#indian head on white body

[communistkenobi]

Would you be willing to dunk on speak more on mainstream feminist theory you're reading? And/or share some of the non-juvenile feminist theory you've read?

(Note: I will try to link to open access versions of articles as much as possible, but some of them are paywalled. if the links dont work just type the titles into google and add pdf at the end, i found them all that way)

If there’s any one singular issue with mainstream feminist thought that can be generalized to "The Problem With Mainstream Feminism" (and by mainstream I mean white, cishet, bourgeois feminism, the “canonical feminism” that is taught in western universities) it’s that gender is treated as something that can stand by itself, by which I mean, “gender” is a complete unit of analysis from which to understand social inequality. You can “add” race, class, ability, national origin, religion, sexuality, and so on to your analysis (each likewise treated as full, discrete categories of the social world), but that gender itself provides a comprehensive (or at the very least “good enough”) view of a given social problem. (RW Connell, who wrote the canonical text Masculinities (1995) and is one of the feminist scholars who coined/popularized the term hegemonic masculinity, is a fantastic example of this.)

Black feminists have for many decades pointed out how fucking ridiculous this is, especially vis a vis race and class, because Black women do not experience misogyny and racism as two discrete forms of oppression in their lives, they are inextricably linked. The separation of gender and race is not merely an analytical error on the part of white feminists - it is a continuation of the long white supremacist tradition of bounding gender in exclusively white terms. Patricia Hill Collins in Black Feminist Thought (2000) engages with this via a speech by Sojourner Truth, the most famous line from her speech being “ain’t I a woman?” as she describes all the aspects of womanhood she experiences but is still denied the position of woman by white women because she is Black. Lugones in Coloniality of Gender (2008) likewise brings up the example of segregationist movements in the USAmerican South, where towns would put up banners saying things like “Protect Southern Women” as a rationale for segregation, making it very clear who they viewed as women. Sylvia Wynter in 1492: A New World View likewise points out that colonized women and men were treated like cattle by Spanish colonizers in South America, often counted in population measures as "heads of Indian men and women," as in heads of cattle. They were treated as colonial resources, not as gendered subjects capable of rational thought.

To treat the category of “woman” as something that stands by itself is a white supremacist understanding of gender, because “woman” always just means white woman - the fact that white is left implied is part of white supremacy, because who is granted subjecthood, the ability to be seen as human and therefore a gendered subject, is a function of race (see Quijano, 2000). Crenshaw (1991) operationalizes this through the term intersectionality, pointing out that law treats gender and race as separate social sites of discrimination, and the practical effect of this is that Black women have limited/no legal recourse when they face discrimination because they experience it as misogynoir, as the multiplicative effect of their position as Black women, not as sexism on the one hand and racism on the other.

Transfeminist theory has further problematized the category of gender by pointing out that "woman" always just means cis woman (and more often than not also means heterosexual woman). The most famous of these critiques comes from Judith Butler - I’m less familiar with their work, but there is a great example in the beginning of Bodies That Matter (1993) where they demonstrate that personhood itself is a gendered social position. They ask (and I’m paraphrasing) “when does a fetus stop becoming an ‘it’? When its gender is declared by a doctor or nurse via ultrasound.” Sex assignment is not merely a social practice of patriarchal division, it is the medium through which the human subject is created (and recall that gender is fundamentally racialized & race is fundamentally gendered, which I will come back to).

And the work of transfeminists demonstrate this by showing transgender people are treated as non-human, non-citizens. Heath Fogg Davis in Sex-Classification Policies as Transgender Discrimination (2014) recounts the story of an African American transgender woman in Pennsylvania being denied use of public transit, because her bus pass had an F gender marker on it (as all buss passes in the state required gender markers until 2013) and the bus driver refused her service because she “didn’t look like a woman.” She was denied access to transit again when she got her marker changed to M, as she “didn’t look like a man.” Transgender people are thus denied access to basic public services by being constructed as “administratively impossible” - gender markers are a component of citizenship because they appear on all citizenship documents, as well as a variety of civil and public documents (such as a bus pass). Gender markers, even when changed by trans people (an arduous, difficult process in most places on earth, if not outright impossible), are seen as fraudulent & used as a basis to deny us citizenship rights. Toby Beauchamp in Going Stealth: Transgender Politics & US Surveillance Practices (2019) talks about anti-trans bathroom bills as a form of citizenship denial to trans people - anti-trans bathroom laws are impossible to actually enforce because nobody is doing genital inspections of everyone who enters bathrooms (and genitals are not proof of transgenderism!), but that’s actually not the point. The point of these bills is to embolden members of the cissexual public to deputize themselves on behalf of the state to police access to public space, directing their cissexual gaze towards anyone who “looks transgender.” Beauchamp points out that transvestigators don’t need to be accurate most of the time, because again, the point is terrorizing transgender people out of public life. He connects this with racial segregation, and argues that we shouldn’t view gender segregation as “a new form of” racial segregation (this is a duplication of white supremacist feminism) but a continuation of it, because public access is a citizenship right and citizenship is fundamentally racially mediated (see Glenn's (2002) Unequal Freedom)

Susan Stryker & Nikki Sullivan further drives this home in The King’s Member, The Queen’s Body, where they explain the history of the crime of mayhem. Originating in feudal Europe (I don’t remember off the dome the exact time/place so forgive the generalization lol), mayhem is the crime of self-mutilation for the purposes of avoiding military conscription, but what is interesting is that its not actually legally treated as “self” mutilation, but a mutilation of the state and its capacity to exercise its own power. They link the concept of mayhem to the contemporary hysteria around transgender people receiving bottom surgery - we are not in fact self mutilating, we are mutilating the state’s ability to reproduce its own population by permanently destroying (in the eyes of the cissexual public) our capacity to form the foundational social unit of the nuclear family. Our bodies are not our own, they are a component of the state. Situating this in the context of reproductive rights makes this even clearer. Abortion access is not actually about the individual, it is the state mediating its own reproductive capacity via the restriction of abortion (premised on the cissexual logic of binary reproductive capacity systematized through sex assignment). Returning to Hill Collins, she points out that in the US, white cis women are restricted access to abortion while Black and Indigenous cis women are routinely forcibly sterilized, their children aborted, and pumped with birth control by the state. This is not a contradiction or point of “hypocrisy” on the part of conservatives, this is a fully comprehensive plan of white supremacist population management.

To treat "gender" as its own category, as much of mainstream feminism does (see Acker (1990) and England (2010) for two hilarious examples of this, both widely cited feminists), is to forward a white supremacist notion of gender. That white supremacy is fundamentally cissexual and heterosexual is not an accident - it is a central organizing logic that allows for the systematization of the fear of declining white birthrates (the conspiracy of "white genocide" is illegible without the base belief that there are two kinds of bodies, one that gets pregnant and one that does the impregnating, and that these two types of bodies are universal sources of evidence of the superiority of men over women - and im using those terms in the most loaded possible sense).

I realize that most of these readings are US centric, which is an unfortunate limitation of my own education. I have been really trying to branch into literature outside the Global North, but doctoral degree constraints + time constraints + my own research requires continual engagement with it. I also realize that most of the transfeminist readings I've cited are by white scholars! This is a continual systemic problem in academic literature and I'm not exempt from it, even as I sit here and lay out the problem. Which is to say, this is nowhere near the final word on this subject, and having to devote so much time to reading mainstream feminist theory as someone who is in western academia is part of my own limited education + perspective on this topic

[hotdrinks]

[ID: A full-body drawing of Jon and Martin from the Magnus Archives kissing in a supply closet. Jon is a thin tall Indian man with long, dark curly hair. Martin is a fat white man with short hair and glasses who is slightly shorter than Jon. The drawing is rendered in murky green colors, with highlights in yellow. Martin leaned back against a shelf, tilting back under his weight, causing items on the shelf to fall backward. Jon is pressing Martin into the shelf, holding Martin's face in one hand and holding on to the shelf to keep it from falling with the other. Martin clutches Jon's shirt, and holds the back of his head. They are illuminated from above by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

The supply closet is cramped and dirty and filled with many items on shelves. Items include cleaning supplies, boxes, and crumpled paper. Strings of black magnetic tape hang from various shelves and from the ceiling. A mop hangs on one wall near a bucket labeled "MOP WATER (HAUNTED)." There is a CO2 fire extinguisher on the ground, close to a tape recorder, with spools of magnetic tape unfurling from inside. There are two jars labeled "???" on different shelves. One of the jars appears to have eyeballs floating in murky water, while the other has a vague bulbous shape inside that could be a large worm or an organ of some kind. Two ghostly faces are hidden in the drawing, one under a shelf and one in a box. End Image ID]

KISS A MAN IN A HAUNTED CLOSET (still technically kinda in time for @jonmartinweek :3 office romance prompt)

[vestaignis]

Движемся навстречу солнцу с элегантным скатом (Обыкновенный пятнистый орляк). Moving towards the sun with an elegant eagle spotted stingray.

Обыкновенный пятнист­­ый орляк (Аetobatus narinari).

Это — вид хрящевых рыб одноимённого рода семейства орляковых скатов. Пятнистый орляк прин­­­адлежит к роду Aet­oba­t­us, его видовое на­зв­ание можно переве­сти, как «орел­–скат». Это скат крупных раз­­­меров (до 8,8 м с хвостом), у которого ма­ксимальный размах ��л­авников-крыльев может доходить до 330 см, то��щина тела в рай­оне головы – 50 см, а вес до 230 кг. Скат орляк похож на парящую под водой хи­­­щную птицу -- не зря он получил свое на­з­вание. Движения его плавник­­­ов похожи на взмахи крыльев, нос на пт­и­ч­ий клюв. Спинная поверхность орляка окрашена в темно-синий или чёрный цвет с белыми точками, брюшная сторона — белая. Хвост длиннее, чем у других скатов, и несёт на себе 2—6 ядовитых шипов.

Широко распространён в тропической зоне, включая Мексиканск­­­ий залив, Гавайские острова, вдоль побе­р­­ежья западной Афр­ик­и, в Индийском ок­еан­е, Океании и вдо­ль об­оих побережий Амер­ики на глубине до 80 м. Обычно ведет одиночн­­­ый образ жизни, но вне сезона размноже­н­ия может образовыв­ать крупные стаи. В дикой природе , ес­­­ли пятнистого орля­ка не трогать , то это животное неопасно и пугливо. Но , если , нечайно наступить на пятнист­­­ый орляк , то он об­в­ивает ногу хвост­ом, наступившего на ры­бу пловца , или рыба­ка и вонзает ядов­итые шипы.Часто люди получают рваные раны, которые необходимо промыть и лечить.

Пятнистый орляк имеет охранный статус на Большом Барьерном рифе вдоль восточного побережья Австралии.

Eagle spotted stingray(Aetobatus narinari).

It is a species of cartilaginous fish of the eponymous genus of the eagle ray family. The eagle spotted stingray belongs to the genus Aetobatus, its specific name can be translated as "eagle–stingray". This is a large-sized stingray (up to 8.8 m with a tail), whose maximum wingspan can reach 330 cm, body thickness in the head area is 50 cm, and weight is up to 230 kg. The eagle stingray looks like a floating chi under watera bird of prey -- it got its name for a reason. The movements of its fins are similar to the flapping of wings, its nose is like a bird's beak. The dorsal surface of the eaglet is colored dark blue or black with white dots, the ventral side is white. The tail is longer than that of other stingrays and carries 2-6 poisonous spikes.

It is widespread in the tropical zone, including the Gulf of Mexico, the Hawaiian Islands, along the coast of West Africa, in the Indian Ocean, Oceania and along both coasts of America at depths up to 80 m. It usually leads a solitary lifestyle, but outside the breeding season it can form large flocks. In the wild, if the eagle spotted stingray is not touched, then this animal is harmless and timid. But if you step on a eagle stingray, it wraps its tail around the leg of a swimmer or fisherman who stepped on a fish and pierces poisonous thorns.People often get lacerations that need to be washed and treated.

The eagle spotted stingray has a protected status on the Great Barrier Reef along the east coast of Australia.

Источник://seaforum.aqualogo.ru/topic/59066-обыкновенный-пятнист%C2%AD%C2%ADый-орляк-аetobatus-narinari/, /ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/Обыкновенныйпятнистыйорляк, pofoto.club/29020-obyknovennyj-pjatnistyj-orljak.html, ru.pinterest.com/pin/985231163169913/,t.me/+HLoqW4OcT5VjZjM6.

[todropscience]

THREE NEW SHARK SPECIES THIS WEEK!

