#like Jesus Christ shut up challenge impossible

[skullzy20]

I am not exaggerating when I say I live with one of the worst cishet men I've ever met in my life and its horrible

Pretty big vent incoming in tags, just a warning. Feel free to scroll past /gen

[the-kennsterrrr]

If I see one more piece of ship art of Anya and Curly I'm killing all of you

[italiantea]

not to dunk on beginner artists with dogshit drawings bc i was once a beginner artist with dogshit drawings as well but it's so annoying and sad to see ppl who are obviously just starting art paying Actual Human Money for sponsored posts of their wobbly doodles to try and gain followers like *shakes you* YOU JUST STARTED THIS ACCOUNT AND YOU ALREADY HAVE CONTENT CREATOR BRAIN. ENJOY THE PROCESS AND STOP CHASING CLOUT I SWEAR PEOPLE WILL LIKE YOUR ART IF THEY ACTUALLY LIKE YOUR ART YOU DONT HAVE TO PAY INSTAGRAM YOUR ACTUAL MONEY FOR 2 LIKES

[film-in-my-soul]

a place to rest your head | 6,480 | ginnydear

Summary: “Whoa,” Bradley says, stepping into the bathroom and letting the door close. He leans back heavily against it, tilting his head to the side. “What the hell is happening here?” “Can’t you tell,” Jake starts, turning so he’s facing Bradley entirely. “Penny’s doing a new chippendales thing.” Bradley snorts, shoulders shaking slightly as he laughs. “You’re missing the bowtie.”

riding into the sunset with you | 6,736 | alecjbi

Summary: While searching through the group's old Facebook posts, Jake finds a photo of Bradley that he can't seem to get over.

Don't Stop | 7,134 | Earthangel_44 / @yikes-00

Summary: Bradley can’t think. His breathing is ragged and his skin is tight and he wants to scratch it off but he wants Jake to hold him close. He wants to bury himself into Jake’s arms and never leave but Jake won’t fucking touch him. “Jake,” Bradley’s voice is broken and Jake hushes softly. He’s still not touching Bradley. Jake opens Bradley’s door and walks Bradley into the room. “Shhh, darling,” Jake whispers. He’s surrounding Bradley again. “I’m here. Tell me your lines.” “I need you to touch me,” Bradley whispers. His eyes fall shut and his heart slams in his chest. “I need you, Jake.”

feels like the first time | 7,737 | ginnydear

Summary: “Like what you see?” Jake teases, ignoring the part of his brain that needs Bradley to say yes. Desperately wants to know that Bradley is as into this as he is. When Bradley looks up at him, hand sliding up Jake's chest, across his collarbone to cup his jaw, Jake nearly whines.

darling, you’re the one i want (in paper rings, in picture frames, in dirty dreams) | 7,966 | cryinginthebronco / @cryinginthebronco

Summary: Jake sighs deeply for the third time in ten minutes as he’s standing in front of a mirror. “I look like an idiot,” he says finally, turning around to look at Bradley. Bradshaw laughs from where he’s sitting on their bed and looks up from the book he’s reading. When he sees the look on Jake’s face, he puts the book on the bedside table and walks over to Jake. “You look stunning as always,” he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his fiance’s lips.

Talk Fast | 8,094 | Thee_Maxwell

Summary: “Oh my god, I am not going to try and hook up with Hangman.” He makes the mistake of glancing over. Hangman’s still chatting with Coyote, but he’s turned to face the table. His legs are spread far more than there should be room for, and he’s got a look on his face like he’s challenging Bradley to come back. Pink tints the tops of his cheeks, and he swats at Coyote’s chest as the man laughs about something. Fuck. Okay. Maybe he’s going to try and hook up with Hangman.

Please see below for more recommendations!

find me a face that i want to hold (that i can memorize) | 8,112 | davidbyrne / @katiesharms

Summary: Jake and Bradley (re)meet at a masquerade party. Or, well, Jake meets Bradley and Bradley meets a hot stranger.

home for the holidays | 8,210 | alecjbi

Summary: “Aren’t you going home?”   “I usually just stay with Javy and his brother and their family,” Jake explained. There was some sort of a sad look in his eye, something far away, like a fresh wound that had just started to scab over.  “Mav and Ice can take care of me,” he tried. Jake just stared at him, unimpressed. “You and Mav would kill each other within a week.”

too good to be true (can't take my eyes off of you) | 8,494 | gr0gu

Summary: "I thought we were going to die," he confesses, "thank you." It comes out raw. It's silent besides the waves of the ocean and the hum of the carrier. Rooster gains the courage to look over at Jake. He's met with an impossibly close hooded gaze. Green eyes pierce his skin and make him feel like he could unravel at any moment. Jesus Christ.

Acting on your best behavior | 9,029 | miiichaaan

Summary: “You’re beautiful,” Jake whispered and stroked a finger over Bradley’s cheek. Bradley swallowed, his voice thick, “Wanna take this to bed?”

Take My Hand and Hold On Forever | 9,054 | Earthangel_44 / @yikes-00

Summary: It happens again like clockwork. Every new achievement or award that Jake gets pinned to his chest. Every time he went to Afghanistan or flew with the F-151, Jake calls Bradley. Every COMM he receives or shiny new ribbon that is placed on his chest, Jake called Bradley.

roadside assistance | 9,069 | alecjbi

Summary: Jacob Seresin was a menace. It was a fact that Bradley had long since accepted, content in the knowledge that the man would likely one day put him in his grave. If that’s how he went out, under the cocky gaze of the cowboy-- well, it wasn’t a bad way to go.

like, what up, I got a big cock | 9,707 | seresins / @lewispullsman

Summary: “Wait. Why is your callsign Rooster, anyway?” Phoenix snorts beer up her nose.

Hold on loosely | 9,754 | Earthangel_44 / @yikes-00

Summary: There is nothing Jake "Hangman" Seresin can't handle after he shot down the plane to save the day except for maybe one certain pilot with a taste for Hawaiian shirts.

coffee, pancakes for two | 10,375 | ilikeyougreenie / @buckyswolf

Summary: Bradley’s mouth goes dry at the sight of him; strong thighs encased in dark, skintight denim, chunky lace-up boots, white t-shirt, and a soft-looking leather jacket covered in patches. He’s not wearing a helmet - only a pair of aviators - and while Bradley knows he should chastise Jake for not being more careful, he’s too busy drooling over the picture he makes as he pulls up to the front of the hangar. Fuck, he wants to eat him. Or maybe just his ass. Whatever. The bike’s low, seductive rumble cuts out as Jake kills the engine, nudging the kickstand with the tip of his boot before dismounting. He pushes his glasses up into his hair, grinning at Bradley and holding his arms out in an expansive gesture. “Hey, baby. Miss me?”

In Time | 10,692 | little_passions / @littleeverydaypassions

Summary: “You said you wanted a reward.” He explained as he moved his right hand off the counter and placed it on Jake’s thigh. “It’s now or never.” Well, it seemed like Bradley had more to him than expected. Jake couldn’t help the satisfied smirk that came across his face. He loved surprises, especially when they came to him in the well-defined form of Bradley Bradshaw.

The New Revolution | 10,868 | Brenda / @brendaonao3

Summary: Jake Seresin is the biggest asshole Bradley's ever met, with a competitive streak that borders on the pathological, has no idea how to keep his goddamn mouth shut, starts shit just to watch the sparks fly, treats his body like a temple and never lets anyone forget it, runs laps around everyone up in the air (well, everyone except Mav and Phoenix) — And as God is his fucking witness, one day Bradley is going to snap and kill him.

show me again | 11,040 | dracculaura / @dracculaura

Summary: He hasn’t had a roommate on land-based assignments in years, not since flight school, so it takes him by surprise. He just isn’t used to it, not anymore. And he’s especially not used to sharing a room with fucking Bradley Bradshaw.

the way we surrender (tender, no pretense) | 12,757 | vannral / @vannral

Summary: ’”Well, Rooster, you’d better not be expectin’ any flowers, though, that’s not gonna happen.” A small, treacherous part under Bradley’s sternum falters, twists into knots. No. It’s a bad idea. You’re gonna get hurt in the long run. There’s a reason why you two are always at odds.’ In which Bradley and Jake agree to blow off steam together, all the while being in love with each other and convinced this is all they're able to have. It’s a train wreck from the start.

Slow Ride | 13,559 | Earthangel_44 / @yikes-00

Summary: “Name it, baby.” Bradley’s voice isn’t even recognizable with how low it’s dropped and Jake’s eyes dilate. The flush slowly moves below the collar of his shirt and Bradley’s eyes follow it. “We go by my rules.” Jake says back. His voice lost the authoritative bite and Bradley smirks. “Which are?” Jake swallows thickly and his gaze drags down Bradley’s body. “You have to beg to fuck me.”

Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore | 15,191 | Renai_chan

Summary: Hangman and Maverick have been getting closer these last few days, and Rooster is finding it... unsettling.

peaches and motor oil (a slice of summer sun) | 15,301 | terraces

Summary: A few years post-canon: Mav goes missing. Rooster copes. Hangman’s harder to get rid of than he expected.

And If Your Heart Surrenders | 16,661 | perishablealex / @perishablealex

Summary: Bradley is wearing his aviators and his mustache has beer foam on it. Jake reaches out and brushes his thumb tentatively over the foam, hand lingering on Bradley’s jaw. He feels Bradley smirk a bit as he reaches over to place a hand over Jake’s thigh. He leans in and Jake holds his breath, but Bradley just brushes his mustache against his cheekbone and then the shell of his ear. Bradley says it softly into Jake's ear. Mine. And Jake runs.

learning steps | 20,530 | vannral / @vannral

Summary: ”So, an instructor?” A straight hit. Bradley shifts uncomfortably on the leather seat and clears his throat. ”… Yeah.” In which Bradley becomes an instructor after the mission, Jake keeps showing up to his classes and his students are very curious about their dynamic.

Windy and Wild | 27,329 | Cristinuke / @cristinuke

Summary: Jake pushes for a reason. Bradley figures out he not only doesn't mind the reason, but actually enjoys it as well.

If you're looking for a hobby | 28,454 | NeverwinterThistle

Summary: On the first day of Maverick's new five-week intensive training programme, Hangman admits to being in love with Rooster. He doesn't seem worried about it. Neither is Rooster. Why not take what’s on offer and have some fun during downtime? Hangman’s the one who caught feelings, and that means Rooster gets to call the shots for once. This time, he’s going to be team leader. It’s just a shame no plan survives contact with the enemy.

