes with you across town like the sea of curious citizens peering at the dirty strangers from outside town didn’t exist. 

Even if it hadn’t been him those thousand times you thought you saw him, in your mind Tommy was everywhere: dead in some shallow common grave in Austin, turned and without any control over his body with a bite scar on his arm, running for his life with a gun in his hand and Joel by his side, hiding behind the alcohol like he’d been doing the last time you saw him.

The possibilities were endless and terrible, but they hadn’t killed you yet. 

The way Tommy’s face fell in realization almost did. You’d rubbed at your eyes and strained your eyesight as best you could, but the hallucination refused to fade. He was still there, standing tall, weary and tired and hopeful.

He’d opened his mouth, the shape of your name already on his lips when you turned around and ran for your life back into your house. Your lungs didn’t fill with a full breath until you turned all the locks and leaned against the door, heart hammering against your ribs and nausea crawling up your throat.

As if Tommy would chase after you, knocking on your door and demanding something from you, or maybe just to be mean about the same things he’s always held against you. 

But he hadn’t. Hiding worked. You didn’t hear anything from him or about him from Maria, so you stood your ground. You didn’t even throw a fit when she came to force you into the shower so you could have dinner together, only to avoid more questions you couldn’t answer.

Who is he? You looked like the Grim Reaper was walking into town, do you know him? Did he hurt you? I swear to God, if he did he’s not staying, hon, I promise–

An old friend, was the explanation you’d settled on, the biggest understatement of your life. We grew up together and went our separate ways way before the outbreak. Wasn’t really a clean break. 

Maria took it, albeit hesitantly, and the worried glances she’d been sending your way in the diner grew tenfold when Tommy walked in. He sat at the bar and ordered a drink with a piece of pecan pie. Something in your heart clenched when the waiter put a colorful drink in front of him and Tommy poured it down without even blinking.

So what if he’s drinking, still? It’s why you walked away from him, isn’t it? If your ultimatum meant nothing to him then that’s not your problem, even if it makes something sorrowful and ugly bloom in your belly.

You look away just as he turns his head towards your booth so he doesn’t catch you looking. Instead, you catch him more than a handful of times, his gaze hot and piercing. 

It’s always been unnerving, being under his careful eye. 

“I don’t think he’s gonna stop.”

Fuck, you think. “Then I will,” you sigh in mourning for your nice evening and hit the table lightly with your fist as you stand. Maria hisses your name and goes to grab your arm but you’re already walking towards Tommy. The next time he sneaks a look he finds you closer than expected. 

You would laugh at the look on his face if this were funny at all.

It’s not funny. Whatever bravado you might’ve put on in front of Maria is fake and gone by the time you reach Tommy’s side. He annoyingly smells of cologne, somehow a charming like hell scent even in a post-apocalyptic world. 

“You’re staring,” is your opener, less annoyed than you intended and a little bit too breathless, but a truth all the same.

The asshole has the decency to look amused, eyes glinting, and that terrible mustache he’s acquired since he got here moves in a way that indicates he’s smiling and trying to hide it.

“Hello to you, too,” he says, and the roughness of his voice sends thrills of warmth down your belly. He both did and didn’t speak like this twenty years ago, a harsher edge to his tone that you credit to the terrible decades spent between then and now. But underneath it all there’s something so indescribably Tommy that leaves you incredibly out of your depth for this moment. 

“Hey, Miller,” you say with a roll of your eyes at his sarcasm, but the greeting comes out too soft, too honest. You feel like the knots of anxiety inside of you are about to snap from how tightly they are woven. “You’re staring. It’s freaking Maria out.”

“Sorry to Maria,” he says without sounding even merely apologetic, and your heckles rise so quickly you’re practically blindsided. It starts with a few cute quips and ends with him calling you to pick him up from the bar fight he’s lost this time, breath reeking of tequila. “You look good.”

He checks you out slowly, brown eyes full of intent and lacking subtlety. It feels like you’re facing a shooting battalion, waiting for them to deem you guilty. 

There’s nothing suggestive or mean about it. It’s almost kind– wistful in a way you don’t remember him being. You're just having a casual conversation, even if there’s nothing casual about this encounter.

“So do you,” you say for lack of anything else, his honesty catching you off guard. His eyes fly to your face and scrutinize you like he’s trying to make sure you mean it. Whatever conclusion he reaches makes his smile widen, even if just by a little. “Can’t say I’m not surprised, though. Thought you would’ve moved on from Jackson by now.”

He shrugs, turning back to stare at his empty glass, still angling his body toward you where he’s sitting on a worn-out stool. “You don’t find this a lot these days.”

“Civilization?”

“Community,” his eyes twinkle, and, really, Jesus Christ, what’s up with the lights in this place? The man looks like a live-action Disney prince, all combed hair and bright eyes. “Reminds me of home, almost. And, well.”

He doesn’t say it, and you’ve long stopped trying to figure out what he keeps to himself, but you know what you want it to be. You’re too familiar with the way he stops himself from saying stuff he means– especially if it's kind. He’s saving himself the bashful blush that comes after but you desperately wish to hear it anyway.

And, well. You’re here, too. 

He clears his throat when you only nod in response, silence stretching between you painfully. “Can I buy you a drink?”

It’s your turn to bite back your words. A firm, offended fuck no rests on your tongue, and swallowing it back down feels like gravel against your throat. 

He’s trying, you guess. 

You wordlessly sit on the stool next to him, careful not to touch him even on accident. Nodding at the waiter, you say, “I’ll have whatever he’s having,” intertwining your hands nervously and feeling somewhat victorious for getting anything out.

The waiter nods, tilting his head in question. “Non-alcoholic alright?”

You blink, once again losing the slight footing you’d found just now. You don’t turn towards Tommy, but you feel him shift in his seat, silent.

“I- yeah, sure.”

He nods and walks away, and you and Tommy sit in silence until he comes back to place a glass in front of you. You reach for it only to busy your hands but don’t drink from it. Anything you might take is only gonna come back up eventually out of sheer nervousness.

Tommy speaks after a beat. The anxiety in your belly keeps pushing further. “You could’ve ordered something else if you wanted. Maybe with a little more kick?”

“I don’t mind,” you promise dryly. “I, uh. I don’t drink, really. Like, at all.”

“Me either, if you can believe it,” it surprises you enough that your head turns to him in disbelief. Tommy’s already looking at you with an expression you can’t name but unsettles you all the same. He smiles at whatever he sees in your expression, gently amused. “I know. Joel made the same face when I told him I wanted to quit.”

The mention of the eldest Miller would bring you to your knees had you been standing up. “Joel. Is he…?”

You trail off but Tommy catches your meaning and his amusement dissolves.

“Alright,” Tommy confirms with a nod, taking a sip of his drink and running his tongue over his lips after, chasing the flavor. He looks suddenly stricken, but like he’s had enough of that emotion that his features have grown accustomed to it. “As much as he can be, I guess. We... lost Sarah the day all hell broke loose.”

Whatever relief had filled you is immediately displaced by nausea. Closing your eyes tightly doesn’t stop the tears from burning or the wave of grief from washing over you.

“Fuck,” you say through feelings that are now stopping you from breathing freely. “Fuck, Tommy, I’m so sorry.”

“I am, too,” he says, quiet and thoughtful and familiar. Fuck, so fucking familiar that it both soothes and shakes you even further. You feel him move again, and open your eyes to find his hand closer to yours on the counter than it was a second ago, not touching you but offering some weird sort of comfort nevertheless. “I know you loved her. She loved you, too. So much.”

Love is an understatement. You’d been the fourth person to ever hold her after her parents and her uncle, and she had you wrapped around your finger the second she held it tightly in her tiny, baby fist. You watched her first steps and her first words, went to her first soccer game and gossiped about her first crush. Nursed her first heartbreak when the men in her life were too out of depth to really help.

She’d been your family as much as Joel and Tommy had been. Any issue you had with Tommy had nothing to do with his niece or his brother. You’d hoped; stupidly, blindly, selfishly, that she’d made it even if this was never the world you wanted her to grow up in.

“God, all this time…” you cut yourself off and fight the urge to reach for his hand and intertwine your fingers. You’ve never missed him from this close. “I mean– it was always a long shot, but I thought. I hoped… If anyone…”

“I know,” he acknowledges, fingers twitching. He lets a moment pass before he says, tentatively– “I hoped for you, too.”

It would’ve hurt you less if he had insulted you. At least it would’ve been expected.

“Tommy–”

He calls your name as he finally puts his hand on top of yours, pleading. It’s too warm, sweaty, and firm on your skin, and you pull it off the counter swiftly before he can do anything stupid like squeeze it. You stand, distraught, and Tommy follows suit.

“Sweets, please–”

“Don’t,” you snap, harsher and louder than you mean to, earning yourself unwanted attention from a few curious eyes in the diner. Maria, on the other side of the room, is standing and eyeing you worriedly.

Her eyes say blink twice and I’ll kick his balls but even her support is too much. The world blurs around you and Tommy’s words from forever ago echo along with the blood pumping in your ears.

Don’t be like that, sweets. You can act all high and mighty next time, alright?

God, you can’t do this. You left a small town once to avoid this exact confrontation. Maybe it’s finally time to leave Jackson and this is God laughing in your face, screaming at you to go. 

“This isn’t what I came for,” you say to the universe, to Maria, to Tommy, to whoever’s listening and is kind enough to get you out of your misery. “Just– stop it with the staring, alright? You can have my drink if you want.”

Tommy looks desperate and more unkept than he had a minute ago. His hair’s a mess even if he hasn’t even reached out to touch it, and the twinkle in his eye is made out of urgency rather than charm. 

“Sweets–”

“Fuck off,” you bite, eyesight blurry with unshed tears of frustration. Tommy reels back a little. He wasn’t expecting any aggression from you. “I don’t want you to call me that.”

“I’ve always called you that,” Tommy’s brow furrows in honest confusion. 

“Yes,” you say, because to you it’s as clear as glass cutting into your skin. “Yeah, that’s the fucking problem, Tommy.”