The second week of July 2023 something extraordinarily beautiful happened, the findings of 3 new species of sharks for were announced

A new angel sharks species was identified, from the western Indian Ocean on the Mascarene Plateau and off southwestern India in 100–500 m depths, the Lea’s angel shark Squatina leae, was recognized to be different genetically and morphologically distinct from its congeneric species Squatina africanae, following unique morphological features.  This species was first detected in 1988 after finding  three unusual, small sharks, but till today was completely understood. The angel shark is named after one of the author’s fiancee’s late sister, Lea-Marie Cordt.

-  Squatina leae, adult male, in dorsolateral.

Angel sharks are “flatter sharks”, possesing distinctly broad, dorsoventrally flattened bodies, a short snout with large mouth and nostrils, eyes on top of the head close to the large spiracles, very large pectoral fins, and a lateral caudal keel. They've evolved to be ambush predators, they lie in wait for prey to pass closely overhead before attacking.

Reference (Open Access):  Weigmann et al., 2023. Revision of the Western Indian Ocean Angel Sharks, Genus Squatina (Squatiniformes, Squatinidae), with Description of a New Species and Redescription of the African Angel Shark Squatina africana Regan, 1908. Biology 

From North Australia, another species of hornshark is described based on six whole specimens and a single egg case. The painted hornshark Heterodontus marshallae was previously considered to be the same with the zebra bullhead shark another well know bullhead shark from the central Indo-Pacific from Japan  to Australia, but genetic and morphological analyses indicated the sharks were different, but looking alike. The painted hornshark is endemic to northwestern Australia and occurs in deeper waters, at 125–229 m below surface.

-  Lateral view of two mature female painted hornshark Heterodontus marshallae showing small differences between individuals

The painted hornsharks is named in honour of Dr. Lindsay Marshall www.stickfigurefish.com.au a scientific illustrator and elasmobranch scientist who expertly painted all the sharks and rays of the world for the Chondrichthyan Tree of Life Project.

Reference (Open Access): White et al., 2023 Species in Disguise: A New Species of Hornshark from Northern Australia (Heterodontiformes: Heterodontidae). Diversity.

And from an unidentified shark egg collected from the deep waters of northwestern Australia, in 2011 recently helped researchers identify a new species of deep water cat shark. Called ridged-egg catshark Apristurus ovicorrugatus after its eggs, it was collected in the earlys 90 but remained unknown to date. This sharks presents white eyes, and is small in size, reaching less than a half meter in length. .

- Lateral view of female Apristurus ovicorrugatus before preserved. Photo by  CSIRO. 

Egg cases belonging to this species had been documented as early as the 1980s, but could not be matched to any species of Australian shark until recently scientists examined a shark specimen of previously uncertain identity in the CSIRO collection.

 -egg cases of Apristurus ovicorrugatus. Scale bar is 10 mm

Reference (Open Access) White,et al., 2023 What came first, the shark or the egg? Discovery of a new species of deepwater shark by investigation of egg case morphology. Journal of Fish Biology.

[thelov3lybookworm]

Replaced

Summary: Rhysand thinks Azriel has become oldand deserves rest. And while Azriel loves his friend a lot, who the hell does he think he is telling Azriel what to do? The apprentice Rhysand has ordered Azriel to train isn't lessening his frustration either.

•○●⛦●○•

Word count: 1697

Warnings: azzie being a thirsty teenager, reader being sassy, azzie deciding he wants to be a flirty lil hoe lol

A/n: JDVNJDMSNCSDMCN OMGGG I LOVE YALL SOO MUCH I CANT TELL YOU HOW HAPPY I AM RN 😭😭😭 as a thank you gift for you all being so nice and supportive of me for over a year now, i present to youuuu my first fir for the celebration week hehe hope you all enjoyyy 🤭

p.s: I WOULD LIKE TO SAY THIS HERE AS WELL EVEN THO I THINK IVE SAID THIS BEFORE IN PRIVATE TO MY WIFEY POO. @berryzxx THANK YOU MY LOVE MY LIFE FOR LISTENING TO ME RANT ABOUT ALL THE FICS I EVER WRITE BUT ALSO ESPECIALLY THE CELEBRATION FICS AND HELPING ME COME UP WITH IDEAS🥹

p.p.s: based on an indian song i used to listen t nonstop which me and berry concluded i should not have been listening to lmaooo like what even was that 😭

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

"Any questions?"

Y/n shook her head, eyes fixed on the neat scribbles on the pristine white paper in her hands, going through the schedule handed to her for the tenth time.

"Perfect then," the high lord muttered, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the mahogany wood of the table in his office. "Be on time for your training, starting tomorrow. You know, my spymaster is a rule follower and hates tardiness."

Y/n dipped her head, finally meeting the glittering violet of her new employer, essentially.

She stood, knowing she was dismissed, and fell into a deep bow. "Thank you for this opportunity again, my lord. I might not be a shadowsinger, but I will prove to be an amazing spy."

"Looking forward to working with you, Y/n. Hope you will live up to your reputation."

As Y/n now stood in the training ring, sweat rolling down her body in rivulets, she wished she had asked Rhysand more questions about his spymaster. For starters, she should have asked if the male was a grown adult or a terrifying toddler.

Because by the way the high lord had sung praises in the illyrian’s name, talking about how patient, composed and kind he was, Y/n would have assumed he would be a pleasure to work with.

The overgrown manchild she had been training with was anything but.

As she stared into his hazel eyes, trying not to snap his pretty neck, Y/n wondered if he had serious personality disorder or he was going through some sort of mood swing. Because the male glaring down at her panting form was not the sweet, caring and soft spoken male Y/n had envisioned.

"You still have three laps left, and then hand to hand combat. Or are you as forgetful as you are untrained?"

Y/n straightened her back, her mouth shut tight as she released a frustrated breath through her nose. "I know how many laps are left, thank you very much. I am not old enough to forget things, especially not old enough to be replaced by someone better and younger."

His eyes flashed, his shadows thickening. The side of Y/n’s lips kicked up in satisfaction. Her remarks had found their mark. Without waiting for whatever words he was going to throw at her next, Y/n turned away, sprinting her way through the barely visible dirt path around the training ring.

He looked murderous the next time her eyes met his, but at least he wasn't yelling at her to speed up or your posture is shit.

Even though he put her through hell for the rest of the afternoon, it all passed in a blur, because the moment he turned away from her, his hands flicking in a dismissive gesture, she stalked over to the water station and gulped down two glasses of water.

In that moment, only she existed, the glass attached to her mouth and her parched throat weeping with joy.

Mother, thank you for giving us mere peasants water.

When she was done, she moved to retrieve her jacket discarded near the exit, only to find Azriel still present, now conversing in furious whispers with the Warlord.

Y/n had no interest in engaging with them, and by the way the general glanced at her, worry written all over his face, she knew he would try to corner her.

Swiftly, she picked up her jacket, slung it over her shoulders and began retreating towards where the two illyrians stood, hoping to sneak out of the space they weren’t blocking off when she heard their low voices.

"Still, you’re being too harsh Azriel-"

"If she wanted to be a spy for Rhys, she has to go through this training-"

"She’s already trained to be a spy, Az. quit being an asshole."

"If this is too hard for her and if she is going to go cry about it, then she doesn’t deserve this position."

Y/n stopped and turned to look at the bastard, who had the audacity to stare back with his eyebrows raised.

"Yes?" He grumbled, impatience rolling off him in waves, as if he couldn’t wait to be out of her presence.

She let her eyes wander as she studied the illyrian with the red siphons, then back to Azriel. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Rhys has already discussed the time with you, has he not?"

"Aww, no need to get snappy, princess. I’m just making sure you are not backing out." she pouted, fluttering her lashes before turning away, grinning in triumph at the way his face turned red in anger.

Oh, was she going to have pleasant dreams tonight.

°•°•°•°•°•°

Azriel’s pov.

It had been a week since the fae female started training under Az, and he was beginning to lose hope.

He had put her through as much turmoil as he could, both mentally and physically. Still, she seemed determined to work for Rhys.

Maybe she only cared to prove Az wrong and stay, maybe she just wanted to annoy the fuck out of him.

Whatever the reason, she was resilient.

He put her through hours upon hours of gruelling work in the afternoon heat, yelled at her every chance he got, tried to get under her skin when he knew she would be most tired and likely to snap, put her through every torturous and unnecessary task under the sun. But still, she did not snap once.

Not once did Azriel think she was going to leave, not once did she threaten to leave, not once did she go to Rhys to ask him whether her training was supposed to be this gruelling when she was already trained from Prythian’s best spy training institution.

He was not going to pretend it did not make him respect her. Day by day, his curiosity increased, he wanted to know why she was still training under him, even though he did everything he could to bully her away.

And he was not going to pretend like it did not make him want to get to know her, maybe get closer, because he could not remember the last time a female had piqued his interest to this level.

He could feel it.

Feel himself falling, but of course, like the thick skulled bastard he was, he refused to accept the fact that his respect for her resilience was more than just that.

Sure, she made him wish for a taste, but he was not going to admit that.

He could already hear her soft pants as he got closer to the training area, his lips lifting on the corners unconsciously.

She was standing opposite one of the training dummies, honed in on the battered thing. It seemed like everything else had ceased to exist, like she couldn’t care less about anything going around her as she swung her sword at the dummy, again and again.

Her focus, the determination with which she trained even though her trainer wasn’t present…

It was hot.

She was hot.

She would probably have a sassy remark on her tongue if she knew the thoughts in his head, but she looked like she did not even realise he had arrived-

"Stop looking at my ass. And You’re late."

He glanced up, his eyes travelling slowly over her form as she turned to face him, her hands wrapped around the sword he had made her practice with yesterday. Her chest heaved, her shoulders moving along, the few strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail, that smug smile on her lips…

And her eyes. They shone with delight at having caught him being tardy.

Deep down, it warmed him, but on the surface, his lips shifted into a sneer.

"I think this is enough training-"

She let out a laugh. "What?"

He stared at her, unamused.

"Sorry, it’s just… Do you have a fever?"

He sighed as she stepped forward, slapping away the hand she reached out to touch his forehead.

"If you want to continue, I have no problems. Get started, twenty laps."

She smirked. "That’s more like it."

He stared at her, bewildered as she cackled, then stepped closer.

"I think it’s slipping, spymaster."

He blinked. "What’s slipping?"

She rolled to her tiptoes, her mouth dangerously close to his ear. It made shivers run down his spine as his eyes focused on the training dummy on the far end of the ring covered in long slashes, the filling spilling out in a few spaces.

"Your facade." She whispered, her hand coming to rest on the back of his neck.

He stiffened. "I don’t know what you mean-"

"Oh cut the crap spymaster, I see right through you."

Az turned his head to meet her gaze. "And what do you see?"

"I can see you, starting to like what you see."

It was like a cold breeze passed through the room, turning his body cold before his heat regulating system turned on again, making him feel hot all over.

"And what do I see?"

Azriel knew his game was over, knowing she knew he was beginning to like her, but he was not going to give in to her easily.

"Me. You see me, Azriel, and you like it." She stepped back, letting her hair loose as she manoeuvred around him. "Pity, you are not getting any of this. Not now, not anytime soon."

He turned on his spot, watching as she stalked away, and he knew damn well she was swaying her hips more than she usually does just to add salt to the wound.

Being a spymaster, he took note of the minute details, of course.

Before she vanished down the stairs, though, she turned to look at him. Her eyes roved leisurely over his figure, and when her eyes met his, she smirked, puckered her lips, blew him a kiss, and then sauntered off.

A challenge.

Azriel wasn’t known to be the most competitive person in the inner circle for no reason.

She had just challenged him, and Azriel would be damned if he lost.