These Gods Don't Walk | 29,130 | SaintClaire / @radpeacharbiter

Summary: Jake and Natasha are dancing, moving together in wide, easy sweeps over the wings of the plane. Whoever’s piloting doesn’t so much as wobble in the air as they cross from the tip of one wing to the other and back, over and over again. His breath punches out of his chest when Jake picks Natasha up and twirls her out, her legs sailing out into nothingness, the two of them only connected by their hands.

Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me) | 33,100 | Earthangel_44 / @yikes-00

Summary: “Do you?” Bradley counters. Jake’s face morphs into confusion. “Do you want a divorce?” Jake is quiet and the quiet is scarier than when Bradley didn’t think that Jake would take the ring from him. “I don’t know.” Jake says softly and he looks lost. He looks small and Bradley’s heart hurts in his chest. “I love you.” Bradley says breaking the silence between them and a smile twitches over Jake’s face. “Do you?”

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[chinahatbeach]

Thoughts for Today

Good Wednesday morning to you. Happy Hump Day! I’ve had a cup of Kona coffee goodness and I’m wrapped in my blankie. Thoughts are running in my brain like a rabid squirrel. So here goes…..

As I’m sitting here thinking of what I should write and what God has put on my heart this morning, I read this………

STEP OUT

I wonder … before Peter met Jesus, do you think he ever tried to walk on the water? Better yet, did the thought even once enter his mind to try it? I’m pretty sure the answer is “NO” on both counts. Yet, one day, when Peter saw Jesus walking on the water, the thought came into his head, “Hey, maybe I can do that, too!”

That’s the beautiful thing about being a follower of Jesus Christ. He helps you overcome the thought of impossibilities. He challenges you to rise to a higher place, a higher station in life. No longer do you see your inefficiencies and inabilities. You begin to see the possibilities that are available as you trust in Him. You recognize that there might be things hidden inside you that haven’t surfaced yet. Abilities beyond your wildest imagination might be locked up inside you, waiting to surface. You would have never given them a second thought … then, you see Him walking on the water! You throw fear and caution to the wind. The fear that has kept you back … the fear that has bound you to a life of mediocrity … the fear of man … the fear of ridicule … the fear of failure … it all goes out the door as you step over the edge of the boat and your foot touches the surface of the water.

Yes, there’s hidden potential in each one of us. Potential that will never be realized until we STEP OUT OF THE BOAT.

I had been thinking about how Colonel Sanders had started his chicken restaurants and his story. You see, Mr. Sanders didn’t start his restaurants until he was older and he was 73 years old when he sold his franchise. That has always sparked my mind on ‘what you can do when you are older’. No, I’m not going to make fried chicken and sell it! But, it sparks me to think of what I can do and it pushes me to say, ‘yes’, I can do anything at any time. STEP OUT OF THE BOAT.

And I don’t step out of the boat. I am fearful. I don’t want ridicule. What if I fail? But, what if I succeed? Honestly, I don’t want to be a janitor until I die. I want to retire to a homelife of being able to pay my bills, afford a decent vacation, and still earn money. I think that concept is one that most people think of but life happens and we must work longer than we want to do so.

Self doubt can come easy. How many times do we not step out and wish we had? Regret happens.

I know of someone who is baking cakes and makes baked items. She posts pictures on Facebook and I think, you go girl. She has a talent that needs to be used. I’m glad she’s getting out the boat. And another gal who has went with her artistic ways and paints beautiful pictures. They inspire me. Now, I need to stop being so inspired and walk on the water. Fear calls my name but I need to tell it to shut up. I need to pray about it, post an inspiring word on my white board where I will see it every single day and it will inspire me…..push me……..

One area of my life I am doing is making items for Christmas bazaars. I know I don’t have tons of time to do stuff, so I had better start now and do. I will try a bazaar this coming holiday season and see how it goes. One must step out……. if I fail……. no, I won’t fail. I will learn. No matter, good or bad, I will learn lessons and go forth from there. You don’t know until you try and do.

So, now I must unlock those thoughts of failure, step on the water, and go forth into a sea of what if’s. I know that there is success out there. My former roommate showed that to me. He kind of reminds me of Colonel Sanders (hair and beard). He’s a writer and he does YouTube videos. He’s making a living on those videos. He’s got his own YouTube Channel, Among the Missing. He’s branching off on many projects and making a good living. He struggled for many years, working jobs to support himself, and now, he works from home on his videos and books.

No matter where you are in life, life is about getting out of the boat, trusting in Jesus, and walking on water….. and you are never to old to do anything. Limits are in your mind.

Well, time to get going on my day. The light of day is here and daylight is burning….. the chickens are clucking and want breakfast. I must go forth and feed da birds.

And that’s the way it is…………

[harringrooves]

Inspired by the #cherrylanechallenge day 1 prompt knife but this is not spooky at all so technically this is just a random little ficlet! AO3

The chair outside the principal's office is already taken when Billy gets there. He lets his eyes follow the trail from the clean, white sneakers up the impossibly long stretch of denim clad leg and even further upwards over the two toned striped polo shirt to the moles peeking out from just under the collar.

Steve Harrington glances up at him, then grimaces. Sighs.

"Jesus Christ," Harrington mutters.

"What are you doing here?" Billy grunts. There's no where left to sit, so he flung his jacket onto the linoleum and drops down onto it, back resting against the wall directly opposite Harrington.

Despite the distance of the entire width of the hallway between them, when Billy stretches his legs out the scuffed points of his boots almost touch the edge of Harrington's sneakers.

"Waiting for Mrs Reyes."

"Yeah, no shit."

That earns him a glare from Harrington. Billy's stomach turns a little at the disdain in Harrington's dark eyes, but it's the curiosity shining through that makes him squirm. Like an ant under a magnifying glass.

"Why're you here?"

Billy rolls his eyes, letting the familiar motion draw out the equally familiar sneer. "Same as you, dumbass."

Harrington huffs and turns away again as they both fall silent, glancing at the door every so often as the minutes tick by. It's not at all a comfortable silence. Harrington's not looking at Billy so Billy shouldn't be looking at him. But the walls are blank and the only other remotely interesting thing is the name plaque on the principal's door.

So Billy traces the letters dutifully, keeps going even when he gets nearer to the end of Reyes and stripes creep into the very edge of his vision. Even when he hears Harrington shift in the chair, moving his legs under him onto the seat then over the arms than back down to the floor. Even when Harrington asks, "You go crazy on some kid again?"

Billy goes round and round the shape of the capital R. "No. The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Harrington laughs. It's loud and braying, and not what Billy would've guessed King Steve's laugh would sound like. He imagined something smooth and dark, something that would exude effortless charm with an undertone of something mysteriously rich and out of reach.

It just sounds like a teenage guy laughing, if a teenage guy was also part donkey. Billy would find it funny, if Harrington wasn't laughing at him. "What?" he repeats harshly.

Harrington eventually quiets. "What do I mean? The night at the Byer's, you went like, fully psycho. Your eyes were fucking dead. Did you get like that again, is that why you're here?"

Finally, Billy tears his eyes away from the plaque and meets Harrington's head on. "No," Billy says firmly. "I didn't fucking- no."

Harrington shrugs. "Whatever. Wouldn't surprise me if you did, sooner or later."

That stings. In California he was good at skating and surfing and babysitting and he was top of his class in English and History. Even after she left everyone knew him as Rosaline's boy (never Neil's), with the blonde hair and the yellow surfboard and the white smile that was a little too charming for his own good. Here in Hawkins, he was the Hargrove kid, the one who fucked and ditched, the one who fought and drank.

Maybe Billy's fine with everyone else thinking that about him, but not Harrington. Billy won't let himself think about why, but he wants Harrington see him. To look at him and think he's better than that night.

"I got kicked out of shop class," Billy bites out quietly. Harrington blinks at him.

"You got in a fight in shop-"

"I didn't get in a fight, for fuck's sake!"

Harrington holds his hands up in mock placation, bobbing his head mockingly. "Alright, alright." He stretches his leg out and lazily nudges at Billy's foot. "What'd you do then?"

"Made a knife," Billy mumbles, eyes back on the plaque.

Harrington laughs again. "You what?"

"I made a-"

"A knife, yeah." Harrington cocks his head like a little dog, some of his fringe flopping into his eye. "You know that just makes you sound even crazier, right?"

Billy just shrugs and lets his head fall back against the wall. "Wasn't for me, it was s'posed to be a gift. For- for Max." Harrington freezes.

"You were gonna make Max a knife as a gift?" It sounds like Harrington's struggling with every implication of that sentence. That Billy would gift Max something. That a knife was an appropriate gift. That Billy would care enough about anything to create something hand made.

"Yeah." He can't help but let a little bit of defensiveness slip into his tone. Billy kicks Harrington's foot away, probably a bit harder than necessary. "It was a replica of that one her character has in that stupid game her nerd friends play. Demons in Dungeons, or whatever." Dungeons and Dragons. Billy's not that stupid, but he's also not that shameless to admit to knowing what it's called. "It was a full scaled up one, even got the pattern on the handle half done."

"That's- cool," Harrington says hesitantly. "Didn't know you cared, Hargrove."

"Shitbird's birthday soon. Thought she'd like it." Billy glances over to Harrington, who's watching him with narrowed eyes. Billy coughs, shifting his shoulders a little to roll off the weight of the scrutiny. "Doesn't matter, that fucker Morrison confiscated it anyway."

Silence falls again, still just as awkward as last time but lacking a large amount of the hostility. Harrington's still watching him. The plaque's lost it's draw and Billy resorts to tracing the seams of his jeans with a fingernail.

"I'm failing English," Harrington offers abruptly. Billy's head snaps up, but for the first time Harrington's looking away as he speaks. "That's why I'm here. They're not sure if I'm gonna graduate."

"Sucks," Billy says roughly. Harrington nods slowly.

"Yeah."

Billy swallows, fingers clenching into fists atop his thighs. "I could, uh, give you my notes."

"Why would I need your notes?"

"'Cause you're failing English." Billy doesn't mean to say it like Harrington's an idiot, but those big brown eyes are wide and confused, like he's never thought about actually asking for help. "And 'cause I'm acing it."

Harrington's nose wrinkles in obvious disbelief, but he doesn't challenge it. He just sighs and lets his head loll to the side, propped up by his fist. "Yeah. Whatever. I'll do anything, at this point."