You can’t bear to look at him. How dare he be hurt about this after what he did? After breaking your heart, using your feelings against you, and then holding a grudge for two decades when you decided you weren’t gonna let him do that shit to you?

You leave the diner with those words, ignoring both Tommy and Maria calling after you. Only one of them tries to follow but you’re not in the mood to entertain either of them, even if Maria has nothing but good intentions. 

God, those free pancakes weren’t even worth it.

You hide at home again.

You hate that this is what its come to. Even if Jackson has become your home you’re the one who has to hide away because Tommy decided to parade in without a fucking care in the world.

It’s weird, you spent years trying to live with your guilt over ending your friendship the way you did, even if it was for the better, but now that he’s back you feel nothing but anger.

Anger over him putting you in a position like that. Anger about his own anger and inability to see how badly you were trying to put his safety over your friendship. Anger about ending up here anyway: breaking yourself in two for his sake.

Some things never change, apparently.

The weekend comes and goes after your valiant escape from the diner and this time there’s nothing Maria can say or do to get you to go out again. She leaves some groceries at your doorstep because she’s a fantastic friend, but after blatantly refusing to answer her questions about Tommy she leaves you alone, wearing a disappointed mother-like frown.

You’re trying and failing to read a book one of your neighbors lent you when there’s a knock at the door. Believing it to be Maria you stay rooted in your spot on the couch, knowing she’ll give up eventually.

Except the knocking doesn’t stop. 

It doesn’t grow more insistent or lose its intensity, but rather keeps its steady rhythm; three knocks, a moment or two of silence, and then repeat. It gets on your nerves sooner than later and you’re jumping off the couch to make it stop, clad in your pajamas and fuzzy socks that almost got you shot when you were bargaining for them half a decade ago. 

By the time you reach the door, you’re about to pull your hair out. Maria’s name is on your lips when you come face to face with Tommy, his fist still raised mid-knock.

“Don’t close the door,” he rushes to say, hand settling on the frame just in case you decide to do it anyway. “I just want to talk, please.”

“What the fuck,” you answer out of mere surprise, body coiled tight as you try to keep your body language to a minimum. Any sudden movements and he’ll invite himself in, and then you really won’t be able to keep the line drawn between your past and your life here. “There’s nothing to talk about, Tommy.”

“Like hell, there isn’t,” he says with enough annoyance that you blink, reeling back a little. Finally, a taste of the Tommy you were expecting, short and mean and careless with your heart.

It’s almost a relief– the sweet facade was too good to be true and you didn’t believe it for a second. “We were friends once, or did you forget? And now you can’t even be in the same room as me for more than twenty minutes. I’m sure we’ve both got more than enough to get off our chests, sweets.”

“Don’t–”

“Don’t call you that, yeah, sorry,” he mimics your outcry from the other night, but he shrinks a little at the reminder, shoulders to his ears. It’s an honest enough apology that you refrain another biting comment from leaving your mouth. “See, I’d get a chance to understand why you hate it so much if you just talked to me–”

“I don’t want to fight with you, Tommy,” you say, more honestly than you mean to. He keeps pulling the truth out of you despite your best tries to give him as little insight into yourself as possible.

It comes out tired– reminiscent of the resignation you used to pick up the phone with whenever Tommy called late at night. 

“And I’m not here for that,” the way he’s meeting your gaze leaves you unable to look away. You automatically preen under the warm, molten brown of his eyes. “But I– you owe me some kind of explanation–”

“Jesus,” you laugh, the sound loaded with incredulity. Just when you think you know what to expect from him… “That’s really fucking rich, Tom, really, so much for not fighting–”

“You’re the one who insists on making everything a godforsaken argument–”

“Listen to what you’re saying to me!” you exclaim a little too loudly, catching the attention of some of your neighbors and shit.

Motherfucking shit, you have no other choice but to grab Tommy’s stupid flannel in your fist and pull him inside your home away from prying eyes. You close the door behind you and turn back to him, fire at your tongue. “Fucking listen to yourself, Tommy! What the fuck would I owe you after everything–” 

“Listen, just because you don’t like me anymore–”

“I don’t like you?” you say incredulously, stopping mid-path to the kitchen and trying to come to terms with Tommy standing in your home looking like he’s meant to be here. “Tommy, I mean this with the most respect I am capable of mustering for you right now, but are you high?”

It’s the sort of thing you would’ve told him when you were younger, unapologetically calling him out on his shit in the most picturesque way possible. Tommy’s eyes brighten with something– not quite glee, not quite fury– and he leans closer to you almost automatically, muscle memory pulling at strained, rusted pieces of him that are now awakening in your presence. 

“Fuck off,” he snaps, but there’s something resigned about it. He presses at his temples with his thumb and index finger, hand calloused and steady and too familiar for you not to ache for his touch. 

“You’re the one who dropped me like it was nothing,” he accuses. All the fight leaks out of him, leaving him curved inwards and small. “Like you weren’t my best fucking friend, like I– like I was always just– pulling you down, or some shit. Like you were just waiting for the right excuse to get rid of me.”

The words are a gut punch on their own but the way he says them– like he’s been thinking them to be true ever since you left– almost floors you completely. 

You say, “Tommy,” and you can’t help it. Some instinctive part inside of you has come back to life and doesn’t know anything other than his name. “Tommy, are you being serious right now?”

“Do you know why I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in over a decade?” he demands, looking straight into your fucking soul as he waves his hands around, trying to make a point. “Because after the world went to shit all I could think about was you. I thought of you, dead and mad at me, and I wanted to be wrong about that more than I wanted to drink.”

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.  

“You left me behind,” he says, an accusation, but it comes out too quiet for it to really be angry.  “And you just… moved on. Moved away. It felt like everything we went through meant nothing to you.”

You gape. The silence echoes in your ears along with the rapid beat of your heart and your blood rushing to your brain as you make sense of what he's saying.

“It meant everything to me,” you admit eventually, the weight of your decision still making your shoulders ache after all these years. “Jesus, Tommy, don’t you get it? That’s why I had to leave. It killed me to watch you fade away like that. And to think I was… aiding and abetting, somehow–”

Tommy shakes his head, stubborn. “The drinking wasn’t your fault–”

“You called me every fucking time,” you interrupt, voice hard. 

There’s little softness about the whole thing. He was your friend and you failed him by cutting him off and not being there when he needed you, but he wasn’t exactly pulling his weight. It was you on your own trying to maintain a friendship he wasn’t interested in saving.

“At one point I only heard from you when you needed me to bail you out. I got to know more about the sheriff on guard than about your own life. It wasn’t fucking fair, Tom. To either of us.”

Tommy doesn’t have an answer for that, arms crossed and glaring at your kitchen floor. His jaw quivers with emotion but his fluttering brows tell you it’s not anger. You know what he looks like when he’s trying not to cry. 

“I was a reminder of everything wrong with your life,” you continue, quieter, softened by his lack of retort and the absence of any fight. “I was stopping you from moving on by coming every time you called. As long as I came to get you you’d keep getting shitfaced. Driving drunk, getting into fights, hurting the people you loved. I couldn’t keep doing that to you.”

“Hurting you,” Tommy says, meeting your eye. There’s only a table between you now, but you’ve never felt further apart from him, and that’s saying something. “All that time, I was hurting you.”

You look away in embarrassment, even though there’s nothing about the statement that warrants it. “And Joel and Sarah. Your mom. But yeah. Yeah, you were hurting me.”

Tommy sighs. He’s looking every one of his years and reaching for one of your chairs, sitting like his body can’t hold him up anymore, his vices calling to charge their fees. 

You ask, curious, grief-stricken: “What happened to you, Tommy?”

“I don’t know,” he says, lost, the sound of his voice bordering on a break. He’s crying now, you realize, not shedding tears but trying to keep himself together and failing. “I don’t know, I was just so… angry. About everything. After I was discharged everywhere I saw, it was all red.”

You close your eyes at the mention of 22-year-old Tommy, some baby fat still clinging to his changing face that was hardened by his experience overseas. You’d gone with his family to pick him up from the airport, and he’d clung just as tightly to you as you did him when you ran to meet him on the tarmac. Your lungs had finally, finally filled with a full breath now that he was back home with you, but something was off and you knew it the second you saw him. 

His shoulders remained tense all throughout your embrace and the ride home. He was quiet during the welcome party in his mom’s house, and later you spent hours on his porch until the sun came back up again. Whatever it was, he hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

You don’t want to hear about all that, he’d promised, arms around his legs and cheek laying on his knee, gaze on you and far away at the same time. Trust me, sweets, I’d take this fucking heat and some Willie Nelson over army shit every time. 

“I don’t know when I realized drinking made it easier,” he goes on, and you wonder if he’s stuck in the same memory as you. “I could be as angry as I wanted to and still not feel a damn thing. And I didn’t care who paid the price of it. I didn’t care about anything.”

“That night, though,” he says, expression turning wary as if expecting you to make a run for it. You’ve tried to the last two times you came face to face with him, but you’re too tired now. You’ve picked too much at this scar to do anything other than let it bleed. “When you hung up on me, it all came rushing back. Everything I’d been tryin’ to avoid just crashed into me. Hurt a hell of a lot worse than the broken nose did.”

Your surprise bypasses your quiet grief. “You broke your nose?”

“It got broken,” he pulls a sour face that almost makes you smile. He rubs the crooked slope with his index finger, thoughtful. “Not that I didn’t deserve it, but I’m pretty sure Collins had had it against me since high school.”

You snort. You remember who he’s talking about– one of the officers you had to befriend in the hope he’d let Tommy go with a warning a few dozen times. He’d been a skinny kid with braces and a hero-like worship for the younger Miller before he graduated and signed up for the Academy. 

“I’m not angry anymore,” he admits, and you don’t realize how much that statement means to you until your next breath comes a little too easy, fills your chest the way air hasn’t for twenty whole years. “After the world ended, being mad about something like this felt…”

You try to help when he trails off. “Insignificant?”

Tommy’s smile is small but real, fond. “I was gonna say ‘stupid’, but yeah.” He nods at you, wistful. “Yeah, you’ve always been better at words than me. Better in every sense, really.”

