#Jesus at Twelve Years Old

[erstwhile-elster]

I'm definitely frustrated from everything going on but for fuck's sake sometimes it really feels like trans women can only ever actually trust each other.

[hadesoftheladies]

radblr is so myopic about religion and religious people it's dramatic

[monstrsball]

defending mabel pines online isn't enough i need a gun

[magdaclaire]

eventually we all fall to the cliché (the grumpy one is soft for the sunshine one)

[sammygender]

i’m sorry i have psychological problems because thinking too hard about tris and four from hit shit YA trilogy divergent still makes me want to sob. even tho i haven’t thought about them in like five years

[supercritter64]

WHAT YEAR IS IT

watch out behind you

[two-calicos-in-a-trenchcoat]

One of my new neighbors has a sign in their yard that just says "jesus" in big black letters and my contrarian ass wants to put up my own sign that says "satan" in my yard

[nocontextonepiece]

shes fucking twelve

just 14 years ago and no word that bonney has been born yet

oda i swear to fucking god

[wonderjanga]

I’m Never Going Back to That Farm

Clark was talking to Marvel and he realized the man didn’t have anyone to celebrate Christmas with. So, he invited him over. Cause why not? Might as well spread some Christmas spirit. What he didn’t expect was…

Ma Kent: “Clark, your home!” *hugs her son*

Supes: “It’s good to see you too Ma

Ma Kent: “Oh, and who is your little friend-” *looks over to Marvel before doing a double take* “C.C.?”

Marvel: “Huh?”

Ma Kent: “Oh my God, C.C. is that really you?” *turns around to call Pa Kent* “Honey! Come here and look who Clark brought over!”

Supes and Marvel: *share a look*

Pa Kent: “What’s wrong Martha?” *comes from the kitchen* “Charley!? Is that really is you?” *rubs his eyes and looks again* “God, we thought you died in the plane crash! Also, Jesus, you’ve grown 2 feet.”

Supes: “Your name is Charley?” *looks over to Marvel*

Ma Kent: “Oh no sweetie, it’s Clarence, but this guy thought the name was too boring. So we either called him Charley or C.C.”

Marvel: “Haha… Yeah.” *oozing awkwardness*

Supes: *staring with a hint of betrayal*

As for why Clark felt betrayed? Well, his parents knew about Marvel’s entire secret identity before he even did! But, that betrayal was quickly forgotten when his Ma and Pa decided to go down memory lane and pull out a box Clark had never seen before.

Supes: “What’s all this?”

Ma Kent: “Just some old keepsakes your father and I look back on every now and then.”

Pa Kent: *pulls out a photo* “Oh I remember this one. One of my biggest races.” *shows a photo of Ma and Pa Kent, and C.C. and Marilyn all smiling at the camera while Pa Kent is holding a second place trophy*

Supes: “Are you wearing a leather jacket here? Also who’s that?” *points to Marilyn*

Marvel: “That’s my uh…” *looks to the Ma and Pa Kent before looking back to Clark* “My wife?”

Supes: “Wife?!”

Ma Kent: *ignores him* “Speaking of her, where is Marilyn? Did she not come along? Are you two still married?”

Marvel: *also ignores him* “Oh uhm… She didn’t survive the crash.” *still super awkward*

*silence*

Ma Kent: “Oh Charles… I’m so sorry.”

Pa Kent: “And the kids?”

Supes: “Kids?!”

Marvel: *continues ignoring him* “They’re doing good. Mary and Billy are twelve now.”

Ma Kent: “Oh that’s just wonderful. Say, Clark, isn’t Jon the same age as Charley’s kids?”

Supes: “He’s a year younger.”

Pa Kent: *puts the photo of the four of them back into the box* “You two should set up a little playdate.”

Marvel: “Maybe.” *awkward smile*

So now Clark is completely floored. This man that he’s known for nearly 5 years has had a wife who died??? Not only that, but he has two whole children??? Also Cap knew his parents when they were younger??? He’s definitely going to ask more about that playdate though. Jon should have more superpowered friends his age.

Later during dinner…

Pa Kent: “You know, Charley it surprises me how much you haven’t changed.”

Marvel: “Huh…? Whatdya mean?” *shoveling food in his mouth because it delicious*

Ma Kent: “Well, for starters, you look the exact same.” *little laugh as she puts more food on Marvel’s plate*

Pa Kent: “And when you’re not being super awkward, your personality hasn’t changed all that much either.”

Marvel: “You’ve noticed me being awkward?”

Supes: “It’d be kind of hard not to notice, Cap.”

Billy found out more about his parents from this one Christmas alone than he had in his entire life up until now. That is why he will not be coming back to this farm ever again. He’ll send Christmas cards, he might even send a gift or two, but never again. He doesn’t want these two to realize their friend is actually dead. They’re sweet little old people who don’t deserve that. But other than all that, Billy is super happy to find out he and his dad are very similar in personality. It makes him feel closer to the man.

Also, I went on Wikipedia to learn more about the Kent’s and apparently Pa Kent was a race car driver so in case anybody was confused about the race thing, there’s your explanation.

Also, also, as for how the Batsons and the Kents knew each other? Let’s say that Marilyn grew up in Smallville and met Martha. Then Marilyn moved away to Fawcett, but the two still kept in touch. Then both of the women met their respective husbands and they all got together to be a nice little friend group. And then, you know, the Batsons died.

Also, also, also, after this whole thing, Clark started calling Billy Charley or C.C. which made Billy violently flinch when it first happened. After a while though, he grew used to it because he’d rather be called Charley and have someone think he’s C.C. Batson instead of someone thinking he’s Billy.

Also, also, also, also, (I’m sorry I can’t help but add more) when Clark thought no one was looking, he whipped out his phone and took several pictures of the photo of the Kents and Batsons. Or more accurately, he took photos of the part of the picture with C.C. in a leather jacket. Marvel just didn’t seem like the type so he wanted recorded evidence so he could be sure he wasn’t crazy.

Alright I’m done now. Super duper early Christmas post, yay!

[januaryembrs]

Hi!! Could I please order a spicy hot chocolate for Spencer Reid? (Like you know, the ones that people put cayenne pepper in?!)

You’re an incredible writer and human!

BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND | Spencer Reid x Reader

description: your brother brings home his dorky college classmate, Spencer

length: 2.5k

warnings: spicy, SMUT (omg Em attempts smut and even then its pretty tame but why are my hands shaking), minors dni! heed my warnings this is not for you minors!! nipple stuff, mens genitalia mentioned, Spencer and reader get horny for one another oop. I really hope this is okay I've literally written smut once and even then I second guessed myself so much. SEASON ONE GLASSES SPENCE. BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND SPENCE. smut under the cut.

You felt eyes on you without even having to turn where you were stuffing laundry into the washing machine, your face sweaty with the midsummer heat. 

“Jesus Christ, you look like Hot Topic threw up on you,” Your brother’s voice resounded as two sets of footsteps entered the kitchen, and someone cleared their throat where you were bent over, denim shorts riding high up your ass cheeks. 

Flicking a look over your shoulder, you pulled the spoon full of peanut butter out of your mouth, yanking a headphone out of your ear to address him. 