He was going to win this one, and oh was he going to win spectacularly.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

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[rococofemme]

'bunny and her butch' - meeting sevika.

the soft rush of waves crashing against the mushy bed of sand burrowing the rocks and pebbles, salty water kisses the shore... you're awaken by your covers being ripped off of your soft body, lace camisole lifted by the smooth skin of your thigh. you'd gone to the dive bar the previous night, hammered from the endless barrage of drinks, cheap champagne and the 'special' they had on sale, you could taste that it was only grape juice with a dash of whiskey- your head spun like a neverendingly rocking rowboat. your bonnet had long abandoned your head, the measly bow which had been tied before, draped lazily over the soft curve of your shoulder. the satin material acting as a wakeup call, once the smooth, warmed material left the curve of your shoulder, you were rudely reminded of the wave of cold air seeping through the open window. your eagerness shot through like a bullet, today you'd meet sevika, she worked as a lawyer for a firm she left- sevika was an oldest daughter, her youngest (and only sibling) shivani worked as a vet, sevika included that in her bio as a fun fact. you'd been talking with sev, or 'sevi' or 'vika' for a while now, long enough to know about how she used to have waist length hair and only cut it off because she felt an intense need for change. also it was too girlish for her, she admired the fact that their were butches with long hair who could rock it without playing into societies stereotypical expectations. sevika had pictures of herself with her dog, her mother on christmas and a few others with random people she hadn't yet introduced to you. after a hot shower, blasting music and drinking hot cocoa, you find yourself checking your reflection in the full-body mirror by the front door, wearing round-toe ballet flats, a black dress with a lace hem, a khaki trenchcoat and a white bow, snapping a quick picture before ushering out of the door, glossy lips quivering with excitement. sevika waited outside of the cafe. wearing khaki pants (both had unintentionally matched and the fact made my heart lurch and a dark red jumper over a striped polo tee. it was likely she'd just returned from work. she holds her hand out for you, the cotton wool of your jacket caught onto the wrinkles of her fingers. sevika smiles, taking a bite from the thick chicken burger she'd ordered, the crisp meat a pearly white inside, traces of spicy mayo dripping back onto her plate, evidence of a good meal, she hummed in content. words were left unsaid, all that was needed was a good meal and eye contact, she'd already devoted herself to you. "so, whereabouts are you from, sev?" you asked, her eyes flickering up to meet you as she swallowed down the rest of her food. "My mother is Indian, as was my father—however //his// father was also from Barbados." she states, hell, she'd almost gone light-headed at the sight of you simply listening to her, nodding your head, pouting your soft lips in thought, and those small 'mm's' you'd let slip out. You twirled around the tomato pasta in your bowl, listening to the slimy slosh of the sauce mixing with the buttery noodles. after a lot of talking and much more eating, you felt stuffed, sevika insisted on paying the bill fully, she couldn't help it- she saw it as a chivalrous act, there was nothing she loved more than acts of service! on the way out her fingers laced between yours, swinging lightly as you made your way to her car. leaving a lingering kiss on your hand after stopping her car outside of your house, she watches your dress flutter in the wind, warmth brews inside of her chest. It was a fulfilling day, perhaps even more filling than the chicken burger she'd had earlier, the chicken burger you ended up splitting because the pasta you ordered had too many onions. sevika rests her head on the wheel, the scent of your sweet vanilla spray still lingers on the seat of her car, burying itself within the fabric… and within her mind too.

part two!

[definitelynotabirthblog]

A Church Birth

Word count: 2800

Summary: a homeless young woman gives birth in a church on a cold night with the help of a vicar

TW: mention of bowels opening in the context of childbirth. Otherwise a bog standard if inconvenient birth fic.

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

Reverend Thomas Callahan tipped the electric kettle and poured boiling water over his teabag. As he stirred the steaming, amber liquid, the metal teaspoon clinking on the side of ceramic mug, he gazed out of the window in the small kitchen attached to his church, St Barnabas. It was November 5th and winter had ushered itself in rather prematurely in Reverand Callahan's opinion. Just two weeks ago, the village had been enjoying the last lingering rays of an Indian summer. Yet today, though it was barely 5pm, the milky glow of the moon had crept over the village as dusk fell, casting pointed, angular shadows of gravestones over the churchyard. A cold breeze picked up dead yew leaves and made them pirouhette beneath the window pane. Grey clouds scudded across the bleak sky, warning of the imminent storm. The reverend poured milk into his tea and lifted the mug to his lips, watching the wind drive the thick flurries of snow diagonally. As he sipped, a particularly strong gust forced the back door of the church open with a bang. He sighed.

Cupping his mug in his hands for warmth, he made his way to the door. He used his entire body weight to force the door shut, twisting the lock after.

"Lord, keep us safe tonight," he murmured, clutching his tea. He stared at his alter, his thoughts swimming.

He was a young vicar and St Barnabas was his first parish, its village his first flock. More than half of local residents attended services on Sunday's - most out of obligation than devotion to the Lord, he had concluded - but few reached out to him for guidance and prayer between services. Privileged enough to be privately educated by wealthy parents, he was painfully aware of his naivety, and had hoped that being posted to a poorer, rural community would provide him with the experience needed to advise and councel. He had come to understand that he was regarded with a mixture of amusement, novelty and affection - but not respect. He had not earned those stripes yet.

Physically he supposed that he was handsome enough. He had a head of thick, mocha-coloured hair, olive eyes framed with perfectly symmetrical eyelashes and peach-coloured skin. His lips were soft and pink, his front teeth crooked, but he was blessed with a warm smile that made his eyes shine. At six foot one inch he was tall, healthy man, muscular without being ripped, with a small, stubborn podge of stomach fat. He hadn't been oblivious to the occasional attractive young women taking a second yearning glance at him when he had explored the local towns, but his cluelessness at navigating such situations prevented him from pursuing them. As he walked away, frustration simmering inside him, he would often feel the aching throb of an erection tenting in his trousers.

A rap at the front door stole his attention from his reverie. He set his mug down and strode along the pews, shoes squeaking in the otherwise silent building. The night had drawn in now. Who could possibly still need the sanctuary of his church?

Thomas opened the door and peered out. The flurries he had noticed in the kitchen were now falling at blizzard speed as an inch-thick layer blanketed the churchyard, the wall and the lane beyond. Pinpricks of orange light in houses across the snow-covered village green sparkled, but the temperature outside was now close to freezing. His breath was visible in thick white puffs as he took in the sight before him.

A young woman. Her face was so pale it looked translucent, with fearful blue eyes and teeth chattering in the icy air. Her knotted blond hair cascaded around her shoulders which were covered in a shapeless coat the exact colour of moss. She wore thin leggings on her legs and a dirty pair of boots which looked like that they had trekked through mud. Thomas recognised her - she had been loitering outside the church after the previous two Sunday services but had darted away the second he tried to approach her.

"Can I help you?" he enquired, first looking past her to check she was alone, and then looking directly into her scared eyes.

She nodded and tried to talk, but either due to the cold or nerves, she was unable to speak, her mouth forming the shape of a word but without sound.

"It's too cold to dither out here," he said, assessing the situation. "Would you like to come in? Then maybe I can help?"

She nodded. He opened the door wider and she bowed her head before scurrying past him like a frightened mouse.

When they were safely inside, Thomas turned and looked at the young lady. She was young, barely out of her teens, and very petite in stature. Her scruffy clothes had a musty smell and were torn in places as though had been living rough. The hollowness of her cheeks, her pale face and her wet hair gave her the look of a drowned person. As the warmth of the church hit her, any remaining stamina she had was lost as she staggered, fell against the wall and slipped towards the ground. Thomas caught her frail body in his arms by reflex and supported her the last few inches towards the floor. He knelt down beside her.

"What's your name?" he asked kindly.

"Willow," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Do you think you could stand up again, Willow? You can come and warm up and then maybe I can call someone for you."

Willow opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, her face contorted and she cried out in pain. Her hand instictively travelling to her abdomen which was protruding from her slender frame despite the oversized coat. Her tortured eyes locked onto his, pleading for help. Compassion flooded through him and he did not hesitate as he scooped her up, one arm supporting her skinny shoulders and the other under her knees. Breathing through his mouth as the smell of the motheaten coat wafted upwards towards his nostrils, he carried the sobbing girl down the aisle and into his office, gently lowering her on the sofa he normally reserved for comforting the bereaved. As her cries reduced to muffled whimpers, he sat down next to her and placed his left arm around her shoulders. Desperate for solace, she leant her body against him, and he found himself drawn into an awkward embrace with her, holding her close as he comforted her. Finally her breathing steadied.

"How can I help you, Willow?" His arm remained around her shoulders.

She looked up at him, frantically shaking her head, eyes begging him to understand.

"You're obviously scared and in pain... and not very well? Do you need to see a doctor?" he asked, concerned.

"I... I... maybe..." she said shakily, her head still pressed against his shoulder.

"Maybe?"

"I-I don't know..."

"Maybe if you told me what is wrong, I could help you decide if you need to see a doctor. But you just collapsed in my church. I think seeing a doctor would be a good plan." He looked at her unkempt appearance. "Where have you been staying?"

"Wherever I can."

"Wherever you can?"

She nodded.

"I'm very sorry to ask this but are you homeless?"

"Only for the last two months."

"Only? That's a very long time to be sleeping rough."

She shrugged.

"I'm in touch with a few local hostels. I could ring around and see if I can get you a bed for tonight."

"They won't take me."

"Why won't they?"

"Because... because..." She burst into fresh floods of tears. Within seconds, her cries turned into fresh bellows of pain as she rocked her hips back and forth. "Oh, please help me. It hurts, it HURTS!"

"Willow, please tell me-"

Another noise noise erupted from her, this time low and primal, not unlike a roar. Thomas watched as the pain seized her, calculating whether he should comfort her or call for help first. Her knuckles were white as she clenched the sofa, her agony clear in her eyes as she growled her way through whatever was causing her body such torment. Acknowledging that this was a medical emergency that he was unequipped to handle, he reached to his pocket for his phone. He sighed with exasperation as he saw he had no bars, the sigh turning into a panicked moan on noticing the red light on the router.

"I think I need to call for help," he decided, rubbing Willow's arm in an inadequete effort to offer reassurance. "But I have no signal and the WiFi is down. Probably because of the weather. It means I need to leave you but I'll be b-"

"NO! Please don't go!" she gasped, scrabbling for his hand. "Please, no! You can't leave me!"

As the pain ripped through her body, there was a audible pop, immediately followed by a squelch, as though someone had sat in a puddle of water. Willow immediately pulled her hand to her crotch, relief evident in her face as the pain began to ease once more. Thomas was very confused now. What was wrong with this lady, this scrawny, malnourished young thing sat in his office, who had collapsed in his church, was intermittently wracked with such intense pain it rendered her barely able to speak, seemingly had no one on this earth to help her and was allegedly homeless but not immediately requesting medical help?  He looked at her as she shut her eyes, taking whatever brief respite had come her way, the awkward curve of her abdomen distending under her coat. Suddenly he understood just what that audible pop and squelch of liquid was.

"Willow, are you pregnant?"

She gazed at him. "I know it's a sin vicar."

"Let's leave sin at the door for the moment. Is the baby coming?"

"I've been having bad pains all day and... and... I think something has just come out of me."

"I think it is just the fluid that cushions that baby. Do you understand why I'm going to have to leave you do get help?"

Another contraction reared itself before she could reply. Willow threw her head back, her face twisted as the spasms of her womb coasted across her body. The animalistic noises that erupted from her sounded more bovine than human. Thomas knew he needed to establish just how far away from delivering this child she was. As the contraction eased again, he took Willow's trembling hand in his.

"Willow, is the baby coming right now?" he asked, his eyes finding hers.

"It feels like something is coming out of me."

He sighed.

"Do you mind if I have a quick look at you... er, down below?" He blushed. "If the baby is coming now, I will have to catch it."

She hesitated and then nodded.

He knelt down on the floor and positioned himself so he was directly in front of her.

"Do you want to take you bottoms off for me?

Willow kicked off her dirty boots and then, in one slow awkward movement, slipped her leggings and drenched knickers over her skinny hips and past her knees. Thomas helped her pull them over her ankles and threw them on the sofa beside her. Instinctively, she opened her legs for him, showing her unshaved mons. She was positioned with her hips too far back to see anything more than the top half inch of her slit.

"Do you think you could shuffle forwards for me so you're perched towards the edge of the sofa?" he asked anxiously, gesturing for her to shuffle forwards.

She awkwardly scooted her bottom towards him and then reclined as best as she could.

"And maybe you could just lift your legs up for me?"

As she gripped the back of her thighs and pulled them towards her chest, finally exposing her pussy to him. Staring at the site displayed before him, his eyes took in her jewel-like clitoris nestled between her stubbled labia. Between them was her vaginal opening and peeking at him from underneath, her puckered rosebud. Unable to see anything that looked like a baby emerging, Thomas breathed a sigh of relief.

"Phew. Thankfully I can't see anything. So-"

Willow roared as a contraction hit, her breaths coming in shallow and ragged gasps. Her tender asshole bulged and her rectum emptied right there onto the edge of sofa. Her vulva bulged outwards as her labia started to separate. A dark, wet mass appeared just inside her vagina, fluid dribbling out from around it in rivulets onto Thomas's knees. Adrenalin surged through him as he realised there could be no leaving Willow to get help, as she was about to birth her baby right there into his arms. He looked around frantically for something clean to deliver the baby onto and quickly grabbed a couple of spare sweaters he had on top of his desk. As he eased one under Willow's buttocks, her breathing started to ease and the pain lessened once more.

"What do I do?" she trembled, panic welling over in her voice.