Billy nods silently. Harrington opens his mouth again, but he's interrupted by the click of the office door finally opening. Mrs Reyes pokes her head out.

"Steve," she greets him warmly. Her eyes slide over to Billy on the floor and her lips thin ever so slightly. "William."

"Hi," Billy says as obnoxiously peppy as he can manage.

"I'll see to you in a minute, after I've spoken with Steve." And then Harrington steps through into the office and the door swings shut once again.

Billy could get up and sit in the now vacant chair, but he stays right where he is until it's his turn to be called in. Harrington looks at him as he passes him in the doorway, but it's obvious that he's a million miles away, frowning at Billy but his mind no doubt occupied by something else.

Mrs Reyes doesn't ask what happened, just gives him a Friday detention and a lecture on how badly his behaviour is going to affect his record and how that's such a shame given his academic achievements. Billy lets it wash over him, not bothering to really pay attention. He's heard it all before.

When school lets out and Billy makes his way out the Camaro, he almost trips over his feet at the sight of Steve Harrington leaning against his car, twirling a knife in his long fingers.

"Here," Harrington says as soon as Billy gets close enough, holding the knife out to him blade first. Billy takes it gingerly and slips it into his jacket pocket.

"How'd you get it back?"

Harrington's chest puffs up in some god awful display of smugness as he smirks at Billy. "Morrison leaves his office unlocked during lunch. Everyone knows, it's like the number one place to make out. I was in an out, the couple in there didn't even notice me."

"That's disgusting. But, thanks, I guess-"

"Don't." Harrington holds up a hand, wincing a little. "I didn't do it for you, I think Max will really like the gift so if anything, I did it for her. And consider this payment for the notes."

"Payment?" Billy's brow furrows. "I didn't ask you to pay me." But now that Harrington's mentioned it, he definitely should have. Harrington's rich, everyone knows that. Billy could've got an easy $100 or some of the good weed Tommy's always talking about Harrington having.

"And now you don't have to," Harrington says smugly. "I give you the knife, you give me the notes. I don't want you asking me a month down the track to give you like $80 or a bag of weed or whatever in return. So there's the knife, aaaaand we're even."

Billy glowers as Harrington grins smarmily at him. "Fine. We're even. Now fuck off, some of us got places to be."

Harrington dutifully pushes off the Camaro, walking backwards towards his own car a few rows over. "Cool. Give me the notes whenever this week."

Billy doesn't say bye, just gets in his car and drives off, studiously not watching the fading image of Steve Harrington in his rear view mirror.

...

Max loves the knife. She doesn't hug him, but she nudges his shoulder with hers and declares that she's going to tie it to her belt and carry it with her at all times from now on. Neil goes purple trying to hold back his commentary on just how ladylike and appropriate for a young woman that is. Billy gets a cuff to the back of the head later, but it's worth it.

Harrington does get to graduate. He leans over from his seat beside Billy's (alphabetical order) during the opening speech of the graduation ceremony and whispers closer than necessary into Billy's ear, "Thanks, man." He doesn't so much as glance at Billy for the rest of the three hour ceremony, or during the party later that night that goes until daybreak the next morning, but it's worth it.

Billy bides his time. He can handle one more summer if it means getting enough cash to be independent when he leaves for college in a few months. Neil sucks as much as always, and driving Max everywhere cuts into the hours he's able to put in at the pool, but when she drags him to the new mall after his shift and right into the blissfully cool ice cream shop, Steve Harrington's eyes catch tellingly on the bare skin between the bottom of Billy's crop top and his tiny, red shorts and it's so, so fucking worth it.

[tochasingwaterfalls]

toni and shelby scenes i practiced writing because i officially have no life anymore

(2nd pov shelby and not always entirely accurate)

1. what the fuck are you wearing

The first time Toni talks to you, like really interacts with you, is when you pull Martha out of that riptide and bandage her ankle with the material of your top. She comes flying towards the two of you, worried about Martha, and so relieved, that she doesn’t even notice you at first. But when Martha shifts her attention towards you, compliments you, thanks you for the help, Toni looks at you. And she doesn’t just look at you, she scans you up and down and your skin starts to feel hot under the intensity of her gaze and you’re about to say something when -

“What the fuck are you wearing.”

You decide to brush over that, you tell yourself that she‘s on edge like all of you, that she didn’t mean for it to sound this patronizing, and when you walk back to the others, you try not to think about the way she looked at you. You try not to think about the way it made your skin crawl and burn at the same time, something you‘ve never felt before and something so entirely wrong.

2. god’s such a joke

“I‘m so sick of looking at your fucking ponytail. I feel like it thinks it’s better than me,“ she bites and when you turn around, she’s right there, up in your personal space, looking at you and challenging you to bite back with her eyes so intense that you forget how to breathe for a moment. 

“Why don’t you go in front, then?” You offer and she scoffs, brushes right past you with all her anger and when your hands just barely touch, it sets your body on fire all over again. You’re proud that you didn't let her get under your skin with all her punching remarks, toned arms and that insufferable smirk of hers - and yet what you fail to realize is, that she already runs so much deeper.

Toni stomps in front of you, each step loaded with a tension that stems from a place much further away than anything on this island but at least she’s not talking and you can finally concentrate on finding water. The Lord helps those who help themselves. You mumble a few prayers under your breath and it’s like she’s waited for just that, because she whirls around, snaps “God‘s such a joke,” and scoffs when you stay quiet. It’s something she seems to be doing a lot; scoffing, picking fights where there are none, fighting battles only she knows the cause of. “Do you know He is just a brainwashing tool designed to enslave the masses?“ She’s smirking again, thinks she’s cornered you, and you don’t know why you feel the need to say something back, maybe because you don’t want her to think you have no backbone, or maybe just because you want to see how she reacts. 

“Even if He were just a brainwashing tool, you ever think maybe your brain could use a good,” you draw out your bottom lip with your teeth. “scrub?“ 

“Fuck off.“ 

It’s the start of a game you two continue to play; she’s scoffing, dismissing, disagreeing with everything you say and you’re brushing it off, practicing your patience, all while trying not to let her see how much she actually does rile you up.

3. don’t bullshit me, shelby

It all starts with Rachel commenting the way Toni’s eating the mussels and you wish she would’ve just kept her mouth shut. “Just trying to stay on brand, you know.” Toni smirks, looks proud, and when she brings up the mussel to her mouth, your breath falls short in the back of your throat, because she’s not going to- Oh, she definitely is and there’s a knot settling low in your stomach. You don’t want to watch but it’s physically impossible for you to look away. “You gotta admit, the shape of these things... it’s kinda like a-“ 

“Like a pussy!“ That’s Nora, loud and so surprising, that there’s a shocked moment of silence before they’re back to laughing again and cheering Toni on, all like;

“Lick the clit.” and-

“This is the most action any of us have gotten.” and- 

“Go off, girl!” and-

- you don’t know how can they be so okay with all this but you can’t take it anymore. “Would you stop?!” And okay, maybe it’s a little hysterical with a little too much panic seething through your voice and you can’t meet Toni’s eyes when she wipes off her mouth. 

“Okay, that was hilarious and Shelby has no chill,“ Dot says into the silence that has started to settle in.

 “I have chill, I guess I just don’t - I don‘t see the humour in that sort of thing.“ You still can’t bring yourself to look at her.

“What do you mean that sort of thing?“ You can feel her running hot again, eyes not leaving your face, eyebrows furrowed, hand balled around the mussel so tightly, her knuckles turn white. She has you cornered.

“You know, pornographic gestures. I‘m a Christian, all right? I‘m from a Christian home, I‘m allowed to be a little skeeved out.“ You try your hardest to dodge the question, with the words practically spilling from your lips; and when your eyes finally lock with hers, you think she has to notice how they’re almost begging her not to push any further. This time, she really has you cornered and you can’t let go of the cross hanging off your neck. 

Wether or not she notices the plea in your eyes, Toni pushes, because all she ever does is pick battles. “I mean that‘s not all that’s going on here. Don‘t bullshit me, Shelby, cause the vibe that’s coming of you right now, I‘ve felt it a few too many times not to know what it is.“ 

All she ever does is pick battles but this is one, she has every right to fight. You know that and you look away; you’re practically drowning in your shame and the way Toni continues to push makes your throat close up.

“What are you saying, Toni?“ 

“I’m saying that she can’t stand that I’m gay, Marty, that’s what fucking skeeves her out.” Her anger fails to mask the way she’s hurt, the way her voice breaks a little in the end and you want to cry, knowing you’re the cause of all that.

“Look, I’ll be as honest as possible, because y’all deserve that.” It’s out on the table and you have to take a deep breath before the words rush out of your mouth, as if that would make it any better. You don’t know how the others react to what you say, you’re completely zoned in on Toni; she’s the one that matters and you’re begging her to understand that when you say, “I do believe that way of life is a sin,” you really mean “I’ve started hating myself such a long time ago that I can’t remember how not to.”

But she pushes herself up to her feet and spits “I can’t fucking believe it-“ 

Your tongue presses against your dentures when you cut her off. “I’m sorry, but everything I’ve ever known has taught me that.” Your lips on Becca’s and how right it feels, your father looking at you and then stopping to look at you all together, your pleas that it will never happen again, please, it was all Becca. Everything comes rushing in, balled up into a wave of shame and guilt that hits you square in your chest and almost knocks you over. It cuts up your throat from the inside when you say “Look, there’s no hate in my heart, I just feel sorry-“

“Fuck you.” She has you cornered, but there are no smirks, no snarky comments; there’s just the try to mask pain with anger and self hate with believe and you think that maybe this was the game you played all along.

4. i’m not gonna take shit from you

You don’t have time to figure out what it means when you grab the pill and turn around to face her. “Toni, I’m gonna need you to take this, alright?” 

“Stay away from me.” Still, close to passing out and maybe losing her life, she’s angry and proud and snapping but you brush it aside. You don’t have time for this. 

“If I put this in your mouth, can you take it?”

“I’m not gonna take shit from you.” It sounds weak, her voice hoarse and her lips chapped and you don’t have time to figure out why there’s this hot knot building up in you stomach with every word she says.

“It will save your life, Toni, you’re taking the damn pill.” You’re desperate and worried, knot in your stomach, heat in your veins, and when some of the others try to take the pill from you, something inside of you snaps. “Jesus fucking Christ, am I not allowed to help her!?”