“Don’t shit your pants, dickbrains, it’s all I have until my clothes are clean,” You snapped at Ryan, tongue dancing with the creamy, sweet spread, and your eyes dropped to his left where his best friend fussed over his sweater cuffs, a duffel bag on his back, and your eyes softened as you saw Spencer looking flushed in your kitchen, “Hi, Spence,” 

“Hi,” He peeped shyly, and you smiled widely at the obscenely tall boy who had been to your house a number of times. Ryan had met Spencer on the first day of college, or at least his first day. For Spencer, it had been six years already, his third doctorate well underway, and the two had quickly bonded over something dumb and nerdy you’d never bothered to take note of. You clicked the dials on the machine to a low setting, pouring some detergent into the drum and pressing the ‘Start’ button.

“You guys doing homework?” You asked, fixing where your shirt slouched off the side of your shoulder, exposing your lack of bra and baring your collar bones, and you were quick to catch the way Spencer’s hazel hues fell there with something fleeting and guilty in his expression. 

“We’re not twelve years old calculating how many watermelons Sally and Jess have all together,” Your brother scoffed, screwing his lips in annoyance, just as much as any twenty year old pumped full of hormones and energy drinks. “We’re writing a paper on thermodynamics; Spencer’s staying over tonight,”

Rolling your eyes at his know it all snark, you pulled a face back at him, despite the fact you were one year older. You looked to his left where Spencer stuffed his hands in his pockets, his cheeks pink as he caught himself like a fly in honey in one of your usual arguments. 

“Do you want a drink, Spence?” You offer, ignoring Ryan’s shitty attitude, heading over to the fridge and swinging the door open, your fathers bottles of beer clinking together where they lay flat on the top shelf. 

��Soda would be great, please,” Spencer murmured, trying not to stare as you leaned over, those little, black hot pants skirting up so far his face felt feverish and he forced himself to look at the linoleum tiles in a scrambled attempt to control his thoughts. 

He felt like a kid again, with a stupid little crush on the older girl who batted her lashes and called him Spence and smiled at him like you knew exactly how you made that big brain of his turn to mush when you spoke to him. 

Handing him a Coke, he tried to ignore the way your cold fingers brushed and avoided your gaze at all cost.

“Thankyou,” He said, his voice cracking in the very middle of it in a way that made him feel like a total loser, and he heard you giggle, his neck growing a prickling hot. 

Before you could say much else, his friend grabbed his sleeve, tugging him in the direction of his room where you couldn’t bother them anymore. 

Spencer was thinking about your laugh the entire afternoon, until they gave up writing and turned to watching Star Trek, the evening air quickly turning humid and dark, and he begged the tightness in his boxers to leave him be for even just a second.

Only, he found no such luck, tortured by the thought of you being just a single flight of stairs away from him. 

–

You were doing dishes by the time you heard him again. Assuming it was Ryan, you made no effort to greet him since it usually was only responded with a grunt or cuss anyways. 

Except you could tell by the footsteps that were too careful, the presence that was too soft, even by the way he cleared his throat nervously, that it certainly wasn’t your obnoxious brother who had come into the kitchen for a midnight snack. 

Whirling around at the sound, Spencer stood on the other side of the dining table you'd been sitting at just a few hours ago eating pasta and listening to your mom recounting her stressful day in the office. Thin, framed glasses perched on his nose, ones you’d never seen before, glinting in the light from the oven as he blinked at you behind the lenses. 

“Spence,” You said with a tired smile, eyes dropping to his shirt and plaid trousers, “Cute jammies,” 

He paused for a second, looking down to the grey Doctor Who set, a diagram of the TARDIS splayed across his chest, and he blanked when he tried to figure out if you were kidding or being genuine, “Thank you. You too,”

He didn’t know why he’d said it, maybe because that’s just what you do when someone is being kind, except only then did he look at what you were wearing, and impossibly so it was even more scandalous than what you were wearing earlier. 

A tank top, if he could even call it that with how far it rode up, and a lacy pair of blush underwear, a pretty white bow resting just below your belly button. 

Following his gaze as it devoured your exposed appendage, you grinned at him devilishly, “Sorry, it gets pretty hot in my room at night,” 

“Y-yeah I can imagine you-you’re hot,” He stammered, realising what he said when you raised a brow at him, “B-because you’re a floor up, I mean, and heat rises because hot air has a lower particle density than cool air although some physicians believe-”

“I know what you meant, Spence,” You said with a smirk, moving around the table to stand in front of him, your feet padding softly against the cold floor. Looking up at him with a tilted head, you inspected the frames you realised were a mahogany brown now you were close enough to see them properly, you peered past the lenses and right into where his doe eyes stared back at you, skittish and flustered, “Are these new?” 

Spencer licked his lips nervously, “I used to wear glasses when I was a kid but now I wear contacts,” He said, rubbing clammy palms over his trousers. He could smell your detergent from here, the same one he’d seen you pour over your laundry just a few hours earlier, ‘Blossom breeze’ or something girly and sweet and floral like that. He didn’t know the brand, but it was entirely intoxicating, except he suspected it had nothing to do with the liquid and more to do with the fact he could see your nipples pressing against your shirt when you stood so close to him, “Girls don’t really think scrawny guys in glasses are.. hot,” 

You sniggered, though your brows furrowed the slightest bit, “Who told you that?” 

“Lot’s of girls, more than once actually, it’s just kind of common knowledge,” He fumbled, his chest pricking with nerves when your fingers moved up to grip his waist gently, thumbs danced down his hip bones, the gentle touch alone stirring his cock into a painfully hard stance. He gulped, the sound loud in the sombre twilight of the kitchen, and for a guy who had aced every single test he’d ever taken, who played chess against himself for fun to guess his next five moves, Spencer had no clue where he existed outside of your body so close to his, looking at him like he was a puppy begging for treats if he gave paw. 

“I think those girls are absolute boneheads if they can’t see how pretty you are, Spence,” You said his name as if it was the only one that had ever mattered, and he couldn’t help how his chest swelled at the sentiment, even if he wasn’t so off guard as to actually believe that. You’d always had this way of making people feel special, he saw it at your family barbecue last Summer, when your cousins flocked around you like you were their Queen Bee, how you seemed to make waiters and waitresses alike flush under your preening smiles and 'please's and 'thankyou's whenever you took Spencer and your brother out for dinner. 

“T-thankyou,” He replied after a thick breath, his chest rattling as you pulled him towards your calm figure, and he let himself be guided like he were leashed, “Y-you’re pretty too,”

He wanted to tell you so much more than that, that you were beautiful like all the popular girls at school were, only humble and kind like the golden part of you glittered inside too, except before he could even attempt at expanding on his three pathetic little words he’d stammered through laboured breaths, he effectively got fully disconnected from his brain when you leaned in towards his face and brushed your nose against his, testing the waters. 

Your gaze trailed up to his innocently, so close he could feel your minty breaths fanning over his bottom lip, and he guessed you’d already brushed your teeth ready for bed. 

“You really think I’m pretty, Spence?” You asked naively, even if he knew it was just because he forgot how to speak when you were too forward, as if you were trying not to spook a deer. He nodded quickly, his eyes zeroing on where your mouth was mere centimetres away from him, one single shiver in his spine and he would be kissing you, and like you’d heard his train of thought, you pushed your lips against his softly, his body jolting with an electric shock. 

There could be sirens surrounding the entire house and he would be none the wiser, because in mere seconds his blood was rushing through his eardrums, sounding like radio static, and it was only when he felt the vibration of it against his mouth did he realise you’d whined, and his hands sprung to life, cupping both your cheeks and tugging you closer to his face as if he was clinging onto every second of the feeling. 