You soften again against your will. “Tommy.”

“Sorry,” he shakes his head, wiping some stray tears neither of you realized had fallen. He’s not gentle about it, and you itch to reach for his hands and do it yourself, remind him that the world has punished you both for long enough to have him be so rough on himself.

“It’s different now. Being sober,” he continues, nervous. He’s tapping the table, bouncing his knee, biting his cheek– a checklist for anxious tics. “Trying to get through the end of the world without booze was shitty as hell.”

He continues, ashamed– “I, uh, I fell off the wagon more times than I’d like. Definitely more than I can excuse, even with everything that’s happened.”

Guilt swells inside you and you’re unable to dial it back. You left him. He was in trouble without a way out and your response to that was to leave him. 

Even if you’d been right to do it, even if you indirectly saved his life, you’ve always been honest with yourself about how much it haunted you. It’s a small, worthless comfort, how the right choices usually don't feel so. 

“You kept calling me,” it escapes your mind without your consent, but now that you’ve put it out there you can’t stop thinking about it. “I didn’t pick up, but you kept calling at first. Always after midnight, always drunk. Always in trouble.”

You meant what you said when he first came in, you don’t want to fight, but you’ve spared his feelings at your expense for too long now, and you need to know. You never thought you’d get the chance to ask, so you have to. Even if Tommy hangs his head like he’s preparing for the guillotine, you need to lay this to rest now. For your sake.

“I know,” he says, soft and regretful.

“And then you stopped,” you recall, the hurt so vivid it’s still present, still clutching at your heart after all this time. “When you realized I was of no use to you, that I wouldn’t come to bail you out–”

He says your name painfully.

“I never stopped liking you, Tommy,” you tell him, a secret to apparently no one but him. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. It wasn’t me who stopped caring.”

“Me either,” he says, suddenly firm, looking up at you with a gaze made of steel that doesn’t leave any room for argument. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself as you lean against the counter, its edge jamming almost painfully against your back. “Please tell me you know that. I was a dick and I’m owning up to that but God, please tell me you know how much you mean to me.”

Mean, he says, your mind stuck like a broken record on the present tense as if you hadn’t told him you still loved him just a moment ago. Still, still, still. 

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, literally having been rendered speechless. Tommy’s expression shatters.

“Sweets,” it’s a small, tender thing, but he corrects himself immediately even if you don’t complain this time. You’re too stricken by the turns of this conversation to do anything about it. He says your name and you pretend it doesn’t kill you, laughing to himself with every loaded emotion except humor. “God, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I fucked everything up, didn’t I?”

Your answer gets stuck in your throat. You don’t like any of the possibilities, saying either yes or no would be a lie. There are no absolutes in this, nothing crystal clear about this thing between you.

He reads your hesitation and watches you sit opposite to him like he’s exchanging words with a haunting, distrusting and hopeful all the same. 

“We were– we were good, though,” he says, like a question, voice dry. He sounds so different from the last time he asked something of you, and the dichotomy is a little too much for you to handle. “Weren’t we? For a while there, before we– I… we were good, right?”

You do the unimaginable and reach out your arm, palm up. Tommy looks at it and you back and forth, like he expects you to laugh in his face, but eventually he meets you halfway and intertwines your fingers together.

Your tears clog your throat. There are so many things you wish had happened differently. “Yeah, Tom,” you say, benevolent. “We were really good.”

His smile is sad and fleeting but his hand is tight around yours. You sit in silence on your kitchen table as the light drains from the sky, but neither of you make a move to leave or turn on the light.

Your life goes on. Surprisingly, with Tommy in it. 

It’s an adjustment, for sure. After your heart-to-heart, he promises he’ll stick around in Jackson indefinitely, but it’s still a shock every time he comes by to pick you up for lunch. With his hands behind his back and bouncing nervously on his tippy toes, he looks like he’s about to ask your mom if you can come out to play after you finish your homework. 

It freaks you out. The first time he walks you home after an awkward, stilted late morning at the diner your mind bombards you with worse-case scenarios:

Tommy leaving town without telling you, Tommy relapsing after two consecutive hours in your company, Tommy avoiding you around town for the rest of your days as if you hadn’t talked things out at all. 

But he comes back. Two days later and then the week after that and so on. Both your social skills slowly but surely begin to defrost and before you know it, you’re seeing each other almost daily for periods of time too long for mere acquaintances. 

You’re friends again. Still, he insists as he puts his jacket around your shoulders because a fifteen-minute walk before dinner became a three-hour talk about your years apart. We’re friends, still. I missed you every second I wasn’t with you whether I realized it or not. You were what was missing, sweets. 

Today, Tommy stares at you from the other side of the room, gaze clever and unashamed, and something inside you is filled to the brim, satisfied and content.

“He’s looking at you again.”

“Let him,” you say to Maria through the rim of your glass. 

She rolls her eyes in good nature and locks her arm around yours. Thus begins the slow walk around the room that inevitably ends, as everything in your life seems to, at Tommy’s side. 

She’d been the one who told you to invite him. It was her party, her choice, a private but grander-than-usual affair under the excuse that not many folks get to turn 40 these days. You knew Tommy knew about it because everyone in town did, but he didn’t talk about it until you brought it up yourself after a night together.

Sunlight had been streaming gently through the curtains that swayed with the spring air coming through the window. You’d blindly picked up the closest garment of clothing you found on the floor before you went down to make breakfast.

Tommy had taken one look at you in his shirt and intercepted your path before you could leave the bedroom, hand pulling you back into bed and, consequentially, into his lap.

He’d smiled as you wrapped your arms around his neck and it was like the years vanished between you. You were young again and at the receiving end of Tommy Miller’s honest, boyish charm. Mornin', sweets.

Except you never had this before. Getting Tommy back as a best friend had been one thing, but venturing into this new chapter meant jumping in blind with only his hand in yours to guide you. 

He kissed you for the first time– since last time, of course– one early morning after patrol. He settled into the routine of it quite nicely, and he became your partner for it without complaints from, anyone, really. 

Stop me if you don’t want to, he’d said, close enough that his eyes were turning from side to side to stare into yours, half-lidded. It was such a callback to the last time that you had to blink several times just to check it wasn’t a dream. But when he finally cut the distance between you you realized it couldn’t be– your dreams never ended like this. 

Your dreams ended, but this didn’t. Tommy cupped your head tenderly yet with an intensity that hadn’t been there three decades ago. He licked into your mouth the second you shuddered and clung to the back of his jean jacket, heart hammering inside your chest. 

He’d kept his eyes tightly closed after you pulled away, out of breath and high on giddiness, his hands protecting your face from the biting, winter wind. 

You good in there, handsome?

Don’t wanna find out you aren’t real. I’ve dreamt about this, I’ll have you know. 

You started the kiss then just for that, the thought of Tommy yearning after you like you did him during your time apart driving you a little too crazy. 

So it’d been so easy, in the end, to let things progress the way you hadn’t had a chance to after high school. Within the year he was waking up at your place most mornings, coming over for dinner, and sinking into you when you wrapped your arms around him from behind, your temple against his back. 

What does a guy gotta do to get you to come home early tonight?

You know you’re invited, right? You can come with me instead of moping around. Maria said so and everything.

I don’t know. I don’t think she likes me that much still–

Bullshit–

–and I wouldn’t wanna embarrass myself askin’ for water all night. He’d rubbed your back tenderly, slowly, up and down strokes while you tangled a strand of his hair around your finger, meaningless touches full of meanings. You go have fun, baby, alright? I’ll stick around for the night and see you after. 

You understood and trusted him fully about it, of course. But you still couldn’t help yourself and dialed your home number during the party, hoping to catch him before he fell asleep waiting for you. 

You can swing by if you want, you said into the phone, smiling at the sound of Tommy’s voice through the receiver and feeling a little too hot under the collar. Party’s practically over.

Am I gonna be peer pressure’d into party activities? Or do they know about my… situation?

It was a joke, but you could recognize the undertones of tension from miles away.

Yeah, honey, they know you’re sober, you soothed. I mean it, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, alright? But if you change your mind I’ve got some orange juice with your name on it. And Jamie’s kids’, but still. We’d be glad to see your face.

And so here you are. Maria giving you off to Tommy like one would deliver a bride at a wedding, stepping into his open arms and feeling something settle inside of you that’s been restless for over half your life. This love, this domesticity, you never thought you’d get to experience it, let alone with Tommy. 

You never thought you’d ever be this happy.

“I’m watching you, Miller,” Maria says fake menacingly as she points two fingers to her eyes and then at Tommy as a warning. “Both of you, hands above the waist, please. Keep it PG for the kiddos, would you?”

You wave her away with a loud, “Thanks, Maria. Bye, Maria,” that has her cackling with laughter all the way to her next conversation.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Tommy jokes, and any undernotes of nervousness left are washed away when you glue yourself to him, your sides touching. “You enjoyin’ yourself, sweetheart?”

You hum an affirmative, leaning your head on his shoulder. “More now that you’re here.”

Tommy grins down at you. “Aren’t you a charmer?”

 You smile back slyly. “I learned from the best. You alright?”

The sigh he lets out is big but honest, looking around the room with curiosity rather than like a caged animal looking for ways out. “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. Everyone’s actually really nice.”

“Told you,” you quip.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re always right,” he rolls his eyes in good nature, shifting so he’s got his arm wrapped around you. “Last time we were at a party together I had to be the jealous boyfriend.”

“I remember,” you do, Tommy twenty-five years younger with his arm around you just like this, a tad more possessive. It's been getting progressively easier to talk about the past and not be overwhelmed by it, and you're glad. It wasn't all bad. “Gotta be honest, honey, I like the real thing a whole lot better.”

You’d never seen him smile so much when you were younger. These days it’s weird to find him without his lips turned upward, like right now when he presses his smiling mouth to your temple. “That makes two of us.”