You push her over and you don’t have time to figure what it means when your breathing becomes ragged and your whole body feels like it’s being set on fire when you force her to open her damn mouth.

“Swallow the fucking pill.” You're on top of her, one hand covering her mouth to make sure that she doesn’t spit out the pill, the other tangled in her hair, skin on skin and never this close before. It makes your head spin. When you hear her swallow and a flood of relief washes over your body, you’re not sure you want to figure out what that means. It will never happen again.

Toni runs deeper than your skin, she’s in your bones and in your veins and you’re scared shitless. So you do what you do best, and you walk away.

5. you’re free here

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to have to be pitch perfect every second? To be watched like a hawk for the slightest bit of weight gain or the tiniest wobble in my heal or if my hem is just a centimeter off regulation or if I say the wrong thing about international politics? God, help me.” 

“So you’re complaining about being judged when you literally signed up for that?”

“I know, I - “ You know she’s right. She’s cornered you again. “But I‘m not just talking about pageant stuff. It feels like everywhere I go, somebody is asking me to meet some kind of expectation. It’s a lot is all. The pressure.“ You don’t know how to say it to make her understand - without saying too much, that is. You’re playing the game again and she’s winning.

“Yeah, well, my dad‘s been a no show since day one and my mom is in and out of rehab like it’s a fucking white castle, so nobody expects shit from me. Doesn‘t feel great either.” You hear her voice get rough, close to breaking and she blinks a little harsher than just a minute ago. “Do you know how many field trips I had to bail on, cause no one’s been there to sign my permission slip? You know, I don’t give a fuck about going to the planetarium, you know? It just would’ve been nice to have someone there to say that I could.“ She’s rushing out things you’re not sure anyone else knows, maybe not even Martha, and you’re desperately trying to comprehend all of it.

“Yeah, but-“ 

“Shelby, if you’re trying to out-sad me, it‘s a losing fucking battle.“ She says it with a finality that's so much like her and it breaks your heart. Here you have her, talking to you like she means every word she says and you’re still thinking you’re playing a stupid game.

“But you’re free, don’t you see that? You don’t have to answer to anybody,” you argue and hits closer to home than anything you’ve ever told anyone before-

And then Toni says something that changes everything.

 “And neither do you, not right now anyway.” Your eyes bore into hers and you realize that she’s right. That she knows what she’s talking about. That you’ve been hiding and that you’re tired of it. She keeps talking and you’re too busy staring at her lips and the way her eyebrows are furrowed together in a way to underline the point she’s making, to hear what she’s saying. “I mean, you’re on a deserted island a million miles away from whatever bullshit expectations you left behind. You’re free here, Shelby, and if you’re not taking advantage of that, then I don’t know what the fuck to tell you.“

You’re free here. You’re free. 

Before you know what you’re doing, you rush in, thumbs on her cheeks and fingers curling around the back of her neck and you finally, finally, finally press your lips against hers. It’s desperate and it’s everything you’ve wanted to do for God knows how long. The way she kisses you back makes you feel closer to God than any prayer ever could and it feels so right until-

My, God.

You pull away and you're staring at her, breath falling short in the back of your throat, lips hot and so caught up in the moment. 

And then it comes crashing in. It will never happen again, please, Dad. It’s not what you think it is. This is not who I am.

You’re free. You’re free and you do what you do best, you run away from it. The difference is, that this time, there’s someone to chase after you.

[0aurelion-sol0]

SNK 134: Why we need to move forward.

Well...

That's horrifying...

Oh but whatever they are probably bad people in there. Thieves, greedy people, hateful mothers, men who beat their wives , liars, bullies, killers, murderers, rapist, child rapist and racist babies.

Yeah...

This is a rhetoric that has been used for ages and is currently being used in this fandom especially on reddit and 4chan.

The justification of injustice.

When George Floyd was slammed on the ground and died because he couldn't breathe anymore, conservatives and republicans at large ignored the police brutaliy leading up to that.

He was just a cocaine or drug addict who one day pointed a gun at a pregnant lady. So he was a criminal and deserved that.

Of course ignoring the racial segregation that happened from the very legalized slavery hundreds of years ago and how poor and racially stigmatized black people are being in America right now.

When the Uyghurs are being genocided by China, the world blinds itself because China is one the worlds necessary assets in economy as it basically produces a good chunk of what is being used in the world. Most made by children, " but it makes us live "... Apparently that's the only logical reason...

When Palestinians and Israelis are literally killing each other over some complicated non sense that no one ever really understands and also Israël basically doing Apartheid at this point,

When the totality of the Middle East has turned into a warzone because of the United States's violent imperialism,

When most far right or extremist group decided that Islam and Islamic terrorism are the same thing,

When xenophobes and racist always attack immigration,

"If she wasn't wearing that skirt, she probably wouldn't have been raped",

When we have homophobes, transphobes, LGBTphobes, telling us what's natural and always bragging about "\___-_-___/ God, Holy Jesus",

When you have people who tells you that poor people chose their way of living when there are a small percent of billionaires and soon to be trillionaires having such a gigantic amount of wealth,

When 6 millions Jews were genocided which was 40% of Jewish people at the time and 2/3 of European Jews,

When the prime minister of Israël is saying that the Holocaust wasn't Hitler's Idea but Haj Amin al-Husseini, (who was extremely anti semitic, don't get me wrong)who suggested it to him maiking the prime minister a revisionist but at the same time making his actions against Palestinians justified,

When around the world Christianic places of worship are being vandalized,

When entire SYSTEMS of segregations have made societies work,

When the South American continent has been attacked by the United States because of different political beliefs,

When people use their rape as a way to attack other communities of a specific religion or color,

When Black Panthers uses racism against White people because of the story of USA and are being anti semitic but essentializing a whole group,

When Nationalistic Israelis tells you what is a good Jew and what isn't a good Jew,

When dozens of groups have been forced to extinction,

Natives who were being murdered, yeah? YOU DON'T SEE THAT A LOT IN YOUR COWBOY MOVIES ?

When literal "feminist" calls for the destruction of men while they can't educate the kids about what to do and what not to do, OH, can also be transphobic apparently,

When you have entire websites who encourages pedophilia,

And pedophiles killed, left alone and live a life of endless torment while no one does nothing to help them and fight those who encourages it even in the highest places of our society,

Oh and Hollywood, that's all I need to say.

And let's not even talk about animal brutality and the destruction of ecosystems.

And there is more and more and more and more and more and FUCKING MORE,

All that because of reasons, reasons, reasons, reasons,

All stuck in a cycle of hate, violence and discrimination that just never ends.

The selfishness,

The greed,

And at end, everything is meaningless. There is just blood.

This is what this chapter represent the meaningless of it all. How everything goes to shit...

How everyone, whether it's the oppresor or the oppresed, will justify the violence, the injustice.

Society does nothing cause society right now runs for the entitled and the entitled only and creates it's own monsters.

I want to ask those people who defend the rumbling.

After everything we saw in this manga, after what the real world has commited, after how much these real events have inspired this story, how can you say it was the only way ?

After everyone hided Hange valuable informations including Eren who had information about KRUGER who was a spy in MARLEY. Who has created a civil war in Eldia and activated the rumbling while killing Eldian civilians in the way.

After seeing the mental breakdown of Bertolt, who we don't hear about anymore, Annie and Reiner's mental breakdown over GENOCIDING AN ENTIRE GROUP OF PEOPLE, by the way Reiner totally didn't develop another persona at that time to cope with what he was doing, HUH ?

After all the deaths, Carla, Grisha, Dina, Faye Marco, Levi's squad, Ymir, Erwin, Sasha, Hange, Hannes, Floch and many others, how can you go and be like "CHAD EREN, BEING DADDY, FUCKING HIS MEAT WAIFU, PHILOSOPHER FREEDOM SEEKER"

"104th crybabies... xDdDDDD Prfrpfr"

Come on...

This isn't serious at this point.

And for the H character, we're gonna come back for her but...

GODDAMNIT!

THANK YOU, DEATH.

This has sparked debates.

Some are thankful for this speech by the commander.

Others are finding it disingenous.

Others think it's too on the nose and not natural.

Others don't care.

On my part, I enjoy it but I take it with the context. Most of their airships have been destroyed and they are facing their doom upfront right now. It's more of a death plea at this point. Just like in the cave with Histor... GOD IT'S SO HARD SAYING HER NAME... with Historia who said truly horrible things at the point of an imminent death. At that moment, words like this can tell what you really are inside but even that is not enough to have a full picture.

It did have some interesting elements.

It is true, using, raising, breeding hate and shoving problems upon a group will always come bite you up the ass someday.

Marley in their extensive and violent coloniaslistic, imperialiatic behavior towards Eldia creates only weaknesses for them on an international field and create this monstruosity that is right now Eren.

Eren, a soldier who suffer from trauma and PTSD, who has terrible insecurities and everything to lose after losing so much and possibly in my book being influenced by another entity decides to kill them all.

But...

In no way does that justify Eren's actions, in fact it goes against it.

He is just as angry and hateful as they were back then but instead of destroying the system, he decides to genocide.

Essentializing the whole world as your ennemy and problem, and deciding to get rid of it is just continuing what has been started and continued for hundreds of years before.

No one ever thinks about the simple families, the innocent children, the homeless...

What about them Eren ?

What about the people who faced discrimination like Ramzi ?

What about the other groups that are almost extinct just like yours ?

What about the groups that tried to support the Eldians but were considered freaks ? HUH ?

What about the babies and innocent children ?

Isayama is even spelling it out for you this chapter.

Is he not worth it ? To stop all this ?

He was born into this world just like every other baby.

Look at that while everyone, is trying to jump off, their trying to save the baby. Even if it's probably impossible. That's humanity right there.

And... jesus christ...

I literally saw people who said that the mother was dumb to give it to the people because titans were behind them.

I can't even...

Imagine if Eren is the daddy of H's Baby and that he completes the genocide, killing his friends or even persuading them and at the end he is saying you are free to this baby.

So this baby is worth more than this baby ?

He is more legitimate to live than him.

I can't even imagine what the arguments would be like with the Eren stans:

"He's protecting his friends."

While literally challenging them to fight and right now trying to kill them.

"Well, you know the Rumbling is horrible but they got what was coming for them. They did nothing to help Paradise."

While forgetting the complexity of human nature, how banalization of these acts of violence have come to be BECAUSE...