Spencer groaned, a sound he didn’t even realise he was going to make until he felt your fingers squeeze him lightly, and he snapped back into his body like a hair tie slinging him back into a world where the girl he’d had a teeny, tiny, maddening crush on for months was making out with him in her kitchen. 

“‘Gotta be quiet, baby, my parents are asleep,” You said, breathless as you ripped yourself away from him, despite the fact he was insistently pulling you back towards his mouth, and you smiled up at his urgency, “You ever kissed a girl before, Spence?”  

He sighed, and you’d never counted him as sassy until you heard it, almost spoiled and bratty now you’d given him a taste of heaven and held it back from him for the sake of small talk.

“Once, at recess in fifth grade, but it wasn’t like this,” He said, yanking you back towards him ravenously, and you let him devour your lips again, grinning into his desperate mouth, “Never been like this,” 

You weren’t sure whether he meant himself or what was likely a peck on the lips between kids as a dare, but you didn’t think too hard about it, as you slotted yourself back into his rough hands, calluses on the insides of his right fingertips from the years holding a pen so hard he might just break it. He felt your mouth open, and he followed your lead, your tongue feathering out with a shyness you showed nowhere else. And it was like every single statistic and number and fact about sharing saliva flew out of his head with wanton need as he dove right for the source, the tip of his tongue meeting yours with a warm nudge and he heard you mewl in pleasure. 

Spencer didn’t know what had come over him. Only moments ago he’d been too nervous to even look at you in fear of stumbled around a few syllables and calling them words. Yet here he was, his glasses slipping down his nose and pressing against the bridge of your own, your chest pressed so close to him he could feel your nipples pebbling against his TARDIS shirt, and it was like it was then he remembered you had no bottoms on except your panties. 

He hooked a hand underneath one of your legs, hiking it up to his waist and pushing even further up against you, the sudden movement making you gasp, your lower back hitting the dining table as his pubic bone ground against the ball of nerves that had been aching since you caught him shuffling around your kitchen in his damn Doctor Who pyjamas. 

Sliding his broad fingers up, your skin spread into gooseflesh and it was your turn to become putty under his touch as he bravely grabbed a handful of your arse, though his touch was still light and uncertain if he was crossing any boundaries. The change in position meant you felt yourself leaning back, your spine spreading out like a cat in warm sunlight, and he was quick to accommodate you, ever eager to please as Spencer was, moving away from the warmth of your mouth and kissing his way down to your pulse, the feeling of it making both of you hum on quietened tones in pleasure. 

“Why have we never done this before?” You asked breathlessly, your chest rising frantically as you gasped for air, a hushed moan bleeding into your airways. 

Spencer held you upright with one of his long arms, thought his mouth devoured a path over your collar bones, heading right for where your breasts lay in wait, and he didn’t even bother trying to remove your top as he kissed over your nipple with hungry, warm lips. 

“I dunno, probably because Ryan wouldn’t be too happy with me trying to fuck his sister while he’s eating dinner,” Spencer said without thinking, his tone sharp and witty as ever, like the noises you were making and the desperation in your touch seemed to rewire his thoughts into something overindulged. 

But you laughed, loud enough you slapped a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from waking up the whole house, because you had no idea how you’d explain to them why you and Spencer had ended up half sprawled on the dining table as he practically fixed himself onto every inch of you. And without warning he chuckled too, the vibration blowing over your skin that was already humming with excitement. 

“Do you think we could do this more often?” You asked, raising yourself up onto your elbows as his hands spread over your stomach, riding your top up just the smallest bit so he could kiss over your stomach, his pupils blown out into planets behind his glasses, his cheeks tinged raspberry red, his gaze drunken like he was in some sort of sugar rush only ready to stop when he’d gotten his fill, though at the rate he was going Spencer thought that day might not actually come. 

You were a drug, a nectar he’d never come close to, and he felt like every kiss to your skin only made that well in his stomach dig deeper and deeper, possibly never running dry as his every thought overflowed with drops of you, and your smell, and your taste, and your tongue. 

Missing your lips, he moved back up to your face, crashing his mouth back onto yours as your fingers raked through his hair, the sensation jolting his rod like appendage into you own pelvis, the two of you shivering with the feeling of it. 

“I think we can arrange that,” He murmured, and you grinned up at him devilishly as he fiddled with the cotton hem of your underwear nervously, his boldness wearing off as he saw that glint in your eyes that spelled trouble. But he understood that nervous and excitement felt so similar it was easy to mistake one for the other, perhaps even mesh both together at the same time, and the logical explanation for his clammy hands and racing heart seemed to soothe him the slightest bit. 

He loved sleepovers at your house.

[vultbae]

small world ❀

art donaldson x female reader

part two (soon)

↳ summary: Art and Patrick were once your peers at the Mark Rebellato Academy —not the nicest ones. Five years later, you've made a friend that can help you fuck with their minds a little.

↳ warnings: making out, dry humping, manipulation, a lot of pettiness, mentions of bullying, and weight!! the dumbification of art donaldson tbh

↳ notes: Istg I be having the most random ideas, but I hope you enjoy!! as always, english is not my first language lolz

word count: 3.1k

Tashi enters the living room with a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes, moving gracefully in a beautiful blue mini-dress. With a soft pop, she eases the cork, instantly pouring the effervescent gold-ish liquid into the two glasses. 

"You shouldn't even worry about them," Tashi says with a wry smile. As she finishes serving you some rosé Veuve Clicquot, she hands you the glass. "What are you—like, the second or third in Europe? They are gonna be broke by their thirties," she concludes, staring at you with confident eyes.

You nod, taking a sip of champagne. "Don't see it as serious; it'll be fun."

Tashi raises her glass, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. "Im just saying, don't stress over men."

You clink your flute against Tashi’s. "Alright."

A year and a half ago, you had met Tashi Duncan, who you believed was a hard-hearted bitch but ended up being a close friend of yours. She is merciless, proficient, and goddamn; she has that vicious aura you worship so much. While living in Biot, you'd always look for the nearest CRT to watch Tashi flawlessly play, enchanted by how she unnerved her adversaries.

During summer break, your father dragged you out of the academy to visit California for a benefaction event. Amidst the glamour and chatter of the event, you caught sight of Tashi —most likely attending due to her relevance spiking around the area. Luckily, your connection rapidly deepened, fueled by reciprocal admiration and tennis dependence.

And the commitment to stay in touch despite the geographical distance worked. Tashi became pretty much your best friend, and you became hers. Aside from the workaholic aspect, the resemblances between you were too much to ignore. Sooner than later, you discovered much about Tashi's personal life, the players she liked and despised, and her daily anecdotes regarding tennis and her intimate life. And that's how you became acquainted with Fire and Ice's peculiar hyper-fixation on Tashi.

Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig.

You thought it was a unique offering from God. You didn't expect you'd get the opportunity to face the golden pair again. When Tashi told you she had met Zweig and Donalson, a powerful sentiment of gratitude washed over you. You nearly fell to your knees when she proceeded to explain they were a walking boner for her. If that wasn't high power granting you a second chance to delight yourself, it was an insane coincidence.

But telling Tashi the backstory was a different pain in the ass. Although she expressed some sort of disgust towards Zweig and Donaldson's brainless carnal-based attitude, you couldn't buy it.  And your skepticisms were demonstrated as valid when she —dreamy voice and all that shit— confessed through the phone she nearly had a threesome with them. A fucking threesome. You couldn't hold it back anymore, so you told her everything.