You fall into a lull of silence, the party going on around you, disturbed only by your content hum. Tommy nudges his nose against your temple, asking quietly. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, daring yourself to meet Tommy’s eyes even if there’s no judgment in his gaze, only warmth. You reach for the hand on your shoulder and he intertwines your fingers immediately, his hand warm and a little sweaty. “Just… it feels like I’ve been waiting for this forever.”

“This?”

“For you,” you shrug, squeezing his hand. “To come home. I didn’t think there was even a home to come back to, let alone a chance that we would. And now we’re here.”

He has to kiss you for that, rearranging your positions so he can cup your face in his hands and ignore Maria’s advice from earlier. He sneaks in a little tongue and kisses you with such force you have to hold onto him when you feel your knees go weak. 

You break apart when breathing becomes imminent, and he exhales against your mouth, freckled face flushed and pleased. “Now we’re here.”

He draws you back into his embrace and talks nonsense as he draws mindless shapes against your back. About what he did today and what he plans on cooking for dinner tomorrow after patrol as long as he finds the right ingredients. 

It’s so incredibly mundane that you can hardly believe it, but time ticks by and Tommy stays by your side, solid and real. He sips on his orange juice and life keeps on happening, your best friend lodged back into place after years and years of flying adrift. 

it's here and it's yours!!!!

thank you all for your patience! i've been so busy with college lately but i was adamant to get this one out before august ended and here we are! i hope y'all like it, i love writing for tlou and tommy!

idk when i'll be able to post next, BUT! commissions are open right now for anyone who's interested, info about it here!

thank you so much for reading and any kind words you might have for me <3

tags: @spideysimpossiblegirl

[zerguette]

Silly idea for ya, no pressure to do it :3c your Terrence Suave interacting with mine? (If ya haven't made a terrence design yet here's your excuse to lol)

Two strangers meet in a bar. One gets his eyes interested on that scarf, the hairstyle of the other, messy, the facial features, old but you can tell in his youth he was such a pretty man. The gold that shines from his weird poncho. Those eyes, staring.

"Hey sir, is a pleasure! Seems the bartender knows you already, what got you here" He grinned. "...Penitence"

"Penitence? While drinking a double whiskey? Why don't you tell me about the gold you wear. Haven't seen someone like you in my life yet. I bet you were a supermodel"

" You're the first one saying all of this" Old eyes stared directly into the other's soul. A dead gaze that spoke few words. "It looks you're not someone of much words. Oh sir, that scarf, is so beautiful, mind if I hold It" Something was off between them two.

Two strangers meet at a bar, one thinks he's got another one for his collection, while the other is waiting for the moment to humilliate him.

Two strangers meet at a bar. One stayed inside, the other left "That was...weird." but it wouldnt work. For some reason, he would never be able to steal the appearance of someone cursed to be forgotten. No-one can steal the identity of a forgotten ghost.

----------

This one was fun oughhhh Bonus:

They're so funny hehe. Old man thinks young man is pathetic and they should train better their ways for stealing appearences (also lmao ty for making me finish my Terrence design i should post it another day^^)

REALLY LOVED DRAWING EM INTERACTING HAH,

[catholic-character-tournament]

Round 1 - Side B

Propaganda below ⬇️

Penitent One

They make me crazy I mean one look at this motherfucker will tell you. They have a crown of thorns. They've taken an oath of silence. (Spoilers) they literally become like if Jesus was a tree in . Most of the endings I think. I'm so serious there is nothing uncatholic or uninsane about this guy. They make me want to explode i feel like I'm not even explaining this well to you it's just that they're so bonkers and unwell and they're trapped in the ressurection cycle because it's their job to literally take on the guilt of every other person then climb the mountain of ash to the pulpit chair and then die. This is so insane to me. Imagine me shaking your shoulders about this. Thank you.

The game is heavily based on Spanish Roman Catholicism, and the religion in the game is basically just Catholic Guilt To The Max.

Blasphemous is a game themed around Spanish Catholicism, guilt, and penitence. There's a Church, a Miracle, and the game itself is stuffed with imagery right out of Spain (since that's where the studio is). The Penitent One is in a quest to kill the Pope!

The Penitent One kills the Pope, then kills the Pope's true form, then dies and kills the Pope's soul, and then proceeds to kill the game's allegory for the Holy Trinity.

Tatsumi Kazehaya

ok so his family runs a church and some of his cards are like. prayer and Catholicism themed and all that so there’s that. but also it’s used in a funny way. he taught one of the other characters the word “amen” and the other guy started saying “I’ll amen to that!” and now there’s both a 4koma and official Line sticker about it. he’s also a dogshit terrible driver and one of his cards is him sitting in a car at the wheel. the card title is “Godspeed.” its so inexplicably funny to me.

He is so fucking insane man it's enstars. People have killed other people in this game. And this is just an anime boy idol rhythm game that looks normal on the outside...

tatsumi follows a specific kind of catholism that is unique to japan but i dont remember the name. uhm i really like him cuz hes really weird and a communist. thumbs up!!!

he loves to talk about god and also about how he's a sinner and going to hell and has a silly little expression every time he does this like ^__^. also he's literally probably one of the most normal characters in the game i don't know why he is so set on going to hell

[aesolerin]

song that reminds me of DD1/2 cast. for some it'd be sarcastic or bitter, for others (read: baldwin) it'd be sincere in how gentle it is.

But, particularly, the last verse, the "I might've been a good man" one - that verse makes me imagine all the shit DD1 Dismas went through in the name of redemption (up to potentially the final battle and maybe even being a sacrifice to Come Unto Your Maker), and how in the end, after all of that, DD2 Dismas is the only one who has a vague recollection of any of it. (not that it turned out we were doing any sort of good in the end, but you get my jist)

now (only slightly related to the above): we both know who our faves are, but I'd love to know all your thoughts/headcanons on our fave Mr. Highwayman yourself, since it seems like you might have some! DD1 or DD2, your choice (if that has an impact).

....but also, if you do have any thoughts on how his dynamics would be with either or both Sarmenti/Baldwin, I would of course not be averse to that either. >>;

the link didn't stick, but we thank lyrics.com bcs i was able to reverse search that one line and you confirmed it was this song:

oh my goodness it has such a sweet bitterness that can perfectly embody what it means to be send unto the breach over and over until you and everyone else around you is dead. lives they could have led, the stories they can tell, the good and bad moments they share. in the Tavern, at camp during an expedition, i can clearly see any and every hero singing along with any and every emotion.

it definitely hits Dismas the hardest. if the well-traveled Sarmenti didn't bring the song to the Hamlet, he's the next likeliest candidate to me. perhaps he's in the Living City of DD2, quietly it singing to himself because nobody else knows it...

i do love Dismas! i especially love the works that contrast him and Reynauld, the penitent thief and the thieving repentant. the Crusader is a good guy, but i don't think he's a nice guy all the time, and in DnD terms i see the Highwayman as the 'face' between them. silver-tongued rogue, ya know?

other miscellaneous Dismas headcanons:

-jokey and witty and such, but still puts up a bit of a wall. old instincts as a former brigand, you don't get close to the new recruits. he softens up a bit as the heroes build camaraderie.

-very protective over his food, but i think this is a pretty common headcanon. if he goes out of his way to share a meal with someone, he is willing to die for them.

-a little bit superstitious. lucky coins and red skies at dawn and such.

-we all know this. man loves poetry. has a secret stash of poems and thankfully Reynauld hasn't found it yet. they're getting really good!

-could give the Antiquarian a run for her money when it comes to counting money. one glance in a pouch and there's a very good chance he can estimate how many coins there are.

-seems to take the eldritch bullshit in stride, but really there are nights where he just. lays face down on his bed. and internally screams about the fuckery of the Farmstead and/or the DD2!Cultists. he's fine after though.

-did in fact try his hand as a candlemaker. loved the work, but the pay wasn't quite enough.

-kinda low alcohol tolerance, but also so on-edge all the time that he feels like he needs to get buzzed to relax.

-loves rats and other vermin creatures. big reason why it bothers him so much in DD2, reliving the times he had to resort to eating rats. how'd you feel eating your cat or dog to survive?

as for his relationship with Sarmenti and Baldwin in particular...

Sarmenti: even with all the verbal jabs and physical semi-violence (headlocks, shoulder punches, etc), Dismas and Sarmenti are best friends. they 'get' each other. with one non-verbal cue they know when to tone it down for the other. partners in (mostly metaphorical) crime, in good times and bad.

Baldwin: Dismas really looks up to him and sees him as one of the very few genuinely good people in the world. trying so hard not to say 'daddy issues'. (which is very funny because i headcannon that Baldwin is actually the youngest of the DD men. man just has that regal bearing.) they'll occasionally read together, and he's the only one Dismas shares his poems with!

thank you for sharing the song and your thoughts! i hope these were enough thoughts for you! sorry it got so long!

[en-engenes]

hallo! i recently found your blog and so far your works are very nice :)) i'm so excited to see what you'll become and continue on growing as a blog. hmm to kickstart your blog i'd like to request the prompt "do you regret it?"

i'll leave it up to you on what they would regret! thank you for writing, and don't feel pressured to complete or do this!!

silly jungwon for you

PENITENCE - l.hs

“do you regret it?”

synopsis: heeseung makes a surprise appearance at your special day but not to celebrate with or for you

pairing: ex!heeseung x engaged!reader

genre: angst, hurt

warnings: strong language, yelling/argumentation

word count: 800+

i apologize sincerely for how long this took me to write.. i lost all motivation to write for such a long time but i think it’s slowly coming back!

i also appreciate the kind words <3 coming back to read them made me want to begin writing again so thank you!!

the wedding venue was all you could have ever imagined. nearly a fairytale scene. you found yourself wandering the empty foyer, needing a moment away from the stressful environment of the wedding party getting ready. your nerves were starting to take flight.

“do you regret it?” an all-too-familiar voice rang from behind.

you felt your heart twinge before you turned around. part of you thought he wouldn’t show but there he stood in all his glory. lee heeseung. the man who, two and a half years earlier, you would’ve sworn you’d marry.

hiding your shock, you forced a smile, “heeseung. you came.”