These just like me and you are just simple people. With simple lives and not too much power who can't do anything about it.

Most of the people today sees all the suffering in the world, they just don't have the power, nor the will to go against such complex geo-political conflicts.

Would you be able to just resolve the Israelo-Palestinian conflict ? I don't think so, so shut your ass down with this argument.

These people can't change the world with power that they have and the one that has the power to change that, is killing them right now. BRAVO.

" Well, uh, the child is a child, parents might be racist and uh... child maybe is racist or will become racist..."

God...

Just because someone has done horrible shits or is an horrible shit doesn't mean he should die like this.

Here it is people, how we work as human :

Fuck redemption and possible solutions, let's kill everyone who did something bad.

Y'all would have been perfect during monarchies time.

And like... having an argument on a baby should face genocide is just fucking disgusting.

AND DON'T GIVE ME THE BULLCRAP OF FICTION DOESN'T EQUAL REALITY!

That you are interested into what could bring the Rumbling in terms of thematics and story is fine.

BUT ENDORSING IT ?

Do y'all even hear yourselves sometimes ?

You just sound like every racist, bigoted, fascist and violent person that has ever existed.

You're just excited to see someone die because he commited something wrong, sadistic pricks.

You're no different. Perhaps the guy who was talking to Grisha in chapter 97, who was a Marleyan and gave serums to Eldian is right. When he was talking to Grisha, Isayama use it to break the fourth wall and talk to the readers.

Why do we watch this, all this violence ?

" Because it's fun!"

" People take peace for granted!"

" Of course we're abnormal in society's eyes."

" We wish to exterminate all eldians!"

" Your sister did nothing wrong. Shame she was an Eldian!"

The fun fact is that this guy is a racist fuck but he dies pushed by Kruger and killed by his very own creation: a titan.

Why do people endorse genocide ?

" Because it's justice!"

" They got what was coming for them!"

" Isayama is just showing us that genocide is not really wrong if you just understand the concept of morals. Puritans."

" Humanity can die, they deserve it!"

" I'm sad for Ramzi, he didn't do nothing wrong but you know... maybe he didn't have good ideas about Eldians."

While also saying why children could deserve genocide. \____@-@____/

Of course I found most of these on Reddit and 4chan, the nazi propaganda website. Tumblr is a little free of it.

Babies....

Literally babies...

That remind me of somethin'...

OH YEAH!

QUEER NO MORE.

*put gloves on*

PUUUUUUUSSHH!!! COOOOOOOMMEEE OOONN!!!!

Breathe...

I SEEEEE THE HEAAADDD, IT'S HEREEEEEE!!!!

Natalie, bring the bucket, quick!

Of fuck she shitted on herself a little bit!

_________________________________________

So ?

Y'all like my fanfic ?

It's about how Erehisu is canon and how Historia is actually thinking about Eren right now because she is blushing.

But also about how Historia actually looks good and sexy while being pregnant and how she looks so happy!

She also is a lesbian that turned straight.

I'm so proud of my work.

_________________________________________

In all honesty...

This is... dissapointing and an insult to Historia fans. Why ? What is the purpose or the reason ? Being tragic ? To show how far Historia can go to protect her loved ones ? A female Eren so ?

I always leaned towards the fake pregnancy even if I don't know how something like that could be really pulled. I didn't understand this choice for his storytelling. The others I understand but this one...

O_o

What the fuck ?

So she really is pregnant ? But nothing leading up to it makes sense.

The character whose thematics still rings too much true for this arc is put in the background and as a breeding farm on top of that.

It even came to a point I started people to stop asking about her.

I had faith in her presence in the final arc. That she would have a role play.

But now ?

/\/\/\

For people who don't understand why this aspect of story is wrong, we have to break it down.

First off, Historia one of the first queer characters with Ymir in SNK. Others are suspected but these two are the few that holds a definitive representation as queer.

Most often in media or in real life, LGBT people have been forced into a situation that requires them to fall under heterosexuals lives. Here Historia is forced to be pregnant, yes in a way she agreed because of her people, but at the same time she didn't really want it.

For queer people, like me, this still rings true. Too much true. People literally forces you to go for your opposite sex everytime, to have a family.

No, stop forcing your view of your own life or desire of life on other people.

The fact that the fandom rationalizes that and says that she is happy and in love with Eren is just so fucking weird.

It either is blind ship following, heteronormativity or not understanding the story.

And I saw people saying she might be bisexual. This doesn't change anything. Also ignoring the fact that she hasn't shown any attraction to men other than women in the story.

If she is bisexual, it doesn't change anything, she is still queer. Not semi-straight AND EVEN IF SHE WAS A WOMAN WHO HAPPENED TO BE STRAIGHT, SHE IS STILL FORCED INTO SOMETHING SHE DID NOT WANT.

Bisexual is not semi-straight, semi-gay.

It's bisexual.

Bisexual, Straight and Homosexuality are not the same thing.

And if she was straight, that doesn't make it acceptable. It's just sick.

Just because you're a straight woman doesn't mean you are going to be more happy or have god like duty to have kids.

I just don't understand it...

A manga who was so progressive with his female characters reduces Historia to this.

Imagine...

Just imagine...

Eren is the father. I would shoot myself in the face. A forced straight relationship at the end for the pleasure of shonen readers and heteronormative readers.

" What if I have baby, Eren ?"

" Only if it is from me. I want him to live and have FREEDOM!"

" It's open bar, honey." *saying this after hearing the guy says he's going to genocide which goes against her own values and actions as queen*

Ew... Just ew...

And even worse she wasn't supposed to give birth right now, she was supposed to give birth in a few months.

She could DIE. SHE IS 19. This is dangerous.

Everyone is like this is normal.

THIS IS NOT NORMAL. *sigh*

This goes against what she is supposed to have as a character development.

The fact that she would be okay for genocide while as a queen she reached out to the most weak and in need is fucking incoherent.

No. This doesn't make sense. Even Eren said that Historia's action as a queen were to help others. How could she be okay sitting at her house ? Telling no one about what Eren was going to do ? And becoming a breeding farm ? What is the logic in that ?

Why make it suspicious than ?

The only thing that was able to make any logical sense to me was that the person we are seeing here isn't Historia.

I know if my theory is right, it's sick, even more sick.

The only times we saw Historia after the timeskip was during flashbacks, the reveal at 107 and possibly at the end of 123.

If this is her at the end of 123, I want to ask you why is she all prepared, why is she all dressed up and why is she wearing the same clothes in 134 that she is wearing 107. Something doesn't add up.

She is young, small-petite, blonde and her belly and face are hidden.

I was only able to go through the theory that this is a fake Historia. Than who it is than ?

Well, I searched for female characters who look like her or who could look like Historia right now. From all the characters that we haven't seen coming coming back and that has interacted with Historia, there is only one.

Rico Brzenska.

For those, who don't remember her : She was a Garrison Member who helped Mikasa and Eren during the Trost Arc and also helped Historia while she was exhausted during the Clash of the Titans Arc.

She hasn't appeared ever since the start of the Return to Shiganshina Arc unlike many of the older characters.

She is the only one I see who could pass as Historia I think.

I know this is still sick. But this is the only way I would be able to make Historia get out of this crappy storyline and play some relevance in the story. And if we look at Rico and Historia in 107, they kinda look the same. They have the heart shaped face, they are both small and they both have this sort of closed eyelids.

One line that just stuck with me of Rico was:

"Hiding/Lying about Eren's rampage in the report wouldn't have benefited humanity. "

This was during Eren's trial before joining the Survey Corps. What was discused was when Eren lost control of himself during the Trost Arc and attacked Mikasa.

The second line that struck was the one where she holds Historia who is exhausted in her arms:

"Wow! Who is this girl, is she okay ?"

I don't know why it just pushed that theory. And I kinda believe it now, because no one can make me believe that there is something satisfying coming out of this. Why would she sacrifice herself for Historia ? Well, I don't really know but Rico was always a little wary of Eren, even after the Trost Arc but yeah ultimately for Rico being able to give her own life for Historia. I don't know about that. But with this manga you never now. It is a very dark and twisted theory but this is the only logical thing I can see right now since no answers have been provided.

Monkey is BACK

Zeke is back and like most of us predicted, Eren dragged him with him. And I'm not gonna lie, the way he was attached to the spine was pretty badass.

He is used as a puppet which reinforces the theory for me that all three of them: Eren, Ymir and Zeke are being used by the Attack Titan.

I cannot understand Eren's illogical behavior especially after seeing the train scene where he says he wants them to live long happy lives and than having him kill his friends.

Ymir the first being free and having eyes to returning to having no eyes just like before and Eren.

And Zeke would have never agreed to the Rumbling. And we can't see his eyes either.

And...

Thank you, 104th for existing.

Because...

After how much shit they have gone through and after how much the fandom, not just the Eren stans, have mocked them. Like the fandom has been the biggest asshole to the the Alliance while they were the ones who were able to survive through the sentence " Genocide is wrong!" that so many people seems to find to be so hard to say.

I will root for them until the bitter end, I don't care. They are the one who are fighting. You can call Cringevengers all you want but I am glad they are winning.

They all suffered like Eren but they didn't prioritize their own and only feelings above everything else and they stood by for the values they fought for since they joined the Survey Corps. Even if I have to admit they have, for most of them, conflicted feelings with what they were doing and have done things like trying to talk to Eren while it's obvious he wasn't going to talk and that in a situation like this I don't think someone would try to stop Eren by just talking.

Levi, and it would be foolish to not recognize it, is being consumed by his promise but he is restraining it and still is able to think about the bigger picture.

There's one thing I really like about this is Armin asking Eren:

"Eren... I'll ask you one last time... "What part of you is free" after we rip you out from there... "

Hehe... yes... what part of you is free ?

To be honest, there's many things I don't want for the ending.

A Lelouch Ending, it was all Eren's plan. Literally wouldn't make sense. No one would be questionning his free will and he wouldn't have these weird shits happening to him.

A Code Geass ending, why would Mikasa have to kill Eren, what does that add to her as a character ? More tragedy ? No she doesn't have the scarf, it's pretty telling what place she's at right now.

Eren being the daddy. NO, JUST NO.

Everyone dies, genocide is the right thing. You know all the worst shit that can happen.

But most of all I want important plot points to be explored and moved over because ever since the timeskip, there has been no important plot points out the way. Eren's behavior, Ackertalk, Bertolttalk, Historia's Condition, Paths stuffs, answers!