Tashi was aware of tennis's influence on your household, as you were raised by two renowned tennis coaches from the States. When you turned eight, your parents turned you in at the Mark Rebellato Academy —as if you were condemned to play tennis by default. The detrimental part of your journey was developing thyroid issues when you were twelve. Jesus, twelve years old — the commencement of the preteen period where kids either kiss your feet or bully you. One year after, along with the anticipated weight gain, you met Art and Patrick. And as if you weren't unfortunate enough already, the two —who at the time looked like fucking Beavis and Butthead— decided they didn't like your physical appearance. They hated it.

“Hey, Y/l/n!” Patrick’s voice rang out, sharp and mocking.

You froze, your heart sinking to the underground. You tried to focus on your serve, but your hands were immobile. 

Patrick sauntered over, his smirk widening as he looked you up and down. “What’s the matter, Y/n? Ball too heavy for you to lift?”

You heard Art’s laughter behind your back. He joined in a kind of trembling voice. “Or maybe she’s saving her strength for lunch. She doesn't hesitate when it comes to eating.”

The echo of them and the rest of the kids on the court laughing was a sound that felt like daggers piercing your heart.

After two years of ceaseless bullying and humiliation—which also distracted you from tennis—your parents sent you to The Mouratoglou Tennis Academy in Biot, a small town in France. You are not sure if it was the harassment itself, the low self-esteem, or possibly your undeniable attraction for Donaldson. It didn't matter. By the age of seventeen, you were undoubtedly one of the major promises of European tennis.

So, explaining the theatrical, soap opera-like backstory to Tashi for your detestation of Zweig and Donaldson took time. But when you did, it was worth it because Tashi didn't distrust your testimony, and if anyone was exhilarated to play some moves against them at the beginning, it was Duncan. 

That's the explanation behind Tashi pitching a tremendous party to celebrate her commitment to Stanford. This was absurd, to say the least, considering she had college offers piling up, and no one doubted she would commit to a prestigious school. But Tashi knew you'd visit from France, and this was just the perfect instance to hook you up with both condemned.

Because, of course, her biggest fangirls would attend. 

It didn't take long until the country house was full of people ranging from Tashi's cousins to bare acquaintances. And spotting Fire and Ice was easier than you thought. 

Tashi elbows you discreetly and signs with her head the direction they are standing. "There they are."

Your gaze falls over Art, who is laughing with —who you assume is—Patrick. His features are sharper and more defined. The lanky, slender physique you remembered from his premature teenage years had filled out into a more athletic build, with broader shoulders tapering to a trim waist covered in a light pink shirt. His blonde hair, which was no longer too light, was now strawberry blonde-ish, slightly tousled, and cascading over his ears.

Patrick, standing a few feet away, was equally transformed. His brunette hair, just a bit longer than you remember, frames a face that had hardened over the years—angular jaw, defined cheekbones, and piercing eyes that seem to miss nothing. The fucking smirk is still there, and you can see how he displays it every two seconds at whatever thing Art is telling him.

The interior of your stomach resembles a volcano about to erupt. You feel ambivalent, so many emotions overlapping each other. You see two cute, hell, gorgeous guys, and you wish you could approach them without considering crucifying them before. And you can't help but feel envious at how effortlessly Tashi managed to tame Art and Patrick while the only thing you got from them was hostility.

Your eyes can't seem to unbuckle from them. Tashi catches you slightly frowning at the panorama, and she isn't certain if you are infatuated or planning murder on the spot. "Come on."

You have no time to react before Tashi leads you through some partygoers to reach where Zweig and Donaldson are. Like dogs sniffling fresh meat, it's pathetic how their heads twist simultaneously when Tashi approaches them, conversation instantly pausing. It is as if Tashi's presence was magnetic for them.

"Well, hello, both of you," Tashi greets them excitedly, still holding your hand. "Didn't think you'd come."

Art's eyes widen, "Are you kidding?" he's about to keep speaking, but his gaze merges with yours for a split second, and he shuts off. Dead. Silent. 

"—Stanford's a big deal, Tashi." Patrick interrupts, compensating for the awkwardness of Art's sudden number. "I had to drag this lazy fuck out of his bed, but we made it."

Suddenly, Art's out of the trance, tearing his blue eyes off you to bombard Patrick with a killer look. "Hey—shut up, Patrick."

Tashi sweetly, softly giggles at their word exchange. God, she's good, you think. Tashi turns to gesture to you, "This is my friend, Claire, by the way. She is visiting from the Mouratoglou Academy—

To be fair, Claire is a believable name.

"Wait, the Patrick Mouratoglou Academy? In France?" Art runs over Tashis's sentence, incredulously shooting you a broad-eyed glare. You nod in agreement, still processing you are having a civil conversation with Art Donaldson.

You feel Tashi squeezing your hand at your quietness.

"Yeah, you know it?" you timidly ask, forcing a polite smile that, if you were Art, you wouldn't buy it. But, of course, he's as dumb as a pigeon.

"Heck... Of course, I do. I wish I could go there."

Tashi smirks, enjoying the spectacle. 

Patrick’s investment in the conversation piques. "Mouratoglou, huh? That's impressive. Maybe we could hit the court sometime."

And that's the first time Patrick makes eye contact with you. He's stabbing you with his stare. You abruptly wonder if he's as dumb as Art, probably not. 

You squeeze Tashi's hand.

Tashi leans closer to Patrick, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "Hey, Pat... do you remember what you mentioned about erectile dysfunction? My aunt's a sexologist, I think—

Patrick loudly chuckles, apparently alarmed by the deficiency of filtering confidential information. "I need to smoke sum' stronger. Wanna come, Tash?"

Tashi purses her lips, casting a quick glance at you. "Sure."

Your point of view is like a sitcom scene, swiftly panning from Tashi's body leaving your radar to the boy in front of you, staring at you with soothing eyes and reddened cheeks. It's basically comical.

Art's eyes dart around the lively yard before landing back on you. He clears his throat. "So, uh, Claire? That's a cute name."

It takes tons of willpower not to drop the good girl act right there. You attempt to return the sentiment with a quirk on the corner of your lips. "I need to get a drink. Come with me?"

He shakes his head up and down, finding it easier than answering with words.

For the first time in a couple of months, the inside of Art's mind has more than a giant cardboard cutout of Tashi Duncan. He is in awe. 

You lead the way, weaving through clusters of drunk teenagers towards the house. You feel Art's gaze lingering on your back —or ass, you don't know—a magnetic pull that makes you hyper-aware of his presence.

You arrive in the kitchen and quickly grab a bottle of vodka, a can of soda, and a party cup. Art watches you closely with a look of hypnotic admiration as if you were concocting the most complicated cocktail in the world. You want to roll your eyes so badly.

"That dress looks amazing on you." Art blurts out, unable to contain his thoughts any longer. 

You look at him. Art is sitting on one of the high stools by the kitchen island, his elbow resting on the table's sleek surface, supporting his chin with his hand. There is a softness in his eyes completely foreign to you, an infrequent vulnerability that contrasts sharply with the characteristic asshole demeanor you remember.

To Art, you appear almost ethereal, like an ideal concept from a wet dream of his. His thoughts are a kaleidoscope of jumbled fragments of memory that make no sense. You look so familiar... but no. 

There's no way he would forget about you.

You glance up, a faint blush coloring your cheeks. "Thank you," you reply, handing him a drink.