“-that doesn’t answer my question.” he interrupted calmly, hands shoved in his dress pant pockets.

“-that doesn’t answer my question.” he interrupted calmly, hands shoved in his dress pant pockets.

“-that doesn’t answer my question.” he interrupted calmly, hands shoved in his dress pant pockets.

“-that doesn’t answer my question.” he interrupted calmly, hands shoved in his dress pant pockets.

you wanted to run away with the intense stare he was giving. he wholeheartedly asked such a question and expected an immediate answer, but you weren’t sure what to say. did you regret it? you couldn’t possibly regret a thing, right?

grabbing his arm, you pulled him out of view from others, “is this why you came here? to try and hurt me before my own wedding?”

grabbing his arm, you pulled him out of view from others, “is this why you came here? to try and hurt me before my own wedding?”

“no,” he subtly shook his head. “i just want to know. i guess it’s all just really hitting me.”

you were confused but he continued.

“the only person i’ve ever loved is about to spend the rest of their life with another man and i just have to let it happen. you’ve only been with him for not even two years and you’re already so in love that marriage seemed acceptable.. i just don’t understand.”

you froze and that made him chuckle sarcastically, “man, life is just crazy like that, huh?”

heeseung was your first love. the first person to know the depths of you that you didn’t even realize existed. the first person to show you what it meant to love someone with your entire being and have it reciprocated. he was so many of your firsts.

the first person to have their heart destroyed by you.

“please don’t do this.” you pathetically mumbled.

his lips pursed, “do you, or do you not, regret doing what you did?”

you felt a single tear stream down your face and mentally cursed yourself for ruining your makeup, “you need to leave.”

“all i’m asking is for you to be honest with me about this for once because it’s all i’ve thought about since you disappeared. do i not at least deserve the truth? was i really just something you could push aside and never-”

“-fuck, heeseung, yes!” your voice raised beyond privacy, your hands thrown up in defeat. “yes, i regret it every single goddamn day and i am so, incredibly sorry for hurting you the way i did! i regret not handling our relationship like an adult and choosing the easy way out! i regret it all!”

the man watched you fall apart in front of him. your mascara had streamed down your cheeks, the foundation melting with it. he’d be lying if he said part of him didn’t want to comfort you but he held his composure.

“is that what you wanted? you want me to admit that i don’t actually love the man, who i’m forty minutes away from marrying, as much as i love you? does that answer your fucking question?!”

bystanders and family began to flock around to witness the commotion. they whispered and gossiped amongst each other but heeseung kept his eyes trained on you. you were his only priority. this conversation was the one thing that kept him up at night and he’d be damned if he blew it off.

with a clear of his throat, heeseung gave a curt nod, “i hope life treats you well, y/n.”

you stood in disbelief as he began to walk away. your feet absentmindedly followed after him with an arm outstretched to grab his. he must’ve felt your presence because he stopped right at the main entrance and slightly turned his head to look back at you.

“you’re just gonna leave?”

he produced a tight-lipped smile, “i don’t want something like this to backtrack my healing. your confirmation was all i ever needed. thank you, y/n. really.”

and just like that, he disappeared for good.

you fell to your knees and finally let out a painful sob. the crowd behind you had grown twice in size, all watching with pitiful eyes and sideways glances. yet you couldn’t care less. you now understood the amount of hurt you put your first love through.

heeseung was long gone before you pulled yourself from the granite floors and faced those who came to witness your, supposed-to-be, happiest day. a few moments passed before a guttural laugh erupted from your throat.

“the show must go on.”

[verobatto]

❣️tag you’re it in the self rec tag game! fic writers dont talk about their wonderful writings enough, so rec your 5 favorite fics written by YOU & tell us why theyre your favorite, then tag or send this ask to 5 fic writers you love to keep the game going❣️

Hi there! OMG I missed this so much! Thanks a lot dear anon for this tag game!

I'll start with one of my original works. It's a yaoi novel, and I'm currently posting on AO3:

"Side Effect"

I love this story because one of the main characters, Noah, grows beautifully throughout the story as he falls in love with an older man. The story slowly turns into a sweet and healthy relationship, so it was a very enjoyable writing.

"Take the next one."

This is a short fictional tale based on a prompt from a discord server, and I like it because I don't usually write these kind of stories. It's a suspense and mystery tale.

"You're oblivious."

This is a TaiBani fic (Tiger & Bunny), and I just love the way they interact here and how they end up together. Also, writing one pining Bunny and one oblivious Kotetsu is always my jam.

"Love Me Anyway."

This is a destiel fic, a modern AU, in which Dean is a CEO, and he thinks Castiel and him are just friends. It was very enjoyable to write such a special relationship.

"The Penitent."

I just cried writing this Canon divergent fic. Happy ending, BTW.

"Better Than You."

Dean is such a dummy in this one. I really loved the way he discovers himself and recognizes he just loves that perfect childhood friend of his. And turning him into an obsessive office worker trying to win against Castiel, whatever it takes, was really very funny.

I'm going to tag some writers fellows:

@aishitara @fanficburner @amemipiacitu @zaffrefic @casblackfeathers

[theprayerfulword]

May 12

John 7:37-38 Jesus said, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, 38 and…drink.”

Isaiah 66:13 [The Lord says,] “As a mother comforts her child, so I will comfort you; you shall be comforted in Jerusalem.”

Isaiah 57:15 For thus says the high and lofty One--He Who inhabits eternity, Whose name is Holy: I dwell in the high and holy place, but with him also who is of a thoroughly penitent and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble and to revive the heart of the thoroughly penitent [bruised with sorrow for sin].

Romans 11:33 Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments and His ways past finding out!

Psalm 42:5 Why are you in despair, O my soul? And why have you become disturbed within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him for the help of His presence.

Philippians 2:13 For it is God which worketh in you both to will and to do, of His good pleasure.

May you not turn aside or depart from following the Lord when you find that you have made a mistake or chosen wrongly; rather, turn from the sin, be of good courage and serve the Lord wholeheartedly, worshiping Him without reservation, for He will not reject you since He is pleased to make you His own. 1 Samuel 12

May you be sure to revere the Lord and serve Him faithfully with all your heart, remembering what great things He has done for you and how grandly He has dealt with you. 1 Samuel 12

May you wait on the Lord, though everyone else disperses, for the Lord is never late, though he wait till the last minute to test your heart and let you see your faith. 1 Samuel 13

May you not speak on your own, lest you draw honor to yourself, but may you work for the honor of the One Who sends you, for then you will be a man of truth. John 7

May you not judge superficially, or with partiality, based on mere appearances, but let God show you what lies beneath the surface so you can make a righteous judgment. John 7

You are My portion, My child, given to Me by My Father and received in My heart with joy unspeakable. I have eagerly prepared, from before the foundations of the earth, all that you will need along the path that I draw you, My precious one, and I have gladly placed abundant supplies for your use at the places you will need them. There are challenges along the way, My persistent one, and they are yours to choose to overcome; when you make that choice, you will find the resources I have placed right at hand to accomplish the task, meet the need, resist the evil, win the battle, cleanse the temple, sanctify the altar, and prepare for Me a dwelling place. My desire is that you would reflect My heart and accept Me as your portion, as your inheritance. Rather than an undisturbed eternity of quiet, clean, pure fellowship with each other, We chose to be involved in Creation with all of the noise, chaos, confusion, pain, dirt, and conflict. I came as a servant, humbling Myself, seeking the good of all, dying to make the way open, whether any followed it or not. Cleanse yourself of pride, for it causes you to struggle against others, and separates you from Me. Trust Me to do what is needed in the hearts of others, and walk in My steps, drawing on My resources as you face these challenges which will test you to the limit, and more, bringing you nearer to Me, in the fellowship of My suffering, for I understand your pain and have sent My Comforter. Make Me yours, as I have made you Mine.

May your heart be steadfast before God as you sing and make music with all your soul, awakening the dawn as you praise the Lord among the nations and sing of Him among the peoples, for His love is higher than the heavens and His faithfulness reaches to the skies; therefore God is exalted above the heavens and His glory is over all the earth. Psalm 108

May God save you and help you with His right hand so those whom He loves may be delivered. Psalm 108

May God lead you into battle, giving you aid against the enemy, for the help of man is worthless; only with God will you gain the victory as He tramples down your enemies. Psalm 108

May you allow God to heal and anoint your tongue and bring forth gentle, wholesome, peaceable, soothing words which give life to the hearers whose crushed, broken, shattered spirits have been breached by deception, crookedness, perverseness and deviousness. Proverbs 15:4

[renee-writer]

The Contractor Chapter 18 The Godfather

AO3

They grin at each other before coming together in a tender kiss. Their eyes are misty with tears. Her hand comes up to frame his cheek, his finds the weight of her hair. Pulling apart long enough to meet each other’s eyes before being drawn back together.

 

“Jamie lad. Hello Jamie. James Alexander!” That gets through and they come apart with a plop. Murtagh stands, looking bemused against the door frame. Angus and Rupert stand behind him, not even trying to hide their grins.

 

“Oh, hey guys.” He stumbles out.

 

“Hey yourself. I came by to see if Miss Beauchamp was satisfied,” he waits a beat, “with your work.”

 

Miss Beauchamp finds her voice. “The house is coming together wonderful.” She holds her head high, not even blushing. She is an adult, after all, in her own home. She can snug whomever she wants.

 

“Very good. Ah, may I meet the wee lad?” he is suddenly shy, this big man. 

 

“Yes, just quietly. He is asleep.” He walks in and over to the cot.

 

Looking down, he lets out a breath. “Why, he is brilliant! All those curls.”

 

She is beaming. “I know. That is how he got his name.” She tells him and the others, the story. Angus and Rupert have joined them. They stand around his cot like penitents.

 

“Oh, that is lovely.” Angus breathes. Murtagh gives him a sharp look.

 

Jamie chuckles softly. “Angus has recently discovered the power of love.”

 

“Bleeding hell,” he flushed, “Sorry Claire. Do ye have to say such, Jamie?”

 

“Aye, I do.”