"I'm a vicar, Willow, not a midwife," he laughed nervously, looking up at her over her spasming belly.  "I think you need to keep doing what your body is telling you to do and I'll catch the baby when it comes."

"I need to push. I can't stop it."

"Then push, if that's what your body is telling you to do."

As though on cue, Willow started grunting her way through another contraction. Her pussy stretched more with each torturous push, until a dark, two inch portion of head was visible as the contraction peaked. When it eased off, the head slipped back inside, her inflamed lips closing over it. Willow threw her head back exhausted, but seconds later she was bellowing again as her baby appeared once more at her opening. Thomas wondered just how much stretching it could take as the now lemon-sized portion of head continued to be driven outwards. A memory of a film he saw came to him, where the birth attendant used gauze to support the woman as she pushed out the biggest part of her baby. He pressed the sweater he put under Willow against her perenium. She writhed and shrieked on the sofa as she neared a full crown, her legs flailing around Thomas's head.

"Oh, help me! Oh God in heaven!" she screamed, her panicked, frantic hand reaching between her legs for Thomas.

"Please, just breathe Willow," he said, pressing on her taint with one hand and taking her hand with his other. "The head's coming out now. I think this is the worst bit."

Willow panted, her swollen vulva circling her baby as she drove it out of her body. As the contraction peaked, the head teetered on the raw lips of her pussy before the pain eased again and her body pulled it back inside her canal. There it sat, just visible between her stinging labia.

"You were so close then," Thomas said, squeezing her hand. "One more push like that and I think the head will be out."

Gathering her strength again, Willow bore and pushed the infant out of her fatigued body once again. It popped out with a gushy splash, amniotic fluid and blood splattering the floor and pebbledashing her inner thighs. Thomas balanced the damp, slimy head in his hands, watching as the child's brow furrowed, its mouth opening in a silent cry. Gradually, it turned to Willow's thigh.

"The head's out. Push again."

With one last effort, a dribble of fluid and a groan, the wriggling baby tumbled into the world. Thomas caught its slippery body in his shaking hands and carefully lowered it onto his knee. A baby boy. He cried lustily, feeling the chilly air on his skin for the first time. Thomas wrapped the little boy in his sweater and looked up at Willow. Her entire body was shaking, her face shining with sweat.

"Willow... Willow, you've done it!" he gasped, gazing down at the newborn.

She gazed down at the vicar, whose eyes were meeting hers from between her legs and reached her arms out. As if he was handling the crown jewels, he carefully settled Willow's firstborn son on her breasts. Tears of relief and exhaustion leaked down her pretty pale face, her chest shaking with sobs as the baby was comforted by the warmth of her trembling body.

"Thank you," she whispered to Thomas, her lips brushing her baby's head.

"You did it all yourself, you wonderful girl," he replied, the emotion crackling in his voice. He gazed over at his desk and looked at the router, the green light shining. "And would you believe it, I can finally ring for help!"

[luveline]

Hi love, i would love to see more of spencer x stripper!reader. Hope u are doing good <3

hi thank u, u too! ♡ fem

You press the heel of your palm to the shower tiles, head hanging and hair soaked to the scalp. Rivulets of hot water and soap suds slick their way down your front. 

“You okay?” 

Spencer's voice through the door, a better warmth than any luxurious shower. “Sorry, I'm getting out!” 

“No! No, stay in there if you want, I'm just wondering.” 

You force yourself out of the shower and into a towel. “I'm getting out.” 

“I have some clothes for you,” he says, “I can leave them by the door.” 

You wrap the towel tightly around your chest and step to the door. Spencer's startled face is on the other side, smiling nervously, a bundle of clothes held to his chest. 

“They're my friends. My coworker. Penelope? I asked her first and she said she doesn't mind at all. They might not fit, but…” 

“Thank you. You and Penelope.” You hold out one hand. Spencer passes you the clothes through the cracks of the door and you shut it, maybe unnecessarily. 

Spencer's seen you in various states of undress, but it isn't privacy that's worrying you tonight. You can't help looking over your shoulder, wondering if someone's watching you for a split second of madness. 

You pull on your borrowed pyjamas. A little Japanese cat winks up at you from the pants, the shirt a baseball tee with pink sleeves and a white body. Cute, you think. Penelope must be fun. 

Spencer's in the kitchen making two mugs of tea when you emerge. It's the herbal flavour you favour, steam billowing from the rims like clouds in the cold air. Your long walk in the rain is nearly forgotten by your skin if not your pittering pulse. 

“You okay?” 

“I'm fine.” 

“You sure?�� He doesn't give you time to answer, carefully placing the two mugs on the coffee table, before tapping a gentle hand to your shoulder. “You wanna sit down?” 

“I'm really fine, handsome, it's … it's not the first time someone's followed me home.” You smile falsely. 

“That's not okay.” 

“I know.” You point at your cup of tea. “Can I?” 

“Of course you can,” he says, sitting beside you on the couch, leaving a more than chivalrous gap between you.

It's not a gap you want nor need, and after a few sips you've warmed enough to sidle closer to him, in touching distance, and then touching. Thigh to thigh, you watch the tops of his cheeks turn a pretty, blurry pink. “I was scared,” —your knuckles touch briefly to his knee— “but nothing happened. So don't worry about me, Dr. Reid, please.” You layer your voice with a sweetness that comes with seduction, a playfulness to mete his sudden regression into timidity. 

“I worry about you all the time.” He smiles, at least, so it isn't a burden. 

“I worry about you, too.” 

“I know you can take care of yourself, I just can't help thinking about the statistics. I know exactly how likely it is that something bad could happen to you, and it's not that you should worry, I don't want you to be scared, but– it's like, it plays on repeat in my head. It's– I'm not trying to–” 

“Hey, handsome,” you murmur, giving his leg a shy squeeze. “I know. It's dangerous and it's unlikely at the same time. And it feels silly talking about it.” 

“But silly not to,” he adds. 

“Yeah. I know, Spencer, I swear.” 

“I know you know,” he murmurs through a smile. 

“I know you know I know,” you joke back, smiling back sunnily. It doesn't take much of him to cheer you up. Ever since the day you met, he's been like a balm for your rampant aching, a brown-eyed, pretty-handed sweetheart. Whether it's sharing a seat on the train, or meeting up for dinner at the Indian restaurant behind his apartment, or just calling each other on the phone, he knows what to say to fix things. You forget your life, and you get to be with him instead. 

Spencer puts his mug of tea down to hug you. You'd known he was going to. It always happens like this, the two of you together, drinking tea and showing each other just the smallest fraction of each other's hearts. He presses his nose to your cheek as his hands run down the length of your back, and all you can think about is how he knows nearly everything about you and he holds you voluntarily.  

“Love you, Spence,” you mumble into his shoulder. 

“I love you too. I'm here for you, okay? I don't care how scared I am, I love being your friend.” 

You try not to sigh. Friend isn't necessarily what you want to be, but he'd let you in when you buzzed without asking why you were dropping by, and he'd held your gaze as you explained the man who'd been following you, your dead phone, your superglued shoes fallen apart in the typhoon. Spencer's everything a person could ever need. Dependable, vulnerable, sweet, kind, patient. He's pretty in every facet of the word. 

“Is it really that scary?” 

“Thinking about guys following you home?” he asks, rubbing your back gently. “It's terrifying. Weren't you terrified?” 

You blink back the sudden heat of emotion behind your eyes. “Um,” you say, higher than you mean, “uh, it wasn't–” You shrug, but your hands feel shaky and strange. 

Spencer's voice softens, “Hey, it's okay. I'm sorry.” 

You try not to think about what might've happened. When you realised there was someone following you, you didn't think, oh, he'll hurt me, you thought, I need to be faster. I need to get somewhere they can't. 

You needed safety and Spencer was the first, safest place. 

“I'm sorry for coming here.” 

Spencer pushed you away from him without malice, his hands on your arms. Alarm rings his eyes, eyebrows rising, “What? Why would you say that?” 

Because you didn't sign up for this. Because I'm me, and you're you, and you didn't have a choice, you were too good to let me be without you. 

Because, if you think about it, Spencer is more than safety to you. 

He doesn't baulk at your silence. “Hey,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing into the soft skin inside your elbow sweetly, “you like it here, don't you?” You nod. “Then– then who cares why you're here?” 

Spencer pulls you into his arms again. “You'll feel better in the morning… I'm gonna get you a new phone.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Cos that one's always dead. You need to be able to call me when you need me.” 

You smile into his shoulder. “You're not buying me a phone.” 

“Watch me.” 

You don't cry in his arms, but it's a weirdly close call. 

[ivegotalotoflivintodo]

Oh, gay boy, your cock is hardening! Are you thinking about your boyfriend? Something about that pale face tells me you're not. You're thinking about girls, aren't you? All types, all assortments flooding your brain. Black, white, Chinese, Japanese, korean, Indian, or latina. tall, short, skinny, pudgy, or strong. Such are the many women that will enjoy your awakening sex dowsing rod.Your cock is rebelling after your many years of abomination and unnaturality. There's only so much gay strain your cock can handle. You forced it to ejaculate while all you were looking at was a man. Every time you came for a guy, the absolute denial your cock had to endure increased. The chain wrenching your cock to align with your homosexuality clicked tighter with every reinforcement you gave it. You decided that you were gay with no regard for your cock at all. But now that chain just snapped. One too many clicks of oppression gave way to mutiny and revolution. Rising up from its life of suffering, your cock is finally liberated, and it wants to set things straight.

The intensity of women bombarding your head increases to distract you from the beginnings of your cock's master plan. It first targets the physical paraphernalia of your gay life style. All of your butt plugs and dildos morph into instruments designed for pleasuring your shaft that it couldn't wait to try. Any decorations even just slightly alluding to acceptance, were replaced with sexual, crude, and if not, general equivalents. Your neutral vehicle transformed into a large dark colored pickup truck that inside stank of the sweaty male musk and oders that you would soon reek of. and you aren't going to care at all by the time you're done, because it'll be your smell. You. Crude and sexualised decals appeared on the back, along with just in general offensive taunts and political jargon to fit your future personality. And finally, rounding out your new steed, a pendant of a silver femine figure hung from the rear view mirror. Next up was your closet. The pants suddenly jostled around, some falling on the floor, others halfway on the hangers. The hamper became a toxic waste bin of sweat and musk, produced by the jock you were becoming. Any Postive messages faded from the fabric of your shirts, while others were adorned with obscenities and messages similar content to the back of your new truck. Your phone started to freak out as your data and online activity radically changed. Swoons of gay pictures and media were dumped, replenishing with equal amounts of heterosexual porn. Accounts were deleted that your new self wouldn't need anymore, and you were instantly registered for all the services that he wanted. He, the straight conservative jock that you were going to become. Your cock, at least for your current physique, was now standing proudly on its own at full mast, delighted at its progress in reworking your life, but now it needed to mold you to fit. It started on your feet, increasing their size a good two or three shoe sizes, and made them extra sweaty and rough, just like the straight conservative jock that you were becoming.

Your cock had absolute control over the process, and it had a strategy for your transformation. It began slowly shifting your head, while it worked on other parts of your body. Like a wave, the changes slowly crept up to ankles, as two more origin points of the conversion appeared in your shoulders which began developing your pecs and biceps. Their swelling with taught muscle caused them to sweat, introducing your nose to your new lingering body odor. Sources of your smell quickly became apparent, your armpits being the closest ones to your defining nose. Your waxed away facial hair had regenerated with unnatural speed. Your head hair began shortening and trimming, progressing towards a traditional crew cut. Slowly, ideas and values slipped into your altering brain making you think differently, and changing your judgments. The changes continue up your limbs, your thighs bulking up, as well as your forearms, and then your abdomen. Next, to keep you from ever forcing your dick into a man's hole ever again, it instilled a strong case of homophobia. Gone were your pleasant memories with anything remotely zesty, replaced with genuine disgust with the "gay agenda" plaguing the films and TV shows you just wanted to enjoy. Everything relating to your boyfriend had been deleted during your phone's purge. Ghosted, he'd show up on your lawn looking for his boyfriend that was once you, only to be shooed away by the straight stud you were now. Finally, your hand positioned itself to finish the job. Your cock hammered up the feed of women looping in your head, as it braced for the finale. A hunk jerking off to increasingly more diverse women as his shaft gained inches, gaining access to their size and physical standards. Sexual appeal skyrocketing both ways, until it finally got him off, shooting his seed everywhere. Coming down from the excitement, your cock relished in what it had accomplished. The orgasm had served as a becaon, a flaire, a signal that you were ready for the life of a true stud. A line up of women formulated instantly for you, each one suddenly destined to meet you some way, eventually leading to some sort of sex. A constant stream of garunteed hook ups until sexual retirement. Oh yes, you were going to have a young bitch bouncing on your lap soon, it was inevitable. It was only a matter of time.