Art sips on his red plastic cup, eyes hooked on yours. "So, uhm. I just realized I never introduced myself properly. Im Art—

"Yeah, Donaldson, I know." you cut him off, leaving him completely silent and confused. "I've seen you play. Not bad," you clarify, with an unconscious hint of pride in your voice.

Art's smile widens. "Wait, you've seen me play?" he exaggeratedly emphasizes me. 

You nod.

His eyes twinkle with excitement. There’s this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "That's, uh, great. Next time you are watching, I'll play better..."

His innate nerdiness and try-hard flirtiness provoke nausea in you. If you didn't know him, it would be a different story. But seeing a former, intense crush who shamelessly bullied you for so long, giving you heart-shaped eyes...

It's fucking bizarre. And it pisses you off.

Art begins conversing about something else. You don't know what—tennis-related, maybe. You are not wearing earphones with noise cancellation, but you can't hear him anymore. It's a blur as his words course through one ear and depart through the other. Immediately. Your brain has simply blocked the action of listening to him.

You step closer, so close you can see the fine lines in his eyes, the flecks of green amidst the blue, with a hint of brown sectoral heterochromia on his right eye. You can smell the faint woody scent of his cologne, something spicy that makes you salivate. His lips keep moving, forming words that dissolve into the dim background noise. The music, the laughter, the chatter—they all blend into a distant hum.

Art's voice vanishes into oblivion as you fix your gaze on his mouth, the curve of his lips, the way they part and close as he speaks. "Art," you say, stopping him in his tracks.

His eyes flicker with uncertainty, puzzlement, and a spark of hope. His adam's apple throbs as he notices you staring at his lips.

You lean in, your breath mingling with his, your heart pounding in your chest. Your hand reaches up, fingers brushing against his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin and the slight stubble that prickles against your touch. Art's breath hitches, his eyes widening in surprise, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he leans in, too.

Your lips crash against his. Although you don't want to make it weird, you fail. It's not a gentle kiss or a precious, out-of-a-book lips meeting. It's fierce, instructing, a clash of sour sentiments and intent. You pour all your frustration, your pent-up anger, and your fucked-up desire to overpower him into that kiss. 

Art's shock melts away and quickly replaces it with an appetite that matches yours. His strong arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours. The kiss deepens, his lips parting to allow your tongue to explore, to taste the unmistakable flavor of cigarette and cheap vodka. You can feel the warmth of his breath and the way his hands tighten on your waist. It's almost as if he's frightened you'll pull away at some point.

And you can only fantasize about the moment you walk away.

—but not yet. You push harder, your fingers tugging slightly in his messy strawberry-blonde hair. He lowly moans into your mouth, a sound that dispatches a shiver down your spine. His hands roam your back, tracing the curve of your spine and dangerously lowering to your ass level. There's a distress in his touch you never thought would come from him.

The way he's dissolving under your venomous touch is already a win for you. You've managed to put him under you. And it's intoxicating, this control you have over him, this ability to make him forget everything else.

You pull back, your lips hovering just above his. Art's eyes are half-lidded, his lips swollen and ridiculously red from the intensity of the kiss. He looks at you in pure infatuation, "What- I... Did I do something wrong?"

You press a finger to his lips, silencing him again. "Come with me."

You peek at the party going outside—most people are outside. The living room is nearly empty, with a few alcoholized individuals entering the country house to refill their drinks. It's perfect.

You take Art's hand, your fingers lacing through his, and you lead him toward the sectional, six-seat couch in the center of the living room. You push Art down onto the couch, and he complies without resistance, his lust-drunken eyes never leaving yours; he nearly chokes on his spit at the sight of you slowly straddling him, your knees sinking into the soft cushions on either side of his hips.

"Jesus, Claire—"

You get the ick at the roleplay name Tashi baptized you with. 

"Shh," you whisper, leaning in to brush your lips against his in a soft, teasing kiss. "You never shut up, Donaldson."

And that's odd for him. He gives it a second thought because he isn't aware of how much he has talked, but definitely not that much. 

The overthinking vanishes as soon as you begin to kiss him again, slowly at first, savoring the way his lips deliciously move against yours. Art's hands rest tentatively on your hips, his fingers twitching as if afraid to hold on too tight. You guide his hands around your waist, urging him to hold you closer. His grip tightens, and you can feel the heat of his palms through the delicate fabric of your black mini-dress.

A sigh rolls out from your throat when you perceive something hard putting pressure against your core —which, because of the dress, is only shielded by thin lace panties. The coarse fabric of Art's light denim jeans rubs splendidly against your pussy. 

A primitive groan slips out of Art's lips the moment you grind your hips against his clothed dick. Suddenly, he breaks the kiss, and his eyes wander downwards. "Shit— you'll kill me," he pants into your mouth.

You pull back slightly, looking into his eyes. They're dark with craving, his pupils dilated. "Then let me."

You are about to attack his lips again, but he hesitates. You tilt your head in confusion, murmuring a low what?

Art starts to speak, his voice shaky and breathless. "I... I was wondering if you wanted to go back to my hotel with me."

Before you can respond, Tashi suddenly appears in your vision behind Art's head. "Claire, there you are," she says, fucking loud with a knowing, manipulative smile on her lips. "Your dad called, he's outside."

You feel a surge of delicious triumph as you see the apparent dissatisfaction in Art's eyes. 

"Sorry, Art," you say, standing up and smoothing your dress. "Maybe another time."

There’s a raw sadness in his eyes, an almost childlike hurt that he can’t quite conceal. He isn't even drunk; he's fully conscious of the stunning girl he just met and now is evaporating as if she was going to turn into a wolf at midnight or something. 

As you are about to disappear from Art's vision, he shouts at you, "I'll see you later, right?"

But you don't answer.

Instead, you hurriedly walk with Tashi to reach the front yard. 

"I didn't lie about your dad being here, though," Tashi clarifies, pointing at the big Jeep parked in front of the country house.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, a smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, alright." You glance back at the house to ensure you are out of earshot. "I think fucking him would've been better. Do you think he's gonna remember about this tomorrow?"

"Oh, yeah. This is definitely gonna fuck his head up for a while." Tashi chuckles, "he's pretty obsessive."

You feel a swell of fulfillment at your best friend's words. "How obsessive?"

Tashi smiles. "A lot."

❀

[jzmn8r]

Bringing this back because holy. shit.

this is me about the pjo series and the books btw

[fuctacles]

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve | thirteen | fourteen |

extras: | 🐈 | 🐾 | 🐈 | Ao3

Eddie was lowkey disgusted by how his uncle would talk about one of his neighbors. No, he doesn't think it's bad for old people to fall in love or have crushes. But it's weird to know these things about his own uncle. 

And it's also sad to watch, because it's been months of Stephanie this, Stephanie that, and nothing came of it, so he felt safe to assume the infatuation was one-sided. So when he tells his uncle he can't go feed her cats that week, he figures it's for the best. And not only because of Wayne's twisted ankle. To his surprise though, he doesn't seem fazed; he just waves his hand and says:

"Yeah, yeah, I know. No climbing the stairs with this thing." He pokes the cast with his crutch. "I've already volunteered you anyway."

Eddie raises his eyebrows because he surely misheard that.

"You did what now?"

"Told Stephanie I'll send you to feed her cats," Wayne says, confirming his fears.

"Why?! She has so many other neighbors!" Eddie points out, gesturing vigorously around the room, implying but meaning the flats surrounding them. 