Whatever... Trust me Peace is not something I take for granted. Being proud of myself and having a life with the least conflict and problem is something you fight for. Having rights, being recognized as a human.

Never lose that, fight for it. But never with injustice, be smarter and stronger. Cause at the end what unites us is not only what we have in common but what the perspective of what we have not in common can make a bigger picture of what we are as humans. We all are different and have a different story with similarities but in the end, we are human and born into this world. And in that, we must move forward. In the present, because of the past and for the future.

We all wish for the problems to go away but if it's for the solutions to be rigged with injustice, it will not work. No one has acheived with genocide and never will.

It's kinda sad that this long of a post has to say this. Did y'all see that ? Pretty inspiring what I wrote. Oh well you know what ? If they can be bigoted why can't I myself.

Here's a song I wrote:

(Fuck everyone and you.

We hate women

There are only 2 genders, the breeder and the breeded.

Everything is degenerate.

We hate brown, Arab and Muslim people.

Genocide is cool

And Hitler was too.)

I know but you know what, at least if they want a spy for Nazi Germany someday. They'll know not to give it to me because I'd laugh at the stupidity of the people just like you and I are doing with the rest of world cause for all the shits it gives us, it's entertaining.

[pkg4mumtown]

Welcome to Hawkins PD (Ch. 1)

AN: Finally got far enough along in writing to post the beginning. First Hopper fic so...yea...let me know what you think so far.

Warnings: smoking, cursing, y’know normal Hopper stuff, Female Reader

Summary: You’re a new officer being assigned to Hawkins without being warned of the attractive but grumpy Chief.

Title: The New Kid

Chapter 1 of ?

Chief Hopper slammed the door of his Blazer shut, squinting at brightness of the sun he had underestimated. He set his wide-brimmed hat firmly on his head and slid aviators on his face, all while never dropping the lit cigarette hanging from his lips. He strode over to a white-haired, stocky man who stood just inside the open gates of the Indiana Law Enforcement Academy. The older man gave Hopper a pointed look as he strode through the parking lot.

“C'mon, Hop, no squares on academy grounds,” the man sighed. He wore a tan uniform and wide brimmed drill instructor cover on his head, like the other instructors at the academy

Hopper grimaced around the cigarette, pulling it from his lips and flicking it off to the side, “I’ll pick it up when I leave, Cap.”

The white-haired man shook his head and laughed softly, leading Hopper inside the confines of the academy, “Haven’t been a Captain in years.”

“Bridge, you’ll always be ‘Captain’ to me,” Hopper slapped Bridge on the back. “What do they have you doin’ now?”

“Basic Training Commander,” Bridge winked and tipped his hat.

“Look at you,” Hopper chuckled and shoved Bridge’s shoulder.

They walked in silence for a minute before Hopper finally spoke up, “So, why’d you call me here? I’m betting it wasn’t just to catch up,” Hopper looked over at the shorter man, who sighed.

“Hop…” Bridge started, “…the director, deputy director, and myself have decided to attach another officer to your station.”

Hopper stopped walking all together, giving the man an incredulous glare, “Excuse me?”

“Look, after the lab and Byers fiasco, you’re lucky we're not adding ten times that. It was a shit show and the media were hounding us as to why Hawkins has only six officers, three of which never seem to leave the office,” Bridge stressed. “We had the Roane County Sheriff’s patrolling the town for you and your boys, just to keep the citizens at bay, while you were doing fuck knows what, Jim.”

“While I was fixing the problem,” Hopper growled. “You have no idea what was going on!”

“Why don’t you enlighten me?” Bridge challenged with raised eyebrows.

Hopper ignored him and kept walking with no direction, “And anyway, the lab is empty now.”

“The ratio is still six to thirty thousand people, man. Detroit's ratio is one to four hundred.”

“Detroit is also the ‘Murder Capital’, is it not?” Hopper huffed. “Why’d you call me here, then? You could have told me this over the phone, so I could at least throw something after I hung up on you!” he raised his voice slightly, itching to pull out another cigarette.

Bridge smirked and tilted his head up, indicating Jim to follow him. The sound of gunfire grew louder with every step, telling Hopper that they were heading to the range.

“Thought you might want to check out who we’re assigning to you,” Bridge said as they finally came to a stop.

Below them stood about twenty recruits in unmarked tan uniforms with black ties, which would change according to their departments after they graduated.

“That one,” Bridge pointed to the recruit on the far left, a moderately tall woman with her hair pulled back into a bun. With her strong shoulders and stern expression, she definitely looked like she could hold her own amongst the males in the class.

Hopper tilted his glasses down and scrunched his nose at the brightness, “The girl?”

“Jesus Christ, Hop,” Bridge sighed.

“It was a question!” Hopper retorted back, huffing at Bridge's insinuation.

Bridge rolled his eyes and nodded, “Yea, the female recruit.”

At that moment, one of the drill instructors shouted a nearly indistinct command. It was unintelligible to Hopper’s ears, yet all the recruits responded immediately by clutching their right hands to their chests. Hopper watched, intrigued, as they fired the last of their rounds single handedly. His gaze swept over all the recruits and their targets before focusing back on the female as she shoved the barrel of the revolver between her duty belt and her trousers. Hopper’s expression turned impressed as he peeked over his sunglasses while she flicked open a pouch, retrieved a speed loader, and reloaded before shooting again.

“When did you guys start grading one-armed reloads?” Hopper wondered.

“When we finally got speed loaders that weren’t shit,” Bridge chuckled and shrugged. “Better to make it mandatory so they don’t fumble later.”

Hopper stuck around for a while, to make his trip worthwhile. He watched from a shaded area with Bridge as they started a defensive tactics lesson, always keeping his eye on the girl. He eyed her and a male recruit curiously as they circled one another in a scrimmage. The male was aggressive and lunging in order for her to practice a specific maneuver, which she did fairly well after deflecting some of his hits. The ferocity in which she fought back made Hopper curse under his breath in admiration.

“So, what d'ya think, Hop?”

“Why her?”

Bridge groaned, “Hop…I thought you were better than this!”

“Better than what? I’m just asking why her specifically!” he raised his voice in irritation.

“Because she’s a woman?” Bridge retorted and raised an eyebrow at him.

“No, man, because she actually has skill. Like the Sheriff’s or Trooper material, not for some boring town like Hawkins. I’m just…” Hopper sighed, “I don’t know, it feels like a waste of resources plus she'd be bored off her ass.”

“We don’t decide their departments, Hop, she chose local police over Staties,” Bridge pursed his lips and chuckled to himself.

“What?”

“Maybe she’ll kick your boys into gear. Lord knows, your station could use some energy.”

Hopper just rolled his eyes as the dig.

“Her station request, though, was anywhere but her hometown and we were already planning to add another officer to your station anyway,” Bridge revealed.

“Hmm,” Hopper grunted, “bad family relationship?

“Probably a question for her, not me.”

-

I shrugged on my heavy, oversized, black duffle bag and picked up my equally oversized briefcase before leaving my sleeping quarters for the last time. With my free hand, I pushed my aviators, a graduation gift from my best friend, up the bridge of my nose. Said friend had already departed the premises after the graduation since it was a bit of a drive back to our hometown.

The academy grounds were a sea of uniforms from local police to Sheriff’s deputies to Staties, with various shades of blue and tan. My uniform, however, was the only blue one with a “Hawkins Police Dept.” patch. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or excited when I found out, since the town had a reputation of being quiet, save for the couple occurrences over the last two years.

I made my way back near the front of the Academy, pushing through the sea of people still lingering while they congratulated the new officers. I peered over people’s shoulders, looking for the exit and finally seeing the open gate. I spied the bus stop just beyond it and stepped into the parking lot, only to be stopped when I heard my name called.

“Y/L/N!”

I snapped my head to the left, seeing Commander Bridge leaning against a Blazer with another tall officer. He waved me over with his hand and said something to the officer. I glanced at the side of the Blazer, my eyes widening when I saw “Chief” in bold print followed by “Hawkins Police Dept.” Not an officer, then.

I stood straighter as I approached my new boss. His all tan uniform was almost form fitting his large frame, while a wide-brimmed hat adorned his head. As I approached, he took his sunglasses off and hung them on his shirt, revealing impossibly bright blue eyes. I let my eyes trail up his form, lingering on his lips pulling in as he took a drag from the cigarette in his mouth.

“Officer Y/L/N, this is your new boss,” Bridge motioned with a wave of his hand.

“Chief Hopper,” the man stuck his hand out. I couldn’t help but rake my eyes over the dark blonde beard adorning his cheeks and framing his lips.

I quickly dropped my briefcase to the ground and stuck my hand out as well, “Officer Y/L/N, sir.”

“Yea,” Hopper chuckled and pointed his thumb at Bridge, “he said that. You can tone it down. Relax, you graduated.”

“Sorry, sir,” I apologized for no reason and paused. “Why are you here?”

“Bridge told me you dormed. Figured you might need a ride into town,” Hopper shrugged.

“Oh, well, you didn’t have to do that. I can take the bus, sir,” I gulped. An hour drive with my new, very attractive, boss? No, thanks.

“Well, I’m already here,” Hopper grunted out a sigh and grabbed my briefcase off the floor.

“Sir, no, I can—” I tried to stop him.

“For the love of God, Y/L/N, take a load off,” Hopper responded, almost annoyed with my behavior. He circled around to the back of the Blazer, “Any family you still have to say ‘bye’ to?”

“No, they didn’t quite approve of my career choice,” I murmured.

Hopper simply grunted as he opened the back hatch of the Blazer and tossed the briefcase not-so-gently in the bed. I shrugged my bag off and did the same, nearly jumping when he slammed it shut.

I turned back to Commander Bridge, offering him a smile and shaking his hand, “Thank you for everything, sir.”

Bridge laughed lowly and shook his head, reciprocating the handshake before slapping my shoulder, “Good luck, kid.”

I nodded and jumped into the passenger side of the Blazer, seeing the two men exchange goodbyes like old pals in the passenger mirror. I shook my leg nervously as the Chief rounded the Blazer and jumped in with a heavy sigh.

An hour drive and I’d already managed to annoy the shit out of him before the trip even started. Great.

Chapter 2

[waitineedaname]

frame the halves and call them a whole

also on ao3

--

“Alright, I’ve got a bad one.”