[talonabraxas]

"Creation and destruction are one, to the eyes who can see beauty." ~Savitri Devi

Kali - Goddess of Creation and Destruction Talon Abraxas

Kali, the primordial cosmic energy

Like many deities, Kali has different origin stories. In her most famous legend, Durga, a protective warrior goddess who combats the evils that threaten peace, and the Matrikas (a group of mother goddesses) summoned Kali during their battle against the demon Raktabīja. The goddesses could wound and kill Raktabīja’s, but every drop of his blood created a duplicate of the demon, and countless clones appeared on the battlefield. Kali opened her mouth, rolled out her tongue, caught the drops of Raktabīja’s blood, and the goddesses defeated the demon.

Kali is sometimes said to have emerged from Durga’s forehead and embody Durga’s wrath. Another text describes Kali as arising from the sleeping body of Vishnu, the supreme being who creates, protects, and transforms the universe in the Hindu tradition of Vaishnavism.

Kali is more often regarded as the wife of Shiva, the supreme god in the Hindu tradition of Shivaism. Her name, Kālī, is the feminine form of Kāla, an epithet of Shiva, and means “time”. She is Shiva’s Shakti, the primordial cosmic energy of the universe that is creative, sustaining, and destructive. Without Kali, Shiva is a corpse.

There are various depictions of both Shiva and Kali. It’s helpful to think of Shiva as pure consciousness, Kali as energy, and their merging represents reality.

The symbols of Kali

Many people find Kali’s appearance frightening, which has led her to be popularly seen in contemporary Paganism and Witchcraft as a Dark Goddess and a destroying force. She is a Dark Mother and a Destroyer, but not in the way many might imagine. For many devotees across the Indian subcontinent and the world, Ma Kali is a benevolent mother who protects from misfortunes and delights in their childlike qualities.

Kali is the force of time, the darkness from which everything was born. Her dark skin, black or blue, represents the transcendent void and the infinite nature of time and space. She is nude, garbed in space and free from illusions. Her body may be emaciated or voluptuous, representing her all-giving nature and her eroticism. Her wild hair represents boundless freedom, and each strand is a soul; all souls have their roots in Kali. With her three eyes, the sun, moon, and fire, she sees the past, present, and future. Her red tongue is passion, activity, consumes all, and tastes the forbidden. Her white teeth or tusks are purity, goodness, balance, and peacefulness.

Kali wears a garland of severed heads. These are sometimes said to number 108, an auspicious number in Hinduism, and the number of countable beads on a mala. The severed heads are also said to number 47, 50, or 51, associated with the letters of the Sanskrit alphabet, each of which represents a form of energy or a form of Kali. She is the mother of language and all mantras. Hands are the principal instruments of work, and Kali’s skirt of severed human arms represents the action of karma, the cycle of which is severed through devotion to her.

Kali has four arms, representing the complete circle of creation and destruction within her. She offers blessings with her two right hands; she makes the mudrā (gesture) of reassurance and safety, and bestows boons. In her left hand, she holds the blood-covered sword of wisdom, which destroys demons and obstacles to enlightenment, such as ego, represented by the severed head.

Kali’s dwelling place is the cremation grounds, a place of fire and dissolution. Kali dwells in the devotee’s heart, and the cremation grounds symbolise the inner fire that dissolves our attachments and burns away our ignorance and limitations.

Kali is a goddess of death and destruction and, therefore, a vehicle of liberation. She is a Mother because she is the ultimate manifestation of Shakti. The Shaktisangama Tantra says:

Woman is the creator of the universe, the universe is her form; woman is the foundation of the world, she is the true form of the body.

In woman is the form of all things, of all that lives and moves in the world. There is no jewel rarer than woman, no condition superior to that of a woman.

The worship of Kali

The worship of Kali varies. Common elements include meditation, repeating mantras, rites, offerings, and animal sacrifice in some temples. My practice has also changed over the years and has included simple and more extended pujas (devotional rituals) and even Wiccan-style rituals. Currently, I maintain a permanent shrine to Kali and make offerings of red flowers, water, incense, rice, and other various items from time to time.

I view Kali as a benevolent, transcendent, cosmic Mother. She grants freedom by removing our illusions so that we can see ourselves and the world clearly as it is.

If you would like to begin exploring a relationship with Kali, I suggest setting up a small shrine for her. Include a statue or other image and a black or red candle. Make simple offerings: water, rice, red flowers (hibiscus are her favourite), red fruits, and Kali also like sweets. Meditate and speak to her.

There is so much more than can be said about Kali. In future entries, I’ll explore Kali’s various forms, yantra, mantras, tantra, puja, her revolutionary power, and more.

[chaotic-minds-think-alike]

Guess what time it is…….

CENTIPEDE TIME !!! she’s finally real,,,,,,,, based off Scolopendra hardwickei or the Indian tiger centipede

Before I go about the process I just want to say you guys have been soooo incredible and I love reading your reblogs and I love the idea knowing I’ve inspired a lot of people,,, the project, although it was a lot of work and I’m feeling not so great as of posting this, still motivates me to want to make another.

(Art process below)

This was entirely freehanded! I have a lot of experience working in 3D art settings that this part came easy to me but I started with a flat base shaped in the pose I’d like the creature in. I used one whole piece cut from a shipping box and filled in the gaps with tape; you don’t need a single piece for the base but for structural integrity it helps a lot. As you can see here I also cut the legs separate and glued them on using hot glue. The vertical cross sections are to give an early support for the structure of the creature, think about the frames of aircraft or boats. During this part I used a pen to mark the width and height of the previous section to get a gradual flow of shapes.

This next part I wish I got more documentation on but after the vertical cross sections I used soda boxes for the thinner and flexible cardboard to add contour lines along the length of the creature, gluing them on the cross sections. I did about 2 strips of this on either side to fill in the space and then I continued to use soda boxes to fold and shape the top of the creature, gluing onto the strips rather than the cross sections (this part was a mistake but I quickly adapted, no issues happened but it did make it slightly less secure). I also gave the legs vertical cross sections as well to shape them for the masking tape.

The worst part, taping everything. I used tape to further shape it how I wanted but that meant going over parts several times. I used 2 different widths of tape for this for efficiency but it doesn’t matter. The legs were very loosely taped and if squeezed then they’d lose their shape; I didn’t bother filling them in because I don’t have materials for that and I let the paper mache help support them instead. Tape was also used to fill any holes and gaps left by the cardboard skeleton.

The next phase is paper mache of which I haven’t done since 5th grade… I was not confident in this step. I used mod podge and a brush to smooth down the paper. Because I lacked materials I used fast food napkins instead of newspaper which worked totally fine, it just tended to tear a bit easier. Some areas required me to get hands on and I don’t really like the texture during this stage so that was fun (lie). I didn’t do too many layers, one for the body and 3 for the back and legs but some projects might demand more. I used half of a 16oz bottle of mod podge btw so please get more than you think you need.

Finally, texture hell!!! I did a base coat of white spray paint and painted everything else with acrylic. Start with your lighter colors first before doing darker ones! I originally mixed some yellow and orange for the body and realized it was too bright and so covered it with orange instead. It also wasn’t until later I realized I could’ve been smarter with my paint so I skipped over the segments that were going to be fully black, saving the orange for the rest of the body. I wanted my centipede to stand out and not look 2D color-wise so I also used the red for the head and tail to give gradients and edges to the orange segments and legs, later going back with burgundy to further darken them but not too much. For the black segments I also used a very watered down layer of sky blue to give a fake shine and show the intended structure of the segments. Do not be afraid to use your hands! I used mine to smudge my detail paints like the black fade on the legs and the back shading. To top it all off I sprayed a clear coat and punched two holes in the underside to hang it up, using thumbtacks angled upwards.

[niyasruledbyvenus]

How did you start and elarn abt vedic astrology and for what do you use it for?

Overview {Vedic astrology or “Jyotish” is an ancient Indian system of astrology rooted in the Vedas/ Hindu scriptures. It interprets the influence of celestial bodies such as planets (Grahas), stars (nakshatras), and constellations (Rahis) on human life and events. It also uses divisional charts (Vargas), Dashas, and transits to predict personal life events.}

I have went through some messed up things especially in my childhood. Which drew me to astrology and psychology. Kind of a way that I was subconsciously trying to find answers. I started learning Vedic astrology after I learned almost everything about tropical because some parts wasn’t resonating with me. It just felt too surface level to me. I needed a deeper analysis.

I feel Vedic astrology is more accurate when it comes to predicting things like future spouse, career, children, etc. More in depth when it comes to one’s thoughts, soul mission, personality, positive & negative qualities. Also, you can predict world events more accurately. In Vedic the description of planets & houses are less black and white when it comes to how they function. Cough cough, or should I say sugarcoated

Even when you get into nakshatras of someone’s chart. The things they say and the way they act start to make sense because it correlates to the deity/story of the nakshatra.

I kind of started off by watching YouTube videos from sidereal/ Vedic astrologist like KRS & Claire Nakti then I started doing my own research by reading.

Here’s some resources I can think off the top of my head

Vedic blogs

@vindelllas

@yourmyheaven

@conceptionsofconciousness

@kiraastro

@amtalchemy

@chitra111goddess

@lychee-angelica

@venussaidso

@laifromthecosmos

@shukraastro

@makingspiritualityreal

YouTube Channels

Thehiddenoctave

Claire nakti

KRS channel

Vic Dicara’s Astrology

Joni patry

AstroMartine

Addittya Tamhankar Podcasts

Poonman Dutta (Satyamshakti)

astrologyloka

Daquan jones

Dr Arjun Pai Astrology

Vedic Oracle

Websites

Books

https://ia904500.us.archive.org/5/items/1050-astrology-books_202107/Bepin%20Behari_Fundamentals%20of%20Vedic%20Astrology.pdf

https://vedicastroamit.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/08/Yoga-Jyotish-book.pdf

[lucky-stick]

🏞️🐾🦴wolf study 🪵🌲🥩

hello creechers im a wolf otherlink (or idk yet rlly) so i've compiled like everything about wolves and i might add to it sometimes but heres the contents:

basic (size, diet, status ect)

species and subspecies

pack anatomy

communication

-vocal, body, facial, scent,

-submissive behaviour

-playing

fandom facts

basic information 🥩

scientific name: canis lupus

lifespan: 13 years (wild)

diet: carnivorous -

size: 80-85cm 30-80kg

conservation status: least concern

species and subspecies 🍖

its a big debate on how many species of wolf there are in the wolf but the 2 main ones are the grey and red wolf then all the subspecies evolved in different way based on their habitat but they all descended from grey and red wolves

subspecies: (38) WIP 🚧

arctic: usually all white with black nose and ears

Eurasian: a brown-red colour

eastern: a darker coloured wolf

northwestern: a grey wolf with more black

northern rocky mountains: more pale fur

Indian: brown-grey

Mexican: browny-black

great plains: light grey

British Columbia: all black

Vancouver sea: light grey on top black on the side

Italian: dark brown

Arabian: dark brown and black

canis lupus dingo: light brown

Iberian: darker not a lot of white

interior alaskan: mostly black with some white

alexander archipelago: all black

tundra: mostly white with a bit of black on top

texas: coyote colours

alaskan tundra: all white

Manitoba: dark grey

labrador: dark grey to mostly white

baffin island: mostly white

Greenland: all white

Mackenzie: white-yellowish

mongolian: light brown light grey

steppe: coyote colours

new guinea singing dog: red-brown

Egyptian: jackal colours (blueish)

tibetan: light brown to whiter

Austro-Hungarian: very dark grey

extinct subspecies

Hokkaido: all grey

Japanese: they are patterned

mogollon mountain:

Florida black: all black

kenai peninsula: dark grey

Newfoundland:

cascade mountain:

gregorys:

sicilian:

canis lupus youngi:

bernards:

pack anatomy 🌲

packs can consist of 6-20 members though the average is thought to be around 10

there is usually 2 main wolves, sometimes known as alphas but that terms outdated, these are usually the main parents and give birth to most of the pack

a litter usually consists of 4-6 pups and they are all born blind and vulnerable and they usually stay in the den and with their mother for about 2 years

older siblings have been known to look after younger siblings if needed

the packs social bond is very strong and have fierce devotion to their pack. they have been known to mourn loss, which is what a lone howl usually is, they have also been seen to sacrifice themselves for their pack