Wayne clicks his tongue at him.

"Would you let in just any of your neighbors into your home? She already trusts me, and I'm vouching for you."

Eddie gapes at him, hating that he's making a valid point. Damned be his old man and his reasonable thinking. He crosses his arms because while it makes sense, it doesn't mean Eddie can't be angry about it. 

"When?"

"She's visiting her friend this weekend so she asked for Saturday evening and Sunday morning. And stay with them for a while if possible, so they don't go crazy. Ah, and the plant in the kitchen needs watering."

"Great," Eddie grits through his teeth. He's so delighted at the prospect of spending time with some old lady's cats. The whole place probably stinks of cat piss and he'll definitely kill the plant as soon as he touches it. (It was his only superpower, which is not what he aimed for when his five-year-old had been praying, thanks for nothing, Jesus.) He just hopes he won't have to meet her. Hearing some old hag complain about his clothes, hair, and general adolescence was the last thing he wanted on his weekend off. But, alas...

"She asked you to come over tomorrow so she can show you where everything is."

Eddie groans. 

It's a Friday afternoon, he's at his uncle's taking a break from college and work. He should be sharing a beer with the old man, complaining about the coursework, the professors, and other students, not picking him up from the hospital, and running errands while his foot is in a cast. And certainly not meeting up with old stinky spinsters. 

To add insult to injury, Miss Stephanie, (which, by the way, is such a typical old hag name) lives two floors higher and the elevator is perpetually broken. Not too high, but high enough for Eddie's anemic lungs to start collapsing. 

He stops around the corner to steady his breath, because regardless of his overall attitude, he didn't want to worsen the first impression. He already refused to 'dress like a decent man' and didn't want to wheeze into the lady's face on top of it. 

Once his lungs are functioning properly again, he walks into the hallway, looking for number 54 as Wayne instructed. He knocks on the door, hoping he didn't mess it up and is at the right place. What if it was 45?

It must have been because he was told Stephanie Harrington lives alone. 

"Uh, sorry, I must have—"

"Are you Eddie?" The woman who opened the door takes him in. At her feet, a tabby cat peers curiously at the new human.

"Uh, yeah? I'm looking for Miss Stephanie?" he offers awkwardly. Maybe that's the friend? Or a sister?

But the woman extends her hand and smiles brightly.

"That would be me, but please call me Steph. I wish I could drill that into Wayne's thick skull." She rolls her eyes fondly.

Her big, gorgeous eyes, framed by thick lashes. She's not an old hag, she could be in her forties at best. She's tall and curvy and her hair looks straight out of a shampoo commercial. She's gorgeous. Eddie shakes her hand in a daze.

"Hi," he croaks as he's ushered inside. 

"Come in, come in! I've heard so much about you, it's great to finally see you in person. I must say," she turns around and gives him a quick once-over. "Wayne's stories didn't do you justice."

Did she just check him out?

Eddie clears his throat, suddenly dry like his elbows during winter.

"Uh, same to you."

"Yeah?" She puts her hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow. "What does he say about me?"

"Good things only," Eddie assures her. 

"So you're saying I'm a bitch." She squints at him.

"No!" His eyes widen. "What?!" 

"Well, if he's saying only good things about me, and you say they don't describe me right..." 

Eddie gets the point she's making and quickly shakes his head.

"No, he just made you sound like a crazy old cat lady, and you're..." He waves his hand uselessly. "Not that."

She sighs softly, shoulders sagging a little. It would be easy to miss but Eddie's senses are heightened after his fuck up.

"I kinda am, though," she says with a shrug. 

Eddie feels the need to reassure her somehow.

"Well, you're not eighty and your place doesn't smell like cat litter, I think you're fine."

She barks a laugh, it's low and surprised and Eddie's cheeks are red because he's just digging further into the hole he's in, isn't he?

"Good to know the bar is so low."

Eddie groans, tired of doing damage control that's not controlling anything.

"I'm gonna shut up now."

"Please don't." Steph smiles wide and teasingly. "You're a funny one. Just like your uncle told me."

Eddie scoffs. He's going to have a word or two with the old man once he's back.

"Great, this is exactly the impression I was hoping to make."

At his words, the woman eyes him up and down again, and he can feel his cheeks heating up.

"Yeah? Not as the local punk satanist?" she teases, making Eddie bristle.

"Metalhead," he corrects instinctively and immediately winces.

"Ah, my bad. I'm not good at the subcultures thing." She smiles apologetically but it doesn't read well with how clearly amused she is. "Anyway, here's the plant I want you to water tomorrow evening. Just like, half a glass."

Right. Plants. Cats. He came here on a mission.

"Come on, I'll show you my cats."

There's only three of them and they come rushing from all corners of the flat at the rustle of a catnip bag. Eddie never saw high cats so he's glad to have this opportunity now. Stephanie points to the tabby he saw earlier.

"This is Dart, she's not actually mine, but my friend couldn't keep her at the dorms. This is Garfield," she points to the orange cat, making Eddie huff a laugh. She grins. "Yeah, don't tell anyone, but he's my favorite," she whispers, to which Eddie mimics zipping his mouth shut. 

Lastly, she points to the black cat rolling on the carpet. 

"And this is Arwen."

Eddie frowns.

"Like, The Lord of the Rings Arwen?"

"Yeah," Steph sighs. "Dustin named her. He's the friend I've mentioned. Dart is short for D'Artagnan and I've fought teeth and nail for Garfield not to be called Pippin."

"Pippin is a great name, though," Eddie points out.

"Maybe," she huffs, crossing her arms. "But I wanted one for myself, okay? Not everything has to be about Dustin."

"Is Dustin like, your brother or something?" 

"Kinda?" She frowns. "We're not actually related but I babysat him, and then we became friends. He just stuck around, somehow." The words sound angry but her face betrays the fondness she has for her friends. 

"That's nice," he offers. "I'm an only child, never met any cousins, and only ever had friends my age."

"Well, good for you. Maybe if I had friends my age I wouldn't be living alone with a bunch of cats."

Eddie frowns. 

"Hey, now..."

She cuts him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. 

"I'll show you where the food is." 

Eddie's in a daze when he comes back downstairs, only realizing his visit ended when he's standing in his uncle's living room. He's been gone for only half an hour but it feels longer. 

"How did it go?" his uncle asks, pulling him out of his reverie. 

Edie turns to him and blinks, fighting the cotton around his brain.

"Fine?" he offers. "She's not as old as I expected," he admits bluntly. His uncle snorts.

"What, just because she lives alone with her cats you assumed she's on her deathbed?"

Eddie winces. It's exactly what he did.

"Well, the people in her life weren't kind to her, so now she relies on her pets. Nothing wrong with that." Wayne shrugs. 

"What do you mean?" Eddie frowns, curious. Concerned. He goes to the kitchen, not wanting to seem too eager to get an answer, and grabs a beer for himself and his uncle. He opens the junk drawer to find an opener and hears his uncle answer from the adjacent living room space. 

"She doesn't say much about it and I never asked, but she's always alone on the holidays. Her friends visit a few days before or after."

Eddie walks back in and hands his uncle the opened bottle. 

"Thanks, son."

He nods and settles heavily in an armchair. Focusing his gaze on the label peeling off of his beer, he hums thoughtfully.

"No family?"