 

“Okay lads, seems we’ve a lot to discuss. Will you excuse us, Claire?”

 

“Of course.” She shares a smile with Jamie as he follows the others out.

[vyragosa]

QUICK QUESTION!! your favourite Alva skin?? and why ajshdjk

omg....i've been annoying enough with alva that i get anons now...glorious day....actually technical advisor.

now keep in mind alva is consistently shown as keeper of the key, guardian of the gate, even peregrine is chasing after one! haze even more so!

"Will venturing into the deepest parts of an unknown culture bring abundant experience or eternal damnation?"

technical advisor is.....

the most visible servant of yog-sothoth here, that he has GENUINE TENTACLES creeping up his neck, that the scars are now visibly turned into those same tentacles marks, but most important, that he is the on-set technical advisor of binary star (whom i love so much) and which means he embodies the audience as much as the inventor of special effects, it's about creators of illusions, primordial liars if you will, being actually completely earnest and genuine about being servants to an old god devourer.

"Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth"

it's also too much fun to picture binary star and technical advisor planning the show it's just the best, it's just seriolusly the best. plus. he has purple eyes. even better. and more seriously, he is a secretary with that little fountain pen on his neck it's too much to handle,

(warden would be the most easy answer because it's simply the best embodying that penitent personality as a whole and equating further suffering with absolution, the insect metaphor, the obvious moth willing to burn aesthetic evidently, everything is perfect about the jailed warden in the first place because of course, also beyond hilarious that this is how orpheus sees him "you are clearly a warden covered in prison restraints yourself" which is about being the keeper of the perpetual motion machine and being imprisonned by it rather than being any keeper...a man unwilling to part with what could kill him.)

[bending-sickle]

The ask game. Including characters I don't like as well as the ones I like

Crowley

Cas

Balthazar

Bobby

Meg

Sam

Dean

oh lordy this'll get long

crowley

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

best quality: slippery as an eel and smart as a fox

worst quality:  the goddamn lobotomy of the later seasons going from zero to capslock when he should keep his cool.

ship them with:  castiel

brotp them with:  dean

needs to stay away from: bureaucracy

misc. thoughts: my most beloved. deserved better from the narrative, from dean, from his bullshit ending. wish the writers had settled on a stance for him - is he an outright enemy? a reluctant ally? is he just out for himself? - and keep comparing that yo-yo-ing mess over the years to what happened to spike on buffy the vampire slayer, specifically chipped spike. ("Can any one of your damn little Scooby club at least try to remember that I hate you all? Just because I can't do the damage myself doesn't stop me from aiming a loose cannon your way." 4x15) also? i would so have loved if he and cas had kept up their FBI buddy adventures.

2. castiel

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

best quality: sassy (oh, how little we saw of that)

worst quality: how penitent he always was, because he decided dean > everything else, including himself. self worth, whomst?

ship them with: dean, crowley

brotp them with: crowley (is that cheating?)

needs to stay away from: sam who stabbed him in the back the very second he went a bit funky dean when dean's angry at him, because his spine turns to jello idk, god?

misc. thoughts: hate how the narrative kept punishing him, always making his every decision - especially the ones the winchesters weren't cool with - to backfire colossally and result in him having to crawl on hands and knees through the desert purgatory for forgiveness. also, i miss how odd he used to be in the early seasons, how sure of himself, with an underlayer of otherworldly power. ("Will you? Boy?")

3. balthazar

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

best quality: always down to fuck

worst quality: why the accent? why are there accents in heaven? amongst sibling creatures?! honestly i remember practically nothing. idec that he was all about his own self-interest, like, yeah, man, you ignore the war and get your ménage à douze on.

ship them with: nah

brotp them with: ...gabriel? sure. let's say gabriel.

needs to stay away from: everyone, tbh.

misc. thoughts: the "eh" of my general opinion holds.

4. bobby

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

best quality: surly

worst quality: a bit too much of that "suck it up, buttercup, we've got a job to do" attitude, like when dean was Seriously Not Okay in the Head

ship them with: that next-door-neighbor with the wonky woodchipper

brotp them with: rufus

needs to stay away from: john winchester (though i would have loved to see that)

misc. thoughts: he would have absolutely wailed on dean for dying so young, instead of being ~all oh it's so nice to see ya, kid~

5. meg

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

best quality: perfect devilish smile and attitude, like yes, nailed it

worst quality: the whole unicorn thing

ship them with: you'd think i'd say castiel success. kick ass, you tiny little firecracker.

brotp them with: 

needs to stay away from: crowley, apparently, though i don't remember why

misc. thoughts: deserved better than to *checks wiki* die for her unicorn. also, why the fuck was she naked while being tortured?

6. sam

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

^ (in reverse order as the seasons progress)

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

^ (again, in reverse order as the seasons progress)

best quality: *blinks* i'd say research but every time he said "the lore" like it was a singular entity, i curled up and died.

worst quality: *through clenched teeth* this black-and-white thinking hypocritical motherfucker

ship them with: eileen

brotp them with: ...kevin?

needs to stay away from: everyone double standards

misc. thoughts: i actually liked him in the early seasons, then the "well i'm going to shit on your plans even though i don't have a better one" got to me, then the constant hypocrisy kept beating me to the ground. also, if i have to watch him give one more annoyed huff and >:( face i will scream.

7. dean

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

(and by love of my life i mean "protect him at all costs")

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

best quality: *lady gaga gif* empathetic, soft, caring, actually knows there's shades of grey in the world and shifts his perspective and prejudices when challenged.

worst quality: self worth whomst? atlas holding up the weight of the world, please, set it down.

ship them with: benny, castiel (crowley if we're feeling frisky)

brotp them with: crowley, garth

needs to stay away from: rebar anyone who tries to tell him who he is or what he's for. also, god. (possibly because he'll try to deck god, which won't end well.)

misc. thoughts: *slams table* deserved better. deserved so much better than to slowly get worn down into a hollow angry version of himself, and he certainly deserved better than to think his life was always going to end bloody. he deserved to heal, to live, to get out because he was out. but before that, goddamnit, the demon dean arc should've been darker (that last bunker scene where he went all the shining wasn't enough).hell, when he was a vampire for a split second it felt more viscerally real and horrible. and his relationship with crowley shouldn't have been played so hard for laughs. (also? character i am most desperate to see in buffy or true blood fic AUs. i just think it'd be fun.)

[themissfitwiththebangsblog]

I do my best to be an illustrious nobody. Not that it requires a lot of struggle, life helps a lot. However, I think it’s more dignifying than pushing your elbows into everybody’s ribs.

I’m Italian to the bones, that for sure. I was happily living my life in Brooklyn before being tossed to Charleston SC, evidently to serve a karmic sentence, which I’m not supposed to know when will end. 

I am a mother of a political dissident, anarchist 12-week-old Scottish Terrier, aka Arturo Bandini, and only now I realize that the choice of the name is another penitence. I was tricked by that quote that says: “Women can’t live on wine alone; they also need a Scottish Terrier”. No sir, wine alone was more than fine! Now I need wine to survive the Scottish Terrier, who has decided to run the house the way he wants, plus keeping away from me every man who comes along, if he decides they wouldn’t be a good match. The problem is that the only good match for him is the drug dealer down the street. 

Beyond that, I drive for Uber, only because I hate everyone and that’s the only job that allows me not to talk to people if I don’t want to. I’m also about to start a Creative Writing Master program, figuring out a way to express my despise toward mankind without looking too much like a freak. Well, I don't hate everyone. I like kind people. The problem is that you guys are a concerning minority. Beyond this, I am very much in love with a black guy, as twisted as me, with whom I don't have an actual relationship being him a love avoidant type. Not that I have time to properly date anyone, anyway. But we have a good time together, and my dog seems, if not to approve him (Scottish Terriers never approve anyone, that's why he is my dog, by the way), at least not to want to eat him alive. Meantime, figuring out a way to make my way back to NY, living a life roommates free, whom my dog wouldn’t DEFINITELY approve, dragging with me the both of them: love avoidant boyfriend, and anarchist doggie.

[theobaileypp-archived]

pov. motherland. μάνα

Theo doesn’t believe in God. And yet, here he is, waiting in church for an act of faith. This particular church isn’t grand or impressive like the ones he’s seen across the world before—churches carved in pure gold, churches tall enough to make your neck hurt, but the ceiling is painted in blue, constellations in bright gold, and he can’t stop looking up, nervously rubbing his fingers together. He often wonders if he would have been different had he grown up under normal circumstances—if the orphanage he’d grown up in didn’t believe so much in penitence, if the Baileys hadn’t been so syncretic and secular. 

He’d never looked for any sort of faith, even though the poetry of it never went unnoticed for him. In the devotion of the faithful, the prayer of those in pain. He was, after all, a man of words and those said with such honesty fascinated him.

Now, he’s in the third row, on the hard wooden bench, and waits. Waits, staring at the starry ceiling, until slow, deliberate steps echoes through the church and a veiled sister, a nun, sits next to him. Theo can’t find the words in him, “You called for me.” She says, in Greek, sounding heartbreakingly unimpressed. He’s dreamed of this moment many times in the past, a moment he thought had been stolen from him, and so he didn’t know how to proceed. He nodded, not able to look in her eyes—eyes he’s dreamed of his entire life. “Do you know who I am?” She makes a sound with the back of her throat. She knows. He hadn’t been looking for her, he had never looked for her.

He’d been arranging his documentation, his resident visa, when bureaucracy drove him back to his motherland, to the island he was born in, the pastoral community so ill equipped to deal with dangerously premature babies that he’d only spent a few hours of life there before being taken to Athens. He’d never actually returned to his birthplace, even if he visited Greece fairly often. Now, the ferry took him to the island through the clear blue water, to a stunning place secret to tourists, where fishermen yell around in angry, dialect-heavy Greek. It doesn’t feel like home, and the fact that it’s on top of a rocky mountain doesn’t make it very easy on him—another reason why he likes Athens better, because accessibility there is at least an afterthought whereas here it’s not a concept at all. The climb, the endless stairs, are hard on him, and he makes the decision to spend the night, just so he’ll manage to rest. Theo didn’t know then what he knows now.