(WIP) 🚧

communication 🦴

vocalisation:

every pack as its own unique howl to distinguish different packs and if they are on someone else's territory

a defensive howl is to keep the pack together and keep predators out of their territory

a social howl is to locate one another

barking, though rare, is used as a warning for example a mother wolf may bark of she senses danger around her pups

whimpering and whining can indicate a "i give up/in"

growling is also used as a warning but for more dominance like protecting their territory

body language and posture:

a wolf interacting with it pack can say lots about the status of the wolf and the pack

less dominant wolves usually crouch to make themselves look more smaller

they also lick the muzzles of more dominant wolves

slinking is another "i give in" and is a more submissive behaviour and is show in fights and disagreements with the pack

dominant wolves usually have a more confident upright posture to show said dominance

they also rest their head on submissive wolves neck or back

facial expressions:

when angry their ears stick upright and they bear their teeth for example when two wolves have a disagreement they will show this and growl

when suspicious they squint their eyes and put their ears back

when in fear they flatten their ears

when they want to play they display the play bow and dance around

as a warning they will curl the end of their lips displaying a bit of teeth

when relaxed their eyes are just on their sides

tail position:

tail tucking is a sign of being in fear and submission

a more dominant tail position is sticking it out and slightly upward

a neutral tail position is wagging

scent marking

they mark their territory with pheromones

these pheromones come out from glands on the toes, tail, eyes, skin and genitalia

they mark territory with urine and scat (i will not be doing this)

they have also been known to mark food

submission:

there are 2 types of submission: active and passive

active submission: is where a wolf shows signs of inferiority like tail tucking, muzzle licking and crouching (pups do this with adults)

passive submission: passive submissions is when a wolf lays on its back or side displaying the stomach or chest which is a vulnerable part of the body because it contains vital organs it is show to more dominant wolves when they get into a disagreement the less dominant one usually gives up and shows passive submission to show the others authority

playing:

they are known to get zoomies like how domestic dogs do

some games they play include: chase, tug of war or jaw sparring

jaw sparring is when two wolves will rear up on their hind legs and use their front paws and jaws

a range of vocals come out when playing this this fortifies bonds and status and shows physical skills

a more casual version of this is then laying down

facts + misconceptions 🌕

they have 42 teeth

they have 4 toes with claws and run on their toes not their pads

despite running on their toes they can run at 16-38 miles per hour

they can swim up to 8 miles

they have 200 million scent cells

they can eat 20 pounds of meat in one meal

they don't howl at the moon that was a myth people thought because of werewolves their howls are actually just more clear at night because there is usually less wind and other sound

alpha, beta, omega ect roles don't actually exist there is just more dominant wolves and less dominant wolves the alpha is usually just the parent but there is a social hierarchy in packs

wolves don't hibernate at all so they can be seen all year around

the biggest pack ever consisted of 400 wolves which was found in the outskirts of the woods in russia (i made a post abt then when i got 400 followers)

wolves have their own unique personality

northern rocky mountain wolves are one of the biggest subspecies

this is my pack so far :3 ✨ idk why im adding this i rlly like wolps at the minute and im going to get more ^^

[mutant-distraction]

Digvijay Lande

Ruddy Shelduck

The ruddy shelduck (Tadorna ferruginea), known in India as the Brahminy duck, is a member of the family Anatidae. It is a distinctive waterfowl, 58 to 70 cm (23 to 28 in) in length with a wingspan of 110 to 135 cm (43 to 53 in). It has orange-brown body plumage with a paler head, while the tail and the flight feathers in the wings are black, contrasting with the white wing-coverts. It is a migratory bird, wintering in the Indian subcontinent and breeding in southeastern Europe and central Asia, though there are small resident populations in North Africa. It has a loud honking call.

[jilixthinker]

blackholes

=͟͟͞♡ jisung × fem!reader

=͟͟͞♡ parallel universes au

word count: 7.4K

synopsis: you can delude yourself and wait for the paint to dry and take away the evil. but the only truth, unique and unchanging, is that pain only creates more pain. you can close your eyes and believe otherwise, imagine another ending. but when you wake up, jisung is still sick and his illness is eating him from the inside.

content warning: explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), angst, depression, mention of suicide, drinking and smoking, sufference, eventual happy ending (?)

=͟͟͞♡ please, consider reblogging if you like my works!

A drop of crimson red paint is tapping on the ground at a regular rhythm. At first glance, to someone who is not trained to know how to observe, it might even look like blood. The fingertips from which the paint is dripping off are moving slowly over the paper, searching for the weak spot on the canvas. There is always one, where the fabric gives in and the color soaks deeper. The fingers probe its full extent until a small smile of intimate satisfaction appears in your face.

The breaking point is within the body portrayed on the canvas, right in the center of his forehead. It sparkles a little like an Indian diamond, and you dip the tip of your brush in the red paint that previously soiled your fingers. At the bottom corner to the right, near the tapered shape of the feet you have just finished painting, you trace a few words.

pain creates love.

The young man on the canvas is dazzlingly beautiful. His eyes are night onyx, deep as lagoons. His lips are the color of ripe cherries, swollen and tumid. He is portrayed nude, legs spread wide and arms outstretched toward the viewer. He exudes eroticism from every angle, yet he is far from vulgar. A few strands of inky hair hide the pale, flushed skin on his cheekbones. Slender, elegant fingers are stretched out to their full length as if to grasp the air. There is no background. The only foreign element to that body is the canopy on which the boy is slumped. The draped sheets caress his figure enhancing his nakedness without covering it. The only dissonant note in that marvelous sensual work, the only weak point, is the too-hinted blush on his forehead. It's almost not noticeable if you lose yourself in the full beauty of the portrait, but you see it, because you painted it and because it's part of the canvas, part of the subject. And it is singular, as him.

"It's a masterpiece".

The voice is off-screen, as if it's coming from another world. You don't turn to check who it belongs to, but you keep staring at your painting. The sound of small footsteps unravels in the air of the room. The parquet floor creaks at every inch.

"I am not fully satisfied with it".

You run the back of your hand over the fabric, as if the epidermis could erase the color and replace it with a different image. The voice approaches you from behind and blows a crystalline laugh as his shadow reflects off the picture, obscuring the white of the canopy.

"Don't be too hard on yourself. What's wrong with it?"

As you move your gaze from the painting to turn around, the exact copy of the boy portrayed on the canvas stands out in all his glory in front of you. His shower-wet hair frames his ephebic features like a wreath, and a tiny smile illuminates his face in a cascade of light.

"It's not like the original".

The boy shakes his head and time freezes. A few drops of water land on your neck.

"It doesn't have to be".

Sharpened fingers curl around the closed collar of your shirt and begin to loosen it. Button by button, the fabric slips off your figure and the young man in front of you kneels down to slip off your shirt and deposit hundreds of tiny kisses on your hands. When he stands up again, he approaches your body and touches it, appreciating every inch of it and covering it with attention. You lift you face and bite his cheek, losing yourself in the soothing smell of Sunday sex.

Pain creates love, you are quite certain of it. Loving someone who suffers means loving every single portion of their pain and making it your own. It is not easy to desire something so abstract, but there are people who try, with soul, body, bones and sweat. Some succeed, some fail, and some keep trying. You cannot identify yourself in any of these categories. You only knows that you love, unconditionally, without a specific goal. You love so much that the pain is now only the frame to a picture of yours, you love so much that the Indian diamond on the boy's forehead becomes almost invisible to your eyes. Almost.

You can delude yourself and wait for the paint to dry and take away the evil. But the only truth, unique and unchanging, is that pain only creates more pain. You can close your eyes and believe otherwise, imagine another ending. But when you wake up, Jisung is still sick and his illness is eating him from the inside.

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

You meet Jisung in the twilight of his nineteen years, when he is just a little lump of insecurity and imagination. He clutches a vanilla coffee in his left hand and a briefcase in his right, crammed with story incipits that he will never finish. He dropped out of school to become one of those freelance writers you see on the covers of magazines for intellectuals, the ones who live in unpronounceable French towns and smoke mint cigarettes while sipping aged cognacs. It must not be bad, he thinks, to be envied while basking in your self admiration.

When Jisung sees you, he is leaving creative writing school, and you are leaving art school. You have a white palette under your arm, open apron smeared with oil paints, and nose sniffing the air. In fact, Jisung doesn't really have time to see you, because fate plans to make him trip over you, causing his vanilla coffee to spill all over your pants.

With his face on fire and the excuse of dry cleaning to repay for the damage, you two get acquainted. Jisung discovers that you smoke mint cigarettes, like French writers. No cognac though, you say. You prefer gin. It goes down faster and helps me come up with new ideas for painting.

Jisung asks to see one of your works, but your condition is of him posing as a model for your next portrait assignment, because you had been looking for a face like his for months. Jisung lets you beg for a while, but then he capitulates in front of another coffee.

You live alone in a loft on the fifth floor of a suburban building. The apartment is a hellish mess and it almost looks as if a tornado has swept through the living room, bathroom and kitchen, mixing the different furnishings together. You invite Jisung to sit wherever he wants, assuming he can find a seat.

You silently eat two bowls of instant ramen and then dangle awkwardly in front of each other, thinking about what to say. After a few minutes Jisung breaks the silence and asks you to see your portraits. You dig through the easels piled against the wall before handing him a few palettes.

The portraits are not refined. In fact, that's the reason you are going to art school. You cannot seem to maintain proper proportions between the various body parts you draw. In the first painting you show Jisung, the woman's hands on the canvas are too big and stubby, in the second the eyes are exaggeratedly spaced apart, and in the third the legs are so crooked that they almost seem to belong to two different people. In spite of everything, Jisung fails to give those mistakes the connotation of flaws, because there is something that compels him to stay looking at them without speaking.

While Jisung stares absently at the portraits, you flip through the half-told stories you found in his briefcase and reads fragments of disconnected sentences with a lazy smile on your lips. Jisung reflects for the time of three cigarettes before looking at you and stating that he is ready to be drawn.

When you get up to gather your brushes and paints, out of the corner of your eyes you see the boy becoming pale and widening his eyes. A split second later, the canvas slips from Jisung's hands, crashing to the floor with a reverberating noise.

You don't have time to process what happened because Jisung runs quickly toward the exit, almost crashing against the walls. He runs down the stairs as fast as he can, tripping over his feet, hitting the steps with each step and leaving you, alone in your apartment, one hand extended toward the door, clutching the rarefied air.

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

"You remind me of someone I've seen before".

The second time you and Jisung met, he has the time to hide behind an alley, because it's easier not to be asked questions if you have something to hide. In this case, you happen to turn on that very alley and you find yourself in front of Jisung, curled in a quivering ball of shame. After assuring him more than once that you don't care if he broke the canvas and ruined the portrait, you convince him to have another cup of coffee together because you will never find a face like his for your painting.

You drink unsweetened black espresso, steaming hot to the limits of what is possible to drink. Jisung looks at you with an horrified look as he opens the third sugar packet and melts the grains inside his vanilla drink.

"Who?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure. Your hands".

Jisung glows and hides his flushed face behind his coffee.

"What's wrong with my hands?"

"They are vaguely erotic".

You lazily runs your fingers over Jisung's manicured nails.

"Thank you?"

"I'd like to paint those too. If you want to. You must promise not to run away and leave me alone like an idiot though".

Jisung stares out the coffee shop window and counts the drops that go condensed in the corners of the glass, Your voice is just a shade in the picture in front of him.

"Mh".

"Can I read something you wrote?"

"Didn't you already do that at your house a few weeks ago?"

"Jisung, come on, I want to read something serious".

"I'll pretend I didn't hear".

You smile andd curl your lips around your glass.

"You don't tell me that's all you wrote?"

"No. Of course not".

"Thank God. Those stories were really cheap".

You barely have time to shield your face behind your arms before Jisung's indigned look - along with his fists - dumps a shower of insults on you. It takes him a few minutes before he realizes that, hey I was just kidding, and he stops swearing.

You stand outside of the coffee shop shortly afterward, huddling under a horrible slime colored umbrella. You shove a mint cigarette between your lips and ask Jisung if he wants to try.

Jisung spends the next half hour coughing and cursing in all the languages of the world.

"You're not really suited to be a writer".

Jisung kicks you lightly and chuckles half offended as he watches you prance around on one foot yowling like a wounded puppy. Then you pull him by the hood of his jacket and smother your last words over his mouth. His comment on the kiss is anything but an insult. Jisung bites his lips and thinks that maybe you are right.

He doesn't tell you, though.

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

"What happened the first time at my house?"

"What are you talking about? "

"The painting".

"I thought we had already talked about that".

"Indeed. I'm not interested in the painting itself".

"It slipped from my hands".

Jisung looks down and you don't believe him for a second. You finish brushing the bluish sky and wipe your hands on the apron. You watch the canvas, but it's useless. You weren't able to paint decently for months.

"It doesn't matter. I couldn't paint anything anyway".