“Oh, lord.”

“Brace yourself.”

“I’m bracing!” Sasha made a show of gripping the short carpet on her living room floor and Tim grinned, leaning back against her coffee table.

“Would you rather… date a spider with the head of a human, or a human with the head of a spider?”

“Jesus. I see someone has been reading the discredited statements.”

“Guilty.” Tim shrugged cheekily. 

The two of them were sitting on the floor in Sasha’s flat, and she’d long since lost track of what time it was. Ever since they’d been moved to the Archives, they’d made an agreement to go out and do something together once a week. Sometimes that meant getting sloshed and losing at pub trivia, sometimes that meant dragging each other to whatever new film had made it to theaters that week, and sometimes that meant playing sleepover games in the middle of the night, as if they were twelve year olds and not thirty-somethings with 9-to-5’s. Neither of them had the energy to go out drinking and there wasn’t anything good in the theaters that week, so the third option had won out. They’d ended up on the floor when Sasha made an ill-advised comment about not being ticklish and Tim called her bluff. She’d dissolved into hysterical giggles and he’d said something about how being an oldest sibling meant having a sixth sense for someone’s ticklish spots, and then he’d gone very still and quiet. She’d taken his hand and squeezed and initiated the game of would-you-rather they found themselves in now.

“Okay. Let me think about this.” She drummed her fingers on her lips contemplatively. Tim smiled in that fond way he did when he didn’t want to outright laugh at her. “Are the human and spider bits proportional?”

“Ooh, very good question, Sash. Let’s say they’re the normal sizes for your average spiders and humans.”

“So my options are a human head scuttling around on spider legs or a human with an absolutely microscopic spider head?”

“Yep!” Tim said, popping the ‘p.’

“I’m going to go with option A. I mean, if it’s a human head, I could still hold a conversation with it, right? And I don’t think spiders would make good kissers.”

“I think some of our statement givers would disagree with that judgment.”

“Please don’t tell me we have a statement about a human body with a spider head. I don’t think I could take it.”

“Sure do! Statement number 9170108, or something like that. Some freaked out old coot convinced his neighbor’s head was fake and he was keeping a tiny little spider underneath the fake head.”

“Christ. I’m glad Jon didn’t ask me to look into that one. I might have quit on the spot.” Sasha laughed.

“Aw, and then leave me and Martin to deal with Jon? You know how he gets with the spider ones.” 

“Hm, fair. The Archives need someone sensible around.”

“Hey, you’re not the sole voice of reason down there!”

“You’re right. Martin can be fairly practical when he wants.” She failed to bite back her smirk when Tim clutched his chest, feigning pain.

“Oh, how you wound me, Ms. James! Here I was, thinking it was Tim and Sasha versus the world, but you’ve betrayed me for Martin!”

“Is that your proposal for a Scott Pilgrim reboot? Am I Ramona in this scenario?”

“No, we’re both Scott Pilgrim because combined, we can equal the pure sexual energy of one Michael Cera.”

“Eugh! Gross!” She retched and kicked at him, making him laugh. 

“I’m kidding!”

“You better be! Any and all horniness for Michael Cera is banned in this flat!”

“That’s fair.” He caught her foot and shoved it back at her. “Knives and Ramona were both way too good for him, anyway. They should’ve ended up together at the end.”

“That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said all night.”

“You’re really not pulling any punches tonight, huh?”

“Nope. My turn. Would you rather...” She crossed her arms and stared him down long enough to make him squirm, “get stoned with Jon or Elias?”

Tim groaned so loud she worried her neighbors would complain. “No. Absolutely not. You cannot make me choose that.”

“Hey, you asked about spider people!”

“Yeah, and I’d argue that dealing with my bosses while stoned is worse than a human head skittering around on the walls!”

“Oh, come on. Jon isn’t that bad.”

“Sasha. You were friends with him in Research. I was friends with him in Research. Last time we got drinks, he talked about South American moths for forty minutes. I’m getting a headache just thinking about listening to him while he’s stoned.”

“Maybe it’ll calm him down.”

“Maybe.” Tim pouted, and Sasha did her best not to giggle. “Alright fine. I choose Jon, but only because I cannot imagine Elias getting within eyesight of anything as fun as weed without shriveling up and acting like an affronted Victorian gentleman.”

“Okay, first of all, the Victorians loved drugs, they were high on opiates all the time-"

"Like hell am I doing opiates with Elias."

"Second of all, I may have looked into what Elias was like before he got promoted…” She trailed off and bit back a laugh when Tim's jaw dropped.

“No.” 

“And he was a major stoner.”

“You can’t just say these things. I refuse to accept it.”

“I’m serious!”

“Are we talking about the same Elias? The Elias Bouchard that uses words like grandiloquent and apropos? The Elias Bouchard that gets pissy if you round up on your time card?”

“You know what’s even worse?”

“Please don’t make it worse.”

“I’ve seen him wear those socks with weed patterns on them.”

“I told you not to make it worse.” Tim wailed and covered his face. “I swear, if I saw that, I would gouge my eyes out without hesitation.” Sasha patted his leg sympathetically. 

“Well, good thing you chose Jon, then.”

“I guess so! Fuck’s sake.” He sighed and flopped over onto his side to lie on the floor. Sasha laughed at him goodnaturedly, and then joined him on the floor. She expected him to be thinking of his next would-you-rather prompt, but after a long minute of him silently running his fingers through the carpet, he surprised her by asking, “Do you ever miss Jon?”

“Sorry?” She said, confused. “We see him every day, Tim.”

“No, I…” He huffed, “You know what I mean. Do you miss the Jon we knew in Research?”

“Oh…” Sasha caught onto his drift and fell silent, unsure what to say. Tim was clearly brimming with emotions that he was struggling to get out, so she let him take a minute.

“Not saying he’s a completely different person now, but… I don’t know. We used to get drinks with him. He used to laugh at our jokes. He used to make jokes. Weird, dark jokes, but still jokes, you know? But these days, it’s all business, all the time. I don’t think I’ve seen him smile in months. All… All snappish comments and ‘research this, call this statement giver, stop goofing off during work hours.’ Never mind that just a year ago, he was the one using work hours to show us cat videos because he got distracted during his lunch break.” The side of Tim’s face was smushed into the floor and his one free eye was focused on the whorls he was creating with his fingers in the carpet. Up close as they were, Sasha could see the light scar on his chin that he’d once told her was the result of an ill-advised dare as a child, when his brother had challenged him to see if they could jump off the back deck of their house. She touched it, and he leaned into her hand, eyes distant and sad. “I just…” He spoke softly, “I miss my friend.”

“I miss him too.” Sasha said honestly, though she knew Tim was taking it harder than she was. “You know it’s not your fault, right?”

“I know that.” Tim said, and she believed him. “It’s this stupid job. The stupid Archives. I miss being in Research, where I could make fun of the weirdos in the Archives, but now we’re the weirdos in the Archives.”

“We work at an institute that studies the supernatural. I think we’re the weirdos no matter which department we’re in.” She said, aiming for some levity and feeling relieved when Tim let out a soft huff of laughter.

“Fair. Still. The vibes in there are…”

“Bad.” She finished for him.

“You can say that again.” He finally shifted to look at her again. “If you were the Head Archivist-”

“Tim-” She warned, not wanting to dig up an old sore point. 

“I’m serious. If you were the Archivist, do you think you’d act like this?”

“Would I push you away, you mean.” She said. He shrugged and nodded. “I don’t know. I really don’t, Tim. I’d like to say I wouldn’t, but who knows what kind of pressure it involves. I can be just as intense as Jon when I feel pressured.”

“Yeah, but you’d be way nicer than him.”

“You don’t know that.” Sasha said, firm but gentle. 

“...Guess I don’t.” Tim sighed and shut his eyes. She reached down and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

“Next time you’re missing Jon, call me instead, okay? Or Martin, he’d love that.” She ran her thumb over his and gave him a small smile. “You can always count on me.”

His gaze is impossibly soft as he looks up at her, and he seems to almost forget to respond at first. “Yeah.” He finally says. “I can always count on you, Sash.” A cheeky grin spread across his face, breaking the tender moment. “The Pilgrim to my Scott.”

She laughed and let go of his hand to push his shoulder into the leg of the coffee table playfully. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense!” He protested despite his own laughter. “Okay, maybe it doesn’t make sense, but it’s the thought that counts. I’m poetic.”

“No, you’re sleep-deprived.” She sat up enough to eye the microwave from her vantage point in the kitchen. “Oh lord, it’s 2am, no wonder. You always get sappy at 2am.”

“I do not!”

“You do. Big sap.” She patted his cheek playfully and stood. “Want me to get you some extra blankets for the couch?”

“That’d be great.” He hauled himself to his feet, groaning all the way. She snickered.

“You sound like an old man.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m young and spry.” He complained, stretching.

“Mhm.” She rolled her eyes and went to the closet.

“At the prime of my life.”

“And yet you make dad noises getting out of a chair.”

“Hey, lying on the floor isn’t good for your back! Aren’t you older than me anyway?”

“Maybe, but I’m not the one complaining about my back.” She cut off whatever complaint he had prepared by throwing a quilt at him. He caught it and stuck his tongue out at her. She returned the gesture and grabbed another blanket. “Are two blankets good?”

“That’s perfect.” He took the blanket gratefully and settled on the couch. “Should I make breakfast as thanks?”

“You don’t have to,” Sasha immediately said out of politeness, but then added, “But if you want to make pancakes…”

“Understood. I’ll see you bright and early with some pancakes, then.” Tim smiled up at her and made himself comfortable on the couch.

“See you in the morning, Tim.” She turned to walk to her room, but stopped at the doorway when Tim piped up again.

“Sasha?”

“Hm?” She looked back at him and saw his best flirty grin on his face. He winked and blew a kiss at her. More than used to his nonsense, she gasped and pretended to catch the invisible kiss, then promptly put her hand to mouth and pretended to eat the kiss. Tim clutched his heart and fell back onto the couch, trying to act like he wasn’t holding back laughter. “No, you’re so cruel!”

“Good night, Tim.” She said, closing the door behind herself before her poker face could break.

“Good night, Sasha.” She heard through the door, full of fondness and amusement in equal parts. 