Theo didn’t know a lot of things.

He didn’t know, for example, that he never knew his mother’s name not because no one knew it, because she’d died in childbirth, but because that’s what you do when you hand a child over for adoption.

hand him over for adoption.

he also didn’t know that as an adult, he could ask for the information to be disclosed. 

Theo wants to ask her why, but the words don’t come out. Why? He knew why. Because you could fit in the palm of my hand. Because I didn’t think you would make it --- they said that if you did... He wouldn’t talk or walk or think. He knew the drill. His knuckles were white. He wanted to tell her that none of it should have mattered, because it didn’t matter to his parents, his odd, loving true parents, Richard and Jasmine Bailey. He wanted to ask her if she regretted it now that he was six feet tall and not attached to any machines, now that he spoke twelve languages and had all academia glory one could dream of. Instead, without him even asking, “I was young and alone”, she says. 

“Me too.” Theo answers.

They don’t say anything else. He can’t say anything else. Theo wishes he could stand up fast and simply leave, show her how wrong she’d been, how he could have been worth it, but it doesn’t have quite the same impact when your limitations are as visible, when it takes so long for him to even manage past her in the asile and his graphite crutches resonates against the centuries-old stone floor as his tired, cramping legs carry him out of the church. He doesn’t make it very far. He sits on the stone bench under an old, twisted olive tree and buries his face in his hands as his chest clenches even tighter and his heart races and he finds it difficult to breathe, until he hears someone coaching him through it in his mother tongue, with a calm, steady voice.

She brushes his back. “You know where to find me, son.” It feels unclear whether she means son in the biblical or biological sense, and he supposes it doesn’t matter. Before she leaves, he looks at her. Theo has been right his entire life. They do have the same eyes.

[mere-christianity]

Mere Christianity Podcast: Episode 5

Book 2: What Christian's Believe.

Chapter 3. The Shocking Alternative

Christians, then, believe that an evil power has made himself for the present the Prince of this World. And, of course, that raises problems. Is this state of affairs in accordance with God's will or not? If it is, He is a strange God, you will say: and if it is not, how can anything happen contrary to the will of a being with absolute power?

But anyone who has been in authority knows how a thing can be in accordance with your will in one way and not in another. It may be quite sensible for a mother to say to the children, "I'm not going to go and make you tidy the schoolroom every night. You've got to learn to keep it tidy on your own." Then she goes up one night and finds the Teddy bear and the ink and the French Grammar all lying in the grate. That is against her will. She would prefer the children to be tidy. But on the other hand, it is her will which has left the children free to be untidy. The same thing arises in any regiment, or trade union, or school. You make a thing voluntary and then half the people do not do it. That is not what you willed, but your will has made it possible.

It is probably the same in the universe. God created things which had free will. That means creatures which can go either wrong or right. Some people think they can imagine a creature which was free but had no possibility of going wrong; I cannot. If a thing is free to be good it is also free to be bad. And free will is what has made evil possible. Why, then, did God give them free will? Because free will though it makes evil possible, is also the only thing that makes possible any love or goodness or joy worth having. A world of automata-of creatures that worked like machines-would hardly be worth creating. The happiness which God designs for His higher creatures is the happiness of being freely, voluntarily united to Him and to each other in an ecstasy of love and delight compared with which the most rapturous love between a man and a woman on this earth is mere milk and water. And for that they must be free.

Of course God knew what would happen if they used their freedom the wrong way: apparently He thought it worth the risk. Perhaps we feel inclined to disagree with Him. But there is a difficulty about disagreeing with God. He is the source from which all your reasoning power comes: you could not be right and He wrong any more than a stream can rise higher than its own source. When you are arguing against Him you are arguing against the very power that makes you able to argue at all: it is like cutting off the branch you are sitting on. If God thinks this state of war in the universe a price worth paying for free will-that is, for making a live world in which creatures can do real good or harm and something of real importance can happen, instead of a toy world which only moves when He pulls the strings-then we may take it it is worth paying.

When we have understood about free will, we shall see how silly it is to ask, as somebody once asked me: "Why did God make a creature of such rotten stuff that it went wrong?" The better stuff a creature is made of-the cleverer and stronger and freer it is-then the better it will be if it goes right, but also the worse it will be if it goes wrong. A cow cannot be very good or very bad; a dog can be both better and worse; a child better and worse still; an ordinary man, still more so; a man of genius, still more so; a superhuman spirit best-or worst-of all.

How did the Dark Power go wrong? Here, no doubt, we ask a question to which human beings cannot give an answer with any certainty. A reasonable (and traditional) guess, based on our own experiences of going wrong, can, however, be offered. The moment you have a self at all, there is a possibility of putting Yourself first-wanting to be the centre-wanting to be God, in fact. That was the sin of Satan: and that was the sin he taught the human race. Some people think the fall of man had something to do with sex, but that is a mistake. (The story in the Book of Genesis rather suggests that some corruption in our sexual nature followed the fall and was its result, not its cause.) What Satan put into the heads of our remote ancestors was the idea that they could "be like gods"-could set up on their own as if they had created themselves-be their own masters-invent some sort of happiness for themselves outside God, apart from God. And out of that hopeless attempt has come nearly all that we call human history-money, poverty, ambition, war, prostitution, classes, empires, slavery-the long terrible story of man trying to find something other than God which will make him happy.

The reason why it can never succeed is this. God made us: invented us as a man invents an engine. A car is made to run on gasoline, and it would not run properly on anything else. Now God designed the human machine to run on Himself. He Himself is the fuel our spirits were designed to burn, or the food our spirits were designed to feed on. There is no other. That is why it is just no good asking God to make us happy in our own way without bothering about religion. God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing.

That is the key to history. Terrific energy is expended-civilisations are built up-excellent institutions devised; but each time something goes wrong. Some fatal flaw always brings the selfish and cruel people to the top and it all slides back into misery and ruin. In fact, the machine conks. It seems to start up all right and runs a few yards, and then it breaks down. They are trying to run it on the wrong juice. That is what Satan has done to us humans.

And what did God do? First of all He left us conscience, the sense of right and wrong: and all through history there have been people trying (some of them very hard) to obey it. None of them ever quite succeeded.

Secondly, He sent the human race what I call good dreams: I mean those queer stories scattered all through the heathen religions about a god who dies and comes to life again and, by his death, has somehow given new life to men.

Thirdly, He selected one particular people and spent several centuries hammering into their heads the sort of God He was -that there was only one of Him and that He cared about right conduct. Those people were the Jews, and the Old Testament gives an account of the hammering process.

Then comes the real shock. Among these Jews there suddenly turns up a man who goes about talking as if He was God. He claims to forgive sins. He says He has always existed. He says He is coming to judge the world at the end of time. Now let us get this clear. Among Pantheists, like the Indians, anyone might say that he was a part of God, or one with God: there would be nothing very odd about it. But this man, since He was a Jew, could not mean that kind of God. God, in their language, meant the Being outside the world Who had made it and was infinitely different from anything else. And when you have grasped that, you will see that what this man said was, quite simply, the most shocking thing that has ever been uttered by human lips.

One part of the claim tends to slip past us unnoticed because we have heard it so often that we no longer see what it amounts to. I mean the claim to forgive sins: any sins. Now unless the speaker is God, this is really so preposterous as to be comic. We can all understand how a man forgives offences against himself. You tread on my toe and I forgive you, you steal my money and I forgive you. But what should we make of a man, himself unrobbed and untrodden on, who announced that he forgave you for treading on other men's toes and stealing other men's money? Asinine fatuity is the kindest description we should give of his conduct. Yet this is what Jesus did. He told people that their sins were forgiven, and never waited to consult all the other people whom their sins had undoubtedly injured. He unhesitatingly behaved as if He was the party chiefly concerned, the person chiefly offended in all offences. This makes sense only if He really was the God whose laws are broken and whose love is wounded in every sin. In the mouth of any speaker who is not God, these words would imply what I can only regard as a silliness and conceit unrivalled by any other character in history.

Yet (and this is the strange, significant thing) even His enemies, when they read the Gospels, do not usually get the impression of silliness and conceit. Still less do unprejudiced readers. Christ says that He is "humble and meek" and we believe Him; not noticing that, if He were merely a man, humility and meekness are the very last characteristics we could attribute to some of His sayings.

I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: "I'm ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don't accept His claim to be God." That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic-on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg-or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.

Chapter 4. The Perfect Penitent

We are faced, then, with a frightening alternative. This man we are talking about either was (and is) just what He said or else a lunatic, or something worse. Now it seems to me obvious that He was neither a lunatic nor a fiend: and consequently, however strange or terrifying or unlikely it may seem, I have to accept the view that He was and is God. God has landed on this enemy-occupied world in human form.

And now, what was the purpose of it all? What did He come to do? Well, to teach, of course; but as soon as you look into the New Testament or any other Christian writing you will find they are constantly talking about something different-about His death and His coming to life again. It is obvious that Christians think the chief point of the story lies here. They think the main thing He came to earth to do was to suffer and be killed.

Now before I became a Christian I was under the impression that the first thing Christians had to believe was one particular theory as to what the point of this dying was. According to that theory God wanted to punish men for having deserted and joined the Great Rebel, but Christ volunteered to be punished instead, and so God let us off. Now I admit that even this theory does not seem to me quite so immoral and so silly as it used to; but that is not the point I want to make. What I came to see later on was that neither this theory nor any other is Christianity. The central Christian belief is that Christ's death has somehow put us right with God and given us a fresh start Theories as to how it did this are another matter. A good many different theories have been held as to how it works; what all Christians are agreed on is that it does work. I will tell you what I think it is like. All sensible people know that if you are tired and hungry a meal will do you good. But the modern theory of nourishment-all about the vitamins and proteins-is a different thing. People ate their dinners and felt better long before the theory of vitamins was ever heard of: and if the theory of vitamins is some day abandoned they will go on eating their dinners just the same. Theories about Christ's death are not Christianity: they are explanations about how it works. Christians would not all agree as to how important these theories are. My own church-the Church of England-does not lay down any one of them as the right one. The Church of Rome goes a bit further. But I think they will all agree that the thing itself is infinitely more important than any explanations that theologians have produced. I think they would probably admit that no explanation will ever be quite adequate to the reality. But as I said in the preface to this book, I am only a layman, and at this point we are getting into deep water. I can only tell you, for what it is worth, how I, personally, look at the matter.