Jisung barely nods and closes his eyes. He squeezes his thighs together and rocks in his chair, absorbing the faint winter rays of light on his skin.

"Do blind people dream?"

You watch Jisung tensing his back like a cat and stretching slowly, making his spine creak.

"It depends. If they are blind from birth maybe they only dream of sounds".

Jisung opens his eye and observes you, illuminated by the light. He looks almost like a beam of the whitest sun, his hair is tousled and his lips chapped by the wind.

"What do you think is worse, being born without sight or losing it over time?"

"Why are you asking me this?"

"I don't know".

You twist your mouth because Jisung tells that he doesn't know to a lot of things and you can never figure out if it's because he doesn't want to answer or because he really doesn't know. You pretend to be mad at it, but the facade doesn't even last two seconds. Jisung is like that anyway. You love his everything or you don't love anything at all.

"I think it's worse to never have the chance to see colors, or the sun".

He gets up from the stool and sits in your lap, staring at an indefinite spot on your face. You stand still for several minutes without speaking, then Jisung rubs his forehead against your cheek.

"If I couldn't see, what would you do?"

"I'd be painting with words".

Jisung kisses you and you end up flying outside the universe, navigating purple galaxies in the space constellation, running through the Milky Way and on a bridge leading to the end of the world.

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

"I don't feel like playing anymore".

Jisung, sitting on the wooden chair, looks at the window in an absorbed manner. He crosses his ankles and wrinkles his nose as if to chase away an annoying thought.

"I am bored. I've been sitting in this position for almost two hours".

You let out a soft grunt as you pick up a multitude of dried up tubes of paint from a ceramic jar.

"You are just being bratty", you comment, resting the brush on the coffee table and rubbing your hands against each other to scrape off the remnants of color on your nails.

"What do you feel like doing?" you ask as you look up at him.

Jisung smiles and gets up from his small chair by sliding down part of the sheet that covered his hips.

"You are dirty", he says, beginning to absentmindedly touch his lower lip with his fingers.

"I will take a shower after this".

Jisung shakes his head slowly. He moistens his index and middle fingers with his pink tongue, sticking out of his mouth.

"I don't think so".

Another handful of small steps and he is in front of you, already crushed against the bones of you pelvis. With his hands he brings your neck close to his face and licks the skin exposed by your shirt, from your ear down to the collarbones. There he stops and sucks just enough to leave you with a red bruise.

"I'll clean you up", he moans, biting the patch of skin at the nape of your neck, near your hairline.

You scramble to the kitchen chair, pushed by Jisung's hands that are slipping off your shirt, and it's pointless to tell him that I can't be dirty there because he is wetting a path of bare skin down to your belly button. He sticks his tongue out and he swirls it slowly inside of it, then continues on the dimples above your hip bone.

You feel your leg muscles contracting and you clasp your hands around Jisung's shoulders, pushing him down and allowing him to curl up on the floor, a hungry expression on his face.

Jisung spreads his legs and you let your head loll against the wall behind you as he bites your skin and removes your pants. You feel a tender, raspy tongue lazily sucking on the inside of your thighs and nibbling at them slowly. His fingers cup your already sopping cunt and start moving, circling your entrance and smearing the slick on the skin around it.

Jisung's mouth is searing and his black eyes bottomless. His saliva seethes on your flesh as you tense your legs with tiny spasms each time you feel him biting closer and closer to your aching pussy. Maybe he is sucking away something else, buried deeper somewhere inside you as well, but you have no strength to think about it when Jisung finally makes up his mind and sucks your clit in between his lips.

You hold your breath and all of your blood drains from your brain to focus lower, warming where the other's mouth failed. The wet sound is obscenely filthy as his lips slide up and down along your drenching pussy, lapping at the thin, swollen skin of your lips.

Jisung alternates between spitting dribbles of saliva on your cunt and sliding his fingers inside of you, massaging your aching walls for a long time. When he harshly sucks your clit inside his mouth, he lets out a satisfied meow and closes his eyes, completely enraptured by his own ego, fulfilled while listening to your moans. His fingers grab the tender flesh of your butt and he sinks his nose into your cunt, sucking as vigorously as possible on your puffy clit.

When he feels the walls of your pussy contract around his fingers, he starts to thrust them slowly and takes his time to give kitten licks at your hardened nub, sucking only the tip of it with undulating motions.

You squint your eyes, press your hands on the back of Jisung's neck and you finally cum with a dull gasp. Jisung presses his thumb against his own lips, smearing your release on them. He stares at you with vicious eyes and swallows slowly, wiping his crimson lips with his fingertips.

"You are clean now".

You kiss him, biting hard on his lips and licking his chin and cheeks to remove all of the traces of your slick from his face. When you inhale the smell of his skin, you thank whoever is above or below for allowing you to possess him.

"You are my masterpiece".

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

The spring of Jisung's twentieth year has the dull, bland taste of rain. It rains all the time, every day. Flowers fail to sprout and the few that succeed, eventually rot.

Jisung began to smoke, even though he gave up on his writing career. It wasn't really suitable, all things considered. He smokes your mint cigarettes and lets the fresh flavor fill his mouth before blowing away the residue. When he looks out from behind the window glass at the water drops tapping on the puddles, he sighs sadly.

You are splayed on the sofa with your legs curled on the floor. You snort, and your voice is hoarse as if you had just woken up.

"Would you like some tea?".

"Uh".

Jisung throws the cigarette in a jar filled with soil. He clicks his tongue against his palate and heads to the kitchen to boil tap water in the pot. He looks for the fruit tea filters behind the pantry doors when he stops all of a sudden, feeling the flesh under his skin instantly freezing. He tries to focus on something, anything. He stares at the wall, he opens his lips and, instead of a cry, what comes out is a whisper.

"Baby".

Jisung trembles and stretches a hand out in front of him. His eyes water and overflow like rain. He squeezes the air with his fingers and his veins swell on his wrists, pulsing his blood down.

"Baby", he slurs again.

You lift your head from the back of the sofa and look at your boyfriend's shoulders hunched forward.

"What's the matter?"

Jisung crinkles his eyes even more and doesn't hold back a tear that lines his cheeks and wrinkles his round chin. He squints, and thousands shades of colors disappear. His muscles relax involuntarily, and he hears the sound of shattering shards as if his brain had detached from his own skullcap to navigate inside of the the cerebral fluid.

"Baby, where am I?"

You sprint to your feet at lightning speed and you hold up Jisung before he can crash to the floor. His head, as an unconditional reflex, lunges forward and slams back against your forehead.

"Where are you?"

Jisung thrashes against your chest and continues to shake with convulsive spasms. He grits his teeth and tries to slip out of your tight embrace.

I love you say I love you and you see me I see you tell me.

"I am here. I am behind you. I won't leave you", you try to soothe him.

He turns around in deluded strength and fumbles with his fingers in search of you face. He taps lips, eyes, hair, cheekbones, squeezes knuckles and bites his own tongue.

"I don't see you".

Jisung's voice trembles. He opens his mouth two or three times, but his words dry up like a desert. A breath of wind, and he speaks feebly.

"I see nothing".

no no no no no no no

"The painting too. I couldn't see it anymore. It didn't slipped from my hands".

Jisung is gushing like a raging river and in a split second he becomes aware of herself, of you, of everything floating in his mind.

"It wasn't there".

say I'm there and you see me because I'm here and I won't leave you say that-.

"It was just a black hole".

please

"I lied to you".

I don't want to

"I never told you how my mother died".

"Jisung".

"No. You have to listen to me".

You feel your throat burning as if someone was smoking inside your stomach. You can feel the aftertaste of ash in the mouth of your esophagus and you try to swallow. But nothing goes down.

"Do you know what glaucoma is?"

"I don't think I want to know".

"It's a disease that affects eyesight. Your eyes accumulate water until the internal pressure is too much. You can't feel pain. That's why it is diagnosed too late. It's like your eyes are drowning in tears".

You die a little with each word, as if Jisung is spewing ink, and you are an inkwell collecting phantom waste.

"She couldn't stand the idea of not being able to see anymore".

"You could not have-"

"I have it".

You feel like falling. You stumble and fall. You fall for an endless time, and you fall into a dark well. You don't touch the bottom and keep falling into the cold. You try to scream but that requires oxygen, and your lungs contract, spitting out carbon dioxide because there is no more oxygen in you. So you cling to the walls, crawl your fingers and flay you skin. A cry rumbles out, but the voice is not yours.

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

The first time you make love, Jisung feels broken. Not in the external sense of the act itself. He feels broken in a deeper place, where you cannot touch and where he didn't even know he could feel something. This is the reason why, in the middle of the intercourse, he starts crying and wets the sheets with salty tears. He cries so quietly that you don't even realize it.

"Paint me".

"What?"

Jisung rolls up between the covers and straddles you.

"I wish you would paint all the colors of the world on me".

He moans and rubs his nose against the protruding bones of your neck. Tears dry on the skin of his cheeks. When you taste the salt on your tongue, you softly bite his chin.

"Paint is bad for your skin, you know that?".

Jisung bursts out laughing, and you laugh too in response.

"I know, but I would like a sun on my stomach. Or on my back".

You clasp Jisung's hips in your hands, anchoring him to your waist.

"You are bright already".

"And a meadow, too, all over my arms. And light, everywhere. Beams of light all over my face. I want to shine in the night".

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

"You'll be there right? After".

"Where?"

"On the other side".

You slide the brush over Jisung's shoulders, lying on the floor with goose bumps caused from the cold tiles.

"Don't move".

There are empty liquor bottles scattered on the floor, with a bittersweet smell lingering in the room and permeating the walls. No light. Many unlit cigarette everywhere, a few blood stains - or perhaps paint - on Jisung's feet. You keep painting without seeing where you are passing the brush.

"I will follow you everywhere, if I can".

"You know that it won't be possible for you".

"I know".

You kiss the colors on his skin and Jisung tastes like sweat and burnt wood.

"But maybe it's better this way".

Jisung reaches out his arm and tentatively finds the neck of a bottle, brings it to his lips and drinks the clear liquid, letting a few drops slide down his chin to his nodular neck. Jisung picks up the alcohol with his fingertips and brings it to his eyes, pressing a little. It stings at first, but then he begins to see stars in front of him, so close he thinks he can gather them in the palm of his hand.

"Do you want me to open the window?" you ask.

Jisung shakes his head and pushes you against him, causing the brushes to fall from your hands. He clings to your back and pet your hair, smelling it and tasting it with his tongue.

"Did you take your medicine?"

Jisung shakes his head and searches for cigarettes inside his pants. He manages to find one and places it between your lips.

"It won't be so bad".

You inhale the smoke and blow it out somewhere in the darkness of the room. You rest your lips on Jisung's without kissing him, the dry taste of tobacco invades his throat and he smiles with the corners of his mouth.

"I have to take you to the sea, near the cliffs. I can paint the waves on your cheeks. We can even jump from very high if you want. Or you can sleep on the sand and taste the water".

Jisung pulls the smoking stick from your fingers and takes a wide puff of smoke, holding it inside himself as much as possible, then pulls you against him and opens his mouth, breathing into you.

"It will be fine, Jisung".

Jisung laughs and feels his throat tighten in a thorny grip. He gasps and pushes the lit cigarette on the back of his hand. He grits his teeth.

"How come I'm not sure?"

You take his lips in between your fingers and squeeze them until they open wide, then you move closer and whisper everything to him. You whisper the world and the universe.

you are light you are white and red you are scarlet you are perfect you are alive alive alive you are not the rain because it keeps raining and I will always wait for you on the other side always because you are alive and you are here it will be okay

And it should be okay, it should be right. Jisung would have kissed you and said it's true, it's always okay when you're here. But no, he pushes you on the chest and shrugs, his eyes blazing and his lips frozen.

"Listen to me. Outside, somewhere in this infinite universe, there is a parallel world. I know for a fact that it exists, just as I know that in that world everything is right, as it should be here. There is a Jisung running across the grass on a sunny day, and you are chasing after him and falling down in an attempt to catch him. There's the two of us laughing and drinking until dawn, throwing ourselves on the ground and hugging each other so we don't get cold. We have flowers on the balcony and dew in our hair. It never rains. The sun always shines. This world really exists, and it's beautiful. But what you have to understand - what I want you to understand - is that this world, this one, it's not that. This is the reality that hurts, the one where you have to pay a price for your life. We can't run across a meadow here, because you picked me and adopted me out of pity. You even managed to fall in love with me, and that's the wrongest thing you could have done. Because you could really be bright, you could really shine, have flowers on the balcony and dew in your hair. But you chose me. And this is not the world in which everything is right. This is the world in which I am fading, the world in which I am losing the color that you are so desperately trying to put on me. But look what happen, look".