"Seems so." Wayne nods solemnly. "I think it was a conflict of lifestyle choices, but I'll be honest, I'm basing it off of rumors and my own assumptions." He scratches his cheek, frowning at the wall. "It's not my place to pry, though I offered to hear her out if she ever felt like needing an ear." He sighs. "I'm just trying to be a good neighbor. Invited her for dinner over Thanksgiving, when you couldn't come. I was surprised she's into basketball," he muses. 

Eddie was seeking answers and now was even more confused.

"You invited Miss Stephanie. For a dinner?" He raised his eyebrows. 

"Yes. She was alone, I was alone, figured I could at least ask. I'm still surprised she agreed. She declined all my other offers."

"Wow." A teasing smile creeps on his lips against his will. "You've been inviting a lot of women since I moved out?"

"Listen," Wayne takes on his stern voice and it takes all of Eddie's willpower not to cackle. He can see his uncle's mustache twitch. "Stephanie is a lovely lady, but she's way too young for an old man like me. And this old man is too old for romance anyway. Besides—" he cuts himself off like he realized he was saying too much. Which, of course, piques Eddie's curiosity. 

"Besides?"

Wayne shrugs.

"I don't think I'd ever be ready for someone like her."

Eddie makes a confused face. 

"The fuck does that mean?" he asks, irritated. 

"Rumors and speculations, son."

[heartkaji]

WINBRE BOYS + THIRSTY TWEETS !

inc : sakura haruka, suo hayato , ren kaji, togame jo contains explicit language + celeb au

SAKURA HARUKA !

“ume’s left ballsack says : do you think sakura’s pubes are white or black or are they divided into both like his hair ?”

kill sakura now.

he’s a red cheeked mess of sweat & nervous system shivers. he’s practically hyperventilating as you laugh beside him, melting into a puddle of molten blush cheeks & ultraviolet bone. he shakes at a frequency not unlike ultrasound.

“oh my fucking god sakura—well ? what do you have to say to the fans ?”

you elbow the quivering boy. if you were any less of the devil you are you’d forcefully refuse the question or at least answer it in his place—you did know the truth firsthand after all. but you’re the serpent in the garden & seeing sakura squirm is like an apple down your throat. sakura is still blinking eyes & flushing nose & palms bleeding sweat bullets so you’ve had to grab the phone from his hands in fear it might fall from the way they quake & quiver.

“ what the fuck kind of question is this ? where are your parents ? guardians—?”

“baby, that question could apply to you too.”

“shut up !”

SUO HAYATO !

“slut4suo69 says : i need to know what’s under suo’s eyepatch. is he blind ? does he have some cool sexy scar ? does he have no eye at all ? not that i care. i’d fuck the shit out of his empty eye socket — three holes are better than two !”

“oh.”

you burst out laughing. this is the first time you’ve seen dagger mouthed suo hayato speechless. his mouth is hung agape as he seizes the phone from your hands & reads the tweet over & over again as if it’ll cause the digital ink to melt off & fly away. each time he reads his mouth gets drier & you swear you can see blisters bruling on his tongue.

“this is the most vulgar thing i’ve ever seen.”

“so true ! now answer it.”

you tuck your hair & dip your head over suo’s shoulders to get one last look at the tweet before facing the camera.

“though i can’t match your freak with the whole eye fucking thing, i too, slut4suo69, would absolutely love to know what’s under my boyfriend’s eyepatch.” you bat your lashes at the bedazzled brunette & loop an arm around his elbow. “the fans & i wanna know, suo. do tell.”

“i’m pretty sure i’ve told you this before, angel—“

“aht aht ! no thousand year old dragon bullshit, hayato. we promised to answer all the questions truthfully, remember ?”

suo heaves a sigh, breath heavy & chest tight as you rest your head on his arm. his thumb traces lazy swirls & zig zags over your knuckles.

“i see. if the fans wanna know, who am i to refuse, hm?”

REN KAJI !

“isagi solos your fave says : i need kaji to suck me the way he sucks his lollipops. hear me out y’all—his tongue swirling over your clit, teeth grazing your folds as he—“

“aight that’s enough,”

you giggle as kaji pulls out the phone between your palms. you reach over his lap for it, pathetic attempts to grab the device from his hands while kaji raises it higher & higher. his palm burns against your stomach to keep you away.

“i fucking hate the internet, bro. don’t y’all have hobbies ? friends ? occupations ?”

you’re giggling & snorting as kaji cusses out the camera. “and i swear, word to my mother that whoever wrote this is is like, twelve. what in the wattpad is this ?”

kaji pulls out the cherry red sucker resting in his cheek. “this shit don’t even taste sweet anymore, man.” he flings the candy angrily into a silver can sitting across the set.

you bury your head in the sleeve of his jacket, a red nosed, puffy faced mess of sweltering eyes & plum heavy cheeks. your snorts are muffled in the linen of his sleeves. “heaven knows i love my fans but fuck, i cannot wait for some of you to rot in hell.”

“god ren,” you clap your hands in between teary eyed giggles. “i’m trying to breathe baby please stop..!”

“fuck no. you horny bitches need to be euthanized. eradicated. like hello ? is this what our lord and savior jesus christ died for ? are these the kind of sins he repeatedly has to forgive ? he’s better than me for real cuz i can’t take this anymore.”

kaji walks off the set but you’re too busy wiping tears & sniffling nose to follow. “somebody ! tell him to come back..!”

TOGAME JO !

“kubzscouts is my wifey says : fellas is it gay to want togame jo to slide into you slowly, teasing your entrance with light strokes as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear like ‘you can take it baby, that’s a good girl’ as his big fat coochie crusher69 slips into—jo i don’t want to read this anymore.”

you look up at him with pretty peach painted lips bent into a pout. his palm stops teasing at your thigh momentarily before picking up again, “m’ not quite sure i want you to read it either, pretty.”

you report the account without even waiting for togame’s approval. he cracks a smile when he notices your cherry drenched cheeks & red dyed ears.

“someone seems jealous.”

“and i know that someone isn’t me jo, so which of your other a-b-c-d looking ass bitches are you talking about ?”

togame whistles playfully, palms trailing further up your thigh. his touch is a ghost burying your nerves in sap & soil. you pretend your skin doesn’t ache from the way he draws hearts on your knee.

“now, now. i think we both know i’m a loyal man, yeah ?”

“who’s we ? kubzscouts over here is describing bedroom you with awful precision.”

he lets out a boyish laugh. “she missed a few things, though. don’t i always kiss it first ?”

© ─ heartkaji ; do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload

[j-crow]

would also like to show my beautiful profile from 2018!

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Names for the Devil

The word devil comes from the Greek diábolos, which literally means “slanderer.” The Spanish diablo and the adjectival diabolical also come from this word.

Satan

Perhaps the most well-known name for the Devil is Satan.

This name appears repeatedly in the Bible, such as in Luke 22:3 when the Devil is blamed for Judas Iscariot’s betrayal of Jesus Christ: Then entered Satan into Judas surnamed Iscariot, being of the number of the twelve.

The name Satan is recorded in English before the year 900.

The English word comes through the Greek Satán from the Hebrew word śātān meaning “adversary.”

Ash-Shaytān (Shaitan)

The Devil appears in Muslim scripture as well.

Comes from the Arabic al-Shaytān and is etymologically connected to the English Satan. The “ash” or “al” indicates that one is talking about the Devil (with a capital D) as opposed to a devil or demon.

The name Ash-Shaytān has several different variants in Arabic, including Shaytan, Shaitan, and Sheitan.