On my view the theories are not themselves the thing you are asked to accept. Many of you no doubt have read Jeans or Eddington. What they do when they want to explain the atom, or something of that sort, is to give you a description out of which you can make a mental picture. But then they warn you that this picture is not what the scientists actually believe. What the scientists believe is a mathematical formula. The pictures are there only to help you to understand the formula. They are not really true in the way the formula is; they do not give you the real thing but only something more or less like it. They are only meant to help, and if they do not help you can drop them. The thing itself cannot be pictured, it can only be expressed mathematically. We are in the same boat here. We believe that the death of Christ is just that point in history at which something absolutely unimaginable from outside shows through into our own world. And if we cannot picture even the atoms of which our own world is built, of course we are not going to be able to picture this. Indeed, if we found that we could fully understand it, that very fact would show it was not what it professes to be-the inconceivable, the uncreated, the thing from beyond nature, striking down into nature like lightning. You may ask what good will it be to us if we do not understand it. But that is easily answered. A man can eat his dinner without understanding exactly how food nourishes him. A man can accept what Christ has done without knowing how it works: indeed, he certainly would not know how it works until he has accepted it.

We are told that Christ was killed for us, that His death has washed out our sins, and that by dying He disabled death itself. That is the formula. That is Christianity. That is what has to be believed. Any theories we build up as to how Christ's death did all this are, in my view, quite secondary: mere plans or diagrams to be left alone if they do not help us, and, even if they do help us, not to be confused with the thing itself. All the same, some of these theories are worth looking at.

The one most people have heard is the one I mentioned before -the one about our being let off because Christ had volunteered to bear a punishment instead of us. Now on the face of it that is a very silly theory. If God was prepared to let us off, why on earth did He not do so? And what possible point could there be in punishing an innocent person instead? None at all that I can see, if you are thinking of punishment in the police-court sense. On the other hand, if you think of a debt, there is plenty of point in a person who has some assets paying it on behalf of someone who has not. Or if you take "paying the penalty," not in the sense of being punished, but in the more general sense of "standing the racket" or "footing the bill," then, of course, it is a matter of common experience that, when one person has got himself into a hole, the trouble of getting him out usually falls on a kind friend. Now what was the sort of "hole" man had got himself into? He had tried to set up on his own, to behave as if he belonged to himself. In other words, fallen man is not simply an imperfect creature who needs improvement: he is a rebel who must lay down his arms. Laying down your arms, surrendering, saying you are sorry, realising that you have been on the wrong track and getting ready to start life over again from the ground floor-that is the only way out of a "hole." This process of surrender-this movement full speed astern-is what Christians call repentance. Now repentance is no fun at all. It is something much harder than merely eating humble pie. It means unlearning all the self-conceit and self-will that we have been training ourselves into for thousands of years. It means killing part of yourself, undergoing a kind of death. In fact, it needs a good man to repent. And here comes the catch. Only a bad person needs to repent: only a good person can repent perfectly. The worse you are the more you need it and the less you can do it. The only person who could do it perfectly would be a perfect person-and he would not need it.

Remember, this repentance, this willing submission to humiliation and a kind of death, is not something God demands of you before He will take you back and which He could let you off if He chose: it is simply a description of what going back to Him is like. If you ask God to take you back without it, you are really asking Him to let you go back without going back. It cannot hap pen. Very well, then, we must go through with it. But the same badness which makes us need it, makes us unable to do it. Can we do it if God helps us? Yes, but what do we mean when we talk of God helping us? We mean God putting into us a bit of Himself, so to speak. He lends us a little of His reasoning powers and that is how we think: He puts a little of His love into us and that is how we love one another. When you teach a child writing, you hold its hand while it forms the letters: that is, it forms the letters because you are forming them. We love and reason because God loves and reasons and holds our hand while we do it. Now if we had not fallen, that would be all plain sailing. But unfortunately we now need God's help in order to do something which God, in His own nature, never does at all-to surrender, to suffer, to submit, to die. Nothing in God's nature corresponds to this process at all. So that the one road for which we now need God's leadership most of all is a road God, in His own nature, has never walked. God can share only what He has: this thing, in His own nature, He has not.

But supposing God became a man-suppose our human nature which can suffer and die was amalgamated with God's nature in one person-then that person could help us. He could surrender His will, and suffer and die, because He was man; and He could do it perfectly because He was God. You and I can go through this process only if God does it in us; but God can do it only if He becomes man. Our attempts at this dying will succeed only if we men share in God's dying, just as our thinking can succeed only because it is a drop out of the ocean of His intelligence: but we cannot share God's dying unless God dies; and He cannot die except by being a man. That is the sense in which He pays our debt, and suffers for us what He Himself need not suffer at all.

I have heard some people complain that if Jesus was God as well as man, then His sufferings and death lose all value in their eyes, "because it must have been so easy for him." Others may (very rightly) rebuke the ingratitude and ungraciousness of this objection; what staggers me is the misunderstanding it betrays. In one sense, of course, those who make it are right. They have even understated their own case. The perfect submission, the perfect suffering, the perfect death were not only easier to Jesus because He was God, but were possible only because He was God. But surely that is a very odd reason for not accepting them? The teacher is able to form the letters for the child because the teacher is grown-up and knows how to write. That, of course, makes it easier for the teacher, and only because it is easier for him can he help the child. If it rejected him because "it's easy for grown-ups" and waited to learn writing from another child who could not write itself (and so had no "unfair" advantage), it would not get on very quickly. If I am drowning in a rapid river, a man who still has one foot on the bank may give me a hand which saves my life. Ought I to shout back (between my gasps) "No, it's not fair! You have an advantage! You're keeping one foot on the bank"? That advantage-call it "unfair" if you like-is the only reason why he can be of any use to me. To what will you look for help if you will not look to that which is stronger than yourself?

Such is my own way of looking at what Christians call the Atonement. But remember this is only one more picture. Do not mistake it for the thing itself: and if it does not help you, drop it.

To be continued in episode 6, based on the works of CS Lewis.

A Christian apologetical book by the British author C. S. Lewis. The book consists of four parts: the first presents Lewis's arguments for the existence of God; the second contains his defence of Christian theology, including his notable "Liar, lunatic, or Lord" trilemma; the third has him exploring Christian ethics, among which are cardinal and theological virtues; in the final, he writes on the Christian conception of God.

[wolint]

NOT LIKE OTHER PEOPLE!

NOT LIKE OTHER PEOPLE

Luke 18:11-14

 

Humanity is full of arrogant pride! Everyone thinks they are better than someone else. “I’m better than him or her, so why have they got it?” We are never content with what we have, who we are, and where we are. We’re always thinking we should be the “one.”

Sadly, this attitude is even present within the body of Christ, where someone always thinks they are better than another—more fervent in prayer, a greater worshipper, preacher, leader, and more. You can almost hear the Pharisee’s words in the mouths of many Christians today: “Lord, you know I am not like that person. I am righteous, kind, good, and ‘holier than thou’ to boot.”

He was standing—the normal posture of prayer—but unfortunately, it indicates the posture of his heart: a proud heart, one of the things God detests and resists. Or he stood! Nothing is wrong with standing to pray, but it gives the impression that he was parading, pacing up and down to be seen and noticed by others.

“God, I thank you that I…” His prayer was all about him and his self-righteousness. The five “I’s” in this passage reveal the self-centeredness of the Pharisee. Rather than expressing thanks for what God has done for him, he brags about his own moral purity and religious faithfulness.

Rather than coming to the Lord penitent and humble, he came with the arrogant pride that he was better than the other people around him and used them as his standard of righteousness instead of God. He celebrated himself, realizing again that he was better than them, judging from his use of “I.”

Thinking himself better than everyone else, he wrongly assumed, as so many like him do, that God would be pleased with him. His prayer didn’t glorify the Lord in any way, since he was full of condemnation for others whom he saw as beneath him—sinners unlike him and not Pharisees like him. “I am not like other people.”

How about you? Do you speak to God in the same way this man did? With arrogant pride and self-righteousness, thinking that other people harbour worse sins than you? Look at Revelation 3:17 and ask yourself why: “You say, ‘I am rich, with everything I want; I don’t need a thing!’ And you don’t realize that spiritually you are wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked.” Self-sufficiency is the fatal danger of a lukewarm state according to Revelation 3:15.

Hebrews 4:13 says nothing is hidden from God, meaning that He knows everything we do. Like this Pharisee, God knows if and how often we fast, so He doesn’t need us to recount all our activities to Him in prayer like this man.

This Pharisee was self-bragging, which sadly is so common among Christians today. He bragged about not praying with sinners, not being like other men, not being an extortioner or unjust. He claimed not to be an adulterer, not like the tax collectors. He fasts twice a week (over the Old Testament’s expected Jewish requirement of a yearly fast in Leviticus 23:27-32 and less than the yearly 104 fasts of the New Testament) and even pays his tithe. Wow! What a good man. Unfortunately for him and many like him, heaven is not for “good people” but for saved people.

But if God were to answer him based on his works and self-righteousness, he would have failed for not upholding the required fast.

Like this man, many of us Christians make our prayers with details of me, myself, and I, more concerned with ourselves rather than glorifying the Lord, hoping that God will at least be appeased and pleased that we prayed at all.

We must always bear Matthew 20:16 in mind when we pray. God doesn’t listen to us because of who we are, as this man exhibited. Do not use others as your standard of approaching the Lord and never be quick to point out “not like other people.”

PRAYER: Father, help me to remain humbly conscious of Your love and never to be haughty in Your presence. In Jesus’ name, amen.

Shalom

WOMEN OF LIGHT INT’L PRAYER MIN