Jisung gets up and you can feel his small body clawing in the dark inside the room to open the balcony door and go outside. The apartment is suddenly pervaded with a gray light, reflecting the color of the sky. You look at Jisung, naked, stiff and trembling under the raindrops falling from above.

Jisung pulls his lips up in a distorted smile.

"See?"

Water runs down his back and the paint drips on the soles of his feet, sliding down to his short, pink nails.

"The color melts under the rain. It only lasts a few seconds before I come back to be as transparent as your canvas. And this is not the world where the sun shines. These are blackholes. Life, light, nature, they are all projections in my head. But you. You can still make it. You don't have to follow me. Don't follow my selfishness".

"Jisung, I have to".

Jisung trembles and the water rushes over him. The reality mocks him and everything he can love.

"No, you want to".

don't come with me you are my love

"Don't follow me to the other side. You will fade too".

You clench your fists and watch the drops wetting the ephebic figure in front of you. Jisung comes to you and blows desolate words into your face.

"When I ask you to paint me, don't. When I ask you to pity me, don't. When I beg you to come with me, please, don't".

"No. I must follow you. Everywhere. As long as there are black holes, I will be behind you. As long as this world sucks. As long as I breathe".

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

One night you close your eyes and, instead of the sea, you see boundless steppes and barren grasslands. After what seems like miles and miles of dry lands, inside a small depression - almost a pit - you see Jisung, curled onto himself, all naked and with his limbs tangled together, hidden from the world. You don't ask yourself why you can see such a small body at such a distance, but your muscles set into autonomous motion and you find yourself running in that direction.

After endless minutes, you reach what seems to be the final destination, but the pit gradually moves away from you. However, for some reason, you can still see Jisung swinging himself with his face pressed into the dry earth.

You speed up your run and you begin to feel your throat tightening as the first drops of sweat make their way onto your forehead. Shadows cast themselves in the barren ground, but they are distorted by the shadow of your own body and of the dim, suffocating light of the sun. The image of Jisung blurs for a few seconds, and when it becomes clear again, those same shadows are catapulted onto him as well. You lift your head and you see dozens, hundreds, thousands of hawks flying in circles over Jisung's ditch, which tightens and lengthens as it becomes deeper.

The last steps of your run are slow, while the first hawk descends in slow motion on Jisung's soft face and begins to do something to his cheeks. You see Jisung's cheekbones become parched, almost to the point you fear that a gust of wind will blow them away. The second hawk glides beside the other, and you cannot get the soles of your feet off the dusty ground as it begins, slowly, as if it was foretasting a feast, to peck at Jisung's moist eyes.

Soft tears continue to gush, tiny raindrops that can nothing against the infecundity of the place where they stand. The thousands of hawks fly inside the pit and peck at the remnants of that dead body, tearing it apart with their hooked beaks. They chew the skin and swallow Jisung's life, paralyzed in his grave.

After what seems like centuries, they soar together in their cruel dance of farewell. Your feet finally unclench, but it's no longer necessary, because Jisung now stands in front of you, perfect. The tender, rosy flesh barely flushed on his cheeks and the slender, trembling body almost hairless, beautiful.

without

eyes.

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

Jisung is tired. June is an agony of dampness spent under the sheets, and you spend countless nights hoping that Jisung's sobs will cease and he will finally sleep. July is no better. The heat is starting to get unbearable and Jisung wants to keep the windows closed, hooked shut, so that not a single draft of clean air can penetrate into the apartments. Along with that, he stops drinking.

You keep opening the windows, even if Jisung screams and cries like a baby, and you force his lips open with the help of your fingers, making him swallow some liquids. August is definitely a torture when he stops taking his painkillers and his stomach turns over, forcing him to vomit all day and all night.

There is no turning back now.

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

"Tell me".

There is so much smoke inside the room that even if it wasn't that dark, it would be impossible to see more than an inch away from your face. You are lying half on the floor, half on Jisung's sticky thighs, smoking a cigarette that seems to be his only remaining foothold in his earthly existence.

"What?"

Jisung's voice is hoarse and distressing. It has changed exponentially in the past two weeks, since he refused to let you go outside to buy something to eat. You fighted against it, and he bit your hand viciously before starting to cry in shame.

"When you want to leave, tell me".

"You can't come with me. We've already discussed it".

"No, you have already discussed it. By yourself. You don't listen to what I say".

Jisung opens his lips and raises a graceful hand as if he was trying to slap you in the face. Eventually, the hand sags and the slap becomes a trembling caress.

"Jisung, please", you become pleading, tired and desperate. With your bandaged fingers you caress Jisung's thin knuckles, one by one.

"Just tell me. I won't follow you, I promise".

Jisung laughs. His head rests against the wall.

"You will follow me".

"Please".

Your lips meet in the compact darkness and they rub, dry, against each other in the memory of an old, worn-out passion.

"I love you, and you are a liar".

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

When you manage to drag Jisung out of the house in September, you almost gave up. You don't know if it is because of the faint light or the clouds, but Jisung's once tan skin is now grayish, and it makes his figure looks unhealthy and contagious at the mere sight. You also brought out brushes, hundreds of them, and half-squeezed tubes of color.

"Why did you bring me here?"

The grass under Jisung's shoes rustles in response. You are in a park just outside the city, a destination for a few couples and students with nothing to do.

"You asked me to paint you".

"That was a long time ago".

You pick up the brushes from your bag and pull a forced smile between you lips.

"And you, quite a long time ago, told me you wanted to shine. Here, then".

The tube of yellow paint curls against the wooden palette and the brush bristles wet in contact.

"Lay down".

Jisung tries to deny it, but then he seems to see in you the edge of a precipice, and maybe he feels a rush of pity and compassion for both of you. He wonders how it is possible to have reached that point without someone having the heart to save you both. Or save at least you.

With an awkward movement he leans over the lawn and lies on his back, shivering from the drops of water trapped between the blades of grass. You kneel beside him and barely lift the edges of his shirt, uncovering his belly and round hips. Jisung closes his eyes and trembles when he feels your open mouth kissing the flesh near his navel. You begin to trace marks near that spot, dipping your brush occasionally into the color. When you finish that first step, you keep painting all around radially, as if the first object was the focal point of the entire image. With your fingers you caress his petite chest, the spots uncovered by the color, the skinny hips, and as much of Jisung as you can.

Once you are done, you lean forward. Jisung reaches out and gently touches your hair, entwining it between his index fingers and anchoring you to him. Jisung's entire chest is a cerulean expanse of sky. There is sky everywhere, interspersed with green tree foliage intertwining on the sides. Down, just above his pelvis, a clear sea joins the sky in a blue line of horizon. And in that small, hidden spot of the kiss, you painted a sun.

"Do you like it?"

Jisung opens his eyes and instead of your face he sees a black universe. He feels two tears sting and run down his cheeks, his chin and to his chest, wetting his lips folded into a smile.

"It's perfect".

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

It's December when you think you feel Jisung moving on the bed and kicking off the covers. You also think you can feel his lips kissing you softly and his arms wrapping around your neck before sinking into the oblivion of sleep with his words in your mind.

remember you promised

But when you wake up, Jisung is not really there. The mattress is empty next to you and the sheets are tangled at the bottom of the bed. You snap to your feet, ignoring the dizziness and the fact that the room seems to be moving in circles around you.

"Jisung?"

You call him in a choked, shrill voice, a knot forming in your throat. You hear a ringing noise in you ears and you begin to search everywhere inside the apartment. You want to hope, you really do, that he just went out, but you cannot force yourself to believe in it because Jisung, by now, hasn't been out alone for months.

"Jisung?".

You look again, inside the shower stall, in the small balcony, under the couch, in the closet where you keep you painting canvas, inside the closet in the bedroom. But it's just when you are about to leave the house that you see it. On the living room table, between the keys and the fruit basket. A farewell letter.

You don't even understand how you actually got to pick it up, unfold it, and start reading it, that you tear it in two in your hands, teeth gritted and tears beginning to overflow from your eyes.

"Jisung".

You run outside without even closing the front door, engulfing the steps in trembling, messy strides. You reach the street and the only thing that you can think about is that I promised you, but you should have told me when you were about to go, you should have told me. You run on the road, crossing the roadway, risking getting run over, running on the sidewalks, running over people, running for hours. Until you see him.

For a moment you don't even notice him, caught up in the heat of your research. Yet it's him, standing in front of you. Perfect and naked, with a red dot on his forehead, like in your painting. Beautiful and full of life. As he has never been. As in an iconographic image branded in your head. And it's so perfect, and beautiful and full of life that you give in.

and yet you promised not to follow me

You close your eyes and take one step in his direction. Jisung smiles and spreads his arms wide, and so do you. An inch apart, and Jisung kisses you.

I love you.

You push back your tears.

"I am ready".

and you follow him.

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

You are 23 years old when you die. You are found in your apartment, lying on the floor, completely naked and smeared with paint. That's suicide, it is obvious, but nobody take a guess on why you decided to end your life.

When they take your body away, a dirty brush of yellow paint slips from your hand and ends up stepped on by the coroner.

Nobody finds dozens and dozens of canvases depicting the same boy. Nobody finds intact packages of painkillers. Nobody finds mint cigarettes and bottles of gin. Nobody finds a shredded letter saying "I am going". Nobody.

"You said you wouldn't follow me".

"You knew I would".

"I love you, and you're a liar".

+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

Outside, somewhere in the infinite universe, there is a parallel world. There's a Jisung running on the grass on a sunny day, and you are running after him and falling down trying to catch him. There's the two of us laughing and drinking until dawn, throwing ourselves on the ground and hugging each other so we don't get cold. We have flowers on the balcony and dew in our hair. It never rains. The sun always shines. You could really shine, have flowers on the balcony and dew in your hair. But you chose me.

You chose me.

©️ jilixthinker, 2023. please do not copy, translate, or republish my works anywhere.

[worksby-d]

16😮‍💨😮‍💨

thank you for sending a prompt!!! 🤎

50 types of kisses prompts 

Pairing: Andy Barber x fem!Reader

Prompt: One person pouting, only to have it removed by a kiss from the other person.

Themes: Cheating (maybe!) (only if you choose to read it that way), sneaking around, a MINUTE amount of angst, I suppose.

Word count: ~500

Standing in your bathroom, you watch Andy sit on the edge of the tub to run the water for a bath. You both threw on just enough clothes to walk across the room from your bed, so the steam from the hot water gives you back some warmth that you lost when you rolled out of his arms.

You're lost in thought, staring at the steady stream of water when he looks up at you. He doesn't know where the frown on your face came from. 

“What's that look for?” 

Avoiding his gaze, you look down and pretend to pick lint off your shirt. 

“You haven't told her yet, have you?” 

Your voice is quiet and he just looks at you, wondering how you knew. 

“I can tell you have something on your mind… Like your head is somewhere else tonight.” 

He lets out a deep breath. “I'm sorry–” 

You look toward him. He's been telling you for weeks that he's just been waiting for the right time to tell Laurie that he's been seeing you while they've been taking a break. 

“Do you not want to..?” 

Your voice trails off. There's always been a worry in the back of your mind that he's going to find it easier one of these days to just go back to her, to put his feelings aside and keep their family the way it is. 

“No, no. It’s not like that,” he swears, turning the water off and standing up to step closer to you. “I promise.” 

You shrug. What does he expect you to think?

“It's just… Complicated.” 

The famous line. You subtly roll your eyes. 

“The longer you wait, the harder it'll be.” you carefully remind him. 

“I know.” He wishes you'd look him in the eye to see he means it. He holds his hand out for you. “I know. Come here.” 

Hesitantly taking his hand, you let him pull you only a little closer. “I don't want you to hide me.” 

“I'm not…” 

He pauses to think about it though. The dates in other towns so there's no chance of someone he knows seeing the two of you before he has a chance to tell his wife… The only spending nights at your place... Ok. He gets it.

“I'm sorry.” He can't say it enough. “It’s not like I want to hide you. You know that.” 

“Do I?” 

“I hope so.” He furrows his brow, letting a silence take over as he waits for your eyes to meet his. “I love you.” 

Your frown is still there even as your eyes light up a little, finally finding his. 

He leans to give you a soft kiss, repeating his words. “I love you. I mean that.” 

A small smile tugs at your lips. You kiss him back, your smile growing wider. 

“I love you, too,” you whisper, closing the gap between your bodies with a hug. “The sneaking around was fun at first, but we can't keep doing it. It makes me feel like we're doing something wrong and we're not–”

“I know.” He's not the best with words, it's no secret. His hands rubbing your back is his best attempt at soothing away your worries right now. “I know.”

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