Iblis

Often used to tell the story of the origin of the Devil.

According to the Qur’an, God commanded all the spirits to bow before Adam, but a spirit named Iblis refused.

For this blasphemous act, Iblis was cast down from Heaven.

Iblis is actually a source of debate among Islamic scholars and thinkers. Some consider Iblis to be a fallen angel or archangel. Others count him as a jinn (a spirit that is lower in rank than an angel), usually the jinn that fathered all of the others.

The name Iblis comes through Arabic from the Greek diábolos, that same word that is also the origin of the word devil.

Lucifer

Often a source of debate among Biblical scholars.

In the Bible, the story of a fallen angel is mentioned in Ezekiel 28 and Isaiah 14.

According to the Bible, this angel became so vain and proud that he thought himself above God. As punishment for his wickedness, the angel was cast out of Heaven and into the dark pit of the Earth so that he would be even lower than humanity. In translations of the Bible, such as the King James Version, this angel’s name is said to be Lucifer.

The Bible does not say that this angel Lucifer is the same being as Satan. That connection was popularized by poet John Milton in his famous epic poem Paradise Lost (1667), which tells the story of the fallen angel Lucifer becoming Satan after a failed rebellion against God during a War in Heaven.

Paradise Lost is so popular that its depiction of Satan still heavily influences modern depictions of the Devil and the lore many people associate with him.

The name Lucifer comes from Latin and means “morning star” or can be literally translated as “light bringing.”

In classic mythology, Lucifer was the name of the planet Venus, which was personified as a man holding a torch.

Prince of Darkness

This name for the Devil appeared in Paradise Lost, as well as William Shakespeare’s King Lear (1606).

In the Bible, God is often associated with light, while the Devil, the opposing force, is often associated with darkness.

The Devil has turned away from God’s light and embraced the darkness of sin.

Prince of Darkness, then, accurately describes the Devil’s role as the ruler of the darkest darkness that is the pits of hell.

A few other names for the Devil, such as the Lord of Darkness or the Dark Lord, similarly give the Devil a diabolical-sounding title.

The Serpent

Largely based on Genesis 3, wherein Eve is tempted by a talking snake to eat the forbidden fruit. Although the Bible doesn’t explicitly say so, popular biblical interpretation is that this serpent was actually the Devil.

This belief that the lying snake was the Devil was the reason behind his many other duplicitous names, such as the Deceiver, the Tempter, or the Father of Lies.

The Devil seems to enjoy taking the form of nefarious lizards, as he is said to take the form of a gigantic dragon in the Book of Revelation. This explains another of his reptilian nicknames, the Dragon.

Old Nick

An informal nickname for the Devil that has been used since the 1600s.

Although there are many theories where this name came from, nobody can say for certain. This one is surprising given that Old Saint Nick (or Nicholas) is a commonly used nickname for Santa Claus, who is about as far away from the Devil as you can get.

Interestingly, though, there is a bit of a connection between these two in the form of Krampus, a terrifying goat-demon creature who, according to European legend, emerges during Christmastime to beat naughty children or bring them to hell.

The Devil’s age inspired a few other nicknames, such as Old Scratch and Old Harry, which also focus on his long lifespan.

Belial

In the Bible, the name Belial is used to directly refer to the Devil in 2 Corinthians when it is used to contrast the Devil as being the evil to Jesus’s good.

Used throughout the Old Testament to describe wicked or sinful people as being men, children, and sons/daughters of Belial, meaning that they have turned away from God and serve the Devil.

Comes from the Hebrew bəliyyaʿal and is equivalent to a combination of the words bəlī (without) and yaʿal (worth).

Used in the Bible to say that a person embodies wickedness and is therefore “worthless” in the sense that they only take from others by performing evil deeds.

Beelzebub

Used to refer to the Devil himself or another devil that serves under him.

Appears in the New Testament in the Gospels of Luke, Matthew, and Mark.

According to the Bible, some onlookers accused Jesus of having the power to exorcise demons because he serves Beelzebub, who is said to be “the chief of devils.” Jesus assures the people that his power comes from God and not Satan.

Comes from the Hebrew bá`al zebūb, which literally translates to “lord of flies.”

In popular culture, Beelzebub is often depicted as a horrifying fly demon when he is considered to be a separate being from the Devil.

Apollyon

Mentioned in Revelation 9:11 and is used to refer to a king of demons.

The Bible names Apollyon as “the angel of the bottomless pit” and states the name Apollyon is the Greek name for the being known in Hebrew as Abaddon.

Common interpretation of this passage says that Apollyon is Satan or a powerful demon that serves him.

As the Bible hints at, the name Apollyon comes from the Greek apollýōn, which is a participle of the verb apollýnai meaning “to destroy.”

The name Abaddon comes from the Hebrew ăbhaddōnōn, which means “destruction.”

Whoever Apollyon/Abaddon is, they are also often referred to as the Destroyer.

Mammon

Appears in the Gospels of Luke and Matthew when recounting one of Jesus’s sermons. Jesus uses this term to refer to the wicked greed and desire for wealth. He states that it is impossible to serve both God and mammon.

As time went on, writers would interpret this passage to mean that Jesus was talking about a demonic entity named Mammon that embodied wealth and obsessive greed.

Comes from the Aramaic māmōnā, which means “riches” or “wealth.”

Legion

The name of a demon or a group of demons that Jesus encounters in the Gospels of Luke and Mark. Jesus asks a demon who is possessing a man their name and receives the famous answer of “My name is Legion: for we are many.”

The name Legion comes from the Latin legiōn, which refers to a body of soldiers.

Ancient Rome was famous for its legions (of soldiers) that made it a dominant military power.

Azazel

Used in translations of the scapegoat ritual as mentioned in Leviticus 16.

According to the account of the ritual, a goat would be offered to God and a second goat bearing the sins of the people would be offered to Azazel.

This being known as Azazel is also referred to as “the scapegoat.”

Interpretations of this passage would suggest that Azazel was some kind of demonic entity, possibly even the Devil himself.

Mephistopheles

Comes from the German legends of Faust.

In the legends, Faust is bored with life and pleads to the Devil to give him knowledge and pleasure. Happy to oblige, a demon named Mephistopheles appears before Faust. Depending on the story, this Mephistopheles is either the Devil himself or a devil who works for him.

Either way, Faust makes a deal with the Devil and gets the sinful pleasure he wants in exchange for his soul and an eternity in hell.

The Antichrist

Only briefly mentioned in the Bible in First and Second Epistles of John as some kind of being that is acting in opposition to Jesus.

However, the role of the Antichrist would be expanded on in other Biblical texts and by many Christian writers.

In most versions, the Antichrist is imagined as an unholy opposite to Jesus Christ; the Antichrist is a being that will bring sin and damnation to mankind.

It is said that the arrival of the Antichrist will signal the end of the world.

In modern depictions, the Antichrist is frequently imagined as the son of Satan, mirroring how Jesus is the son of God.

More Devils and Demons

While Satan is the Devil, he doesn’t rule alone in his fiery pit of hell.

He has many devils that work under him, gleefully spreading evil and corrupting humanity. More words used to describe these infernal denizens of hell:

devil

demon

fiend

imp

succubus

incubus

jinn

The Devil is often said to have many lesser demons that help him rule over hell. The names of these were catalogued in the Dictionnaire Infernal (1818).

Some interesting names include Belphegor, Lamia, Astaroth, and Garuda.

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