Sasha rolled out of bed the next morning to find Tim making pancakes, as promised. They sat at her kitchen table and bickered playfully about movies; Tim listened patiently as she infodumped about the history of science fiction as a genre, and she let him rant for the fiftieth time about Indiana Jones. Tim insisted on washing the dishes like a gentleman, and Sasha insisted on squirting bubbles out of the dish detergent bottle at him. They didn’t speak a word about work or their conversation from the night before, but she hugged him very tightly before he left, as if conveying all the emotion she could through touch alone. From the way he squished his face into her shoulder, it seemed the message came across. 

“I’ll make sure to get you the spider guy’s number.” He said when they finally pulled apart, and she snorted.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” She said, shoving him out the door.

“So I’ve heard.” He winked and walked backwards down the hall outside her flat. She sighed and waved, a smile on her face as she shut the door.

If he bugged her and Martin more than usual after talking to Jon the following week, she didn’t mention it.

[thebluestbluewords]

I haven't watched D2 in almost a year please forgive me

This is 1800 words of NONSENSE about PIRATES except there's actually no named pirates appearing in this section yet.

*

He’d been taking a walk.

The isle isn’t safe, obviously. It’s a prison colony, full of the worst of the worst, shaken up and left to stew in their own anger and his family’s incompetence for twenty years. Of course it’s not going to be a safe place for little Auradon boys to linger.

He’d gone less than a block. Hadn’t been planning on going any further. It’s an emotional whiplash, going from being upset because his girlfriend is secretly using magic to cope with Auradon life instead of just talking to him about it, to breaking up because she’s decided she can’t cope with life outside of the place she grew up.

It’s oversimplifying. There’s a lot more to it than just not being able to cope, but it’s hard to see that through the sheer hurt that’s stuck in Ben’s chest. They’d been doing well, until all of sudden they weren’t, and there was no time in between to try and fix things. Always jumping to the most extreme solution, that’s Mal. And it’s something he likes about her, usually! She’s got wild solutions for things, and she’s able to come up with the most outrageous ideas and play them off like they’re absolutely nothing, and she--

Doesn’t want to live in the same country as him anymore.

Yeah.

So that sucks.

Bringing Mal back home is more important than whatever concerns he’s got about their romantic future together.. No matter what’s going on emotionally, it’s still not right to leave her alone back on the island that they just brought her over from. There’s garbage burning in the streets here! The food stalls all have signs about limited supplies and taking what you can get, and the amount of knives and weapons on the average person walking down the street here isn’t exactly unexpected, but it’s just… it’s a lot. It’s not like he’s completely unaware of his surroundings! On the isle of villains, it’s important to stay alert. He gets that. It’s just that emotional turmoil, combined with the little fact that he’s all of sixteen and he’s pretty sure his heart is breaking, might be distracting him. Just a little bit.

Nobody ever expects to be grabbed by a giant guy and yanked into an alley, okay?

“Urg?” Ben manages to say, around the hand that’s being clamped over his mouth. “Eahhh?”

“Don't talk,” the mystery voice behind him directs. It’s not the person who’s holding him, so that’s bad. Being outnumbered is bad. “We’re taking you to see our captain, and if you run we have instructions to make that...significantly more difficult for you.”

Ben nods. There’s something tapping threateningly at his kneecaps, and he’s pretty sure he knows what the voice means by making it harder to run. He’s broken a bone once, when he was a kid and tried to climb the tree in his mom’s favorite glade, and fell out. If riding back to the castle with a broken arm had hurt, he doesn’t even want to imagine what being dragged along by a villain with a broken leg might feel like.

“Good,” the voice says, like it’s funny. Oh. They don’t use that word here, so it’s a joke about him. “We’d like to bring you back in one piece, your highness, so just keep cooperating and maybe this won’t go so bad for you after all.”

“Mmh” Ben agrees. He’s sort of afraid to nod, in case the arm around his throat tries to squeeze any harder, but it feels like a good move to go along with whatever this pair wants. Oh god. Hopefully it’s just the two of them, and then whatever captain they’re bringing him to.

There’s definitely more than just the two of them.

Oh no.

The big guy, or maybe a girl, actually, it’s sort of impossible to tell with the way he’s just being held against some very large and solid person, starts to tie his hands behind his back.

Okay, there’s the panic now.

Ben wants out, he wants his hands, he wants to breathe, he’s-- okay, hyperventilating doesn’t help anything. He’s been taught how to break out of hand ties, but it’s not going to help if there’s another person right there, and they’ve already said to cooperate, so--

Breathe.

“Should we just drug him?” someone is saying. “Might be faster than all of this tying and blindfolding business.”

“I dunno if I can carry this much deadweight, bro.” another voice says. Still not the person holding him still. So there’s at least three of them, great. “He’s pretty big for a prince charming.”

“I can carry ‘im” says a new voice, and oh, this is the person holding him, finally. There might be just the three of them. Not that it makes much of a difference, but it’s some sort of knowledge that Ben can cling to here. “Get his hands and feet, and I can do it.”

“‘on’t enfg.” Ben manages, around the hand that’s still clamped over his mouth. “omise.”

“Gil, just let him talk,” the first voice says again. “He’s obviously not going to stop trying, so just, give him a little air.”

“‘Kay,” the holding-person (Gil, the big one is Gil) says agreeably. “Hey, I wasn’t holding you too tight, was I? You can still breathe, and stuff?”

“I can breathe,” Ben says, once he’s gotten in a good lungful of air that doesn’t taste like stale sweat. “I won’t try anything, I swear.”

“Ooh, he swore,” says the bro voice, clearly delighted with this turn of events. “I think we might need a little insurance for that, little prince.”

There’s some sort of motion, and then a noise that sounds an awful lot like a knife being sharpened, and then a bright, sharp pain in Ben’s side.

“Hey!” the first voice says, clearly annoyed at this turn of events. “You didn’t have to stab him! Uma wanted him brought back in one piece!”

“He won’t be able to run this way,” the bro says, sounding annoyed. “It’s not gonna hurt him, just make it harder to run. It’s barely a scratch.”

“He’s bleeding. You’re gonna leave evidence.” the first one, who seems to be the brains of the operation, says. “Hey, no, don’t make that noise. Shut up. Look when you did!”

Ben doesn’t want to be making this noise either. He’s just as unhappy as the ringleader is about this, really. He didn’t want to get stabbed.

“Oh my evil, just pick him up, Gil.” the first person says. “Hey, prince charming. We’ll get you stitched up once you’re down at the ship, okay? Just like, shut up about it. You’ll be in worse shape if we drop you here for someone else to find, and they won’t be so nice about keeping you alive either.”

It hurts. Jesus fucking christ, it hurts. “You stabbed me?” Ben somehow warbles, between the fucking agonized breathing he’s doing to try and get the involuntary pain noises under control. “You fucking- stabbed me?”

He’s being lifted off his feet now, and cradled up like a baby against somebody’s broad chest.

“Just a little bit.” the bro-voice says as they start moving. “Insurance, bro. Can’t have you getting away from us now, ya know?”

“I just said I wouldn’t run.” Ben points out, gritting his teeth against another jolt as the person carrying him picks up speed. “I wouldn’t’ve lied about that if I knew you were going to stab me.”

“Get over it.” the brains of the kidnapping says. “Drop him in the cart Gil, we can just wheel him down the rest of the way.”

*

They tie him to the mast.

“Can I take my phone out of my pocket first?” Ben asks, as they’re pinning him down to tie him up again, more efficiently this time. “It’s going to leave a bruise if I keep it there, and I don’t care if you want to break it or sell it or anything.”

The pirates find this absolutely hysterical.

*

They do let him take his phone out of his pocket first, so that’s something.

*

Being kidnapped is sort of boring, when it comes down to it. The pirates are clealty waiting for something, but it’s not entirely clear what. True to their word from earlier, they do let someone (a girl with messy black hair and a bright red bandanna, who doesn’t seem especially fazed by the situation as a whole) slap a bandage on him. It’s not quite as good as not being stabbed in the first place would have been, but the girl had poked around for a while and announced that he didn’t need stitches, and then done what seems on the whole to be a very tidy job of cleaning and wrapping the cut.

It still hurts, because some lunatic with a knife did in fact stab him, but after the morning Ben’s had so far, things are honestly looking up.

One of the pirates sits down next to him.

“Want some water?” they ask, holding out a battered plastic cup.

Huh. “Um, sure?” Ben says.

The pirate tips it up to his mouth, and lets him get in a good three or four swallows before pulling the cup back and throwing the rest over his head.

“Uma’s still out.” they inform him. “But we’ve sent a runner down to the chip shop, so she should be coming up any minute now.”

“Uh. Okay.” Ben says. “Is that your captain?”

The pirate looks at him. “Yeah,” they say. “She is.”

There’s some sort of challenge there, but Ben is so far out of his depth right now that he can’t even make out what the shape of it might be. “Does she have demands, or something?” he asks. “I can’t guarantee that they’ll be met, but if you send a message out to my father he’ll probably give you something in exchange.”

The pirates stares up at him, shaking their head slowly. “Unbelievable,” the pirate says, “Fuckin’ Auradon kids. Do they really keep you stupid on purpose over there?”

“No?” Ben tries. “I can try to bargain for whatever you want. There’s some privateering work off the southern isles right now, and I don’t know that they’ll take kids on their own, but we’ve been working towards isle reform policies and there’s a pretty good chance they’ll go through in a few years and--” Shut up, the lunatics who kidnapped (kingnapped?) you don’t care about legitimate privateering work and the slow, torturous process that’s been trying to push isle reforms through the council while still only controlling about 40% of the vote. “Um, that is, we can meet your demands.” Ben finishes. “If you have them.”

The kid shakes their head again. “Unbelievable.” they say again, and leave.

Okay, then.

[albertfinch]

ADVANCING INTO THE PROMISED LAND

Jesus Christ, as the supreme Apostle ("...Jesus, the Apostle and High Priest whom we confess," Hebrews 3:1), was the One who broke through the temple veil and made a new and living way for us to follow into the presence of God.

"...Since we have confidence to enter the Most Holy Place by the Blood of Jesus, by a new and living way opened for us..." - Hebrews 10:19-20

Jesus, our chief Apostle, broke through and opened a new and living way. In order to truly be effective in the Great Commission, as a forerunner must do the same in our efforts to establish the Kingdom of God. Being born again in Christ we have access to a great breaker anointing within us.

It is Jesus inside of you -- Jesus opened up a new and living way for us into the Kingdom of God through salvation. Yet now, with Christ in us, we can take His power into the earth and open up new roads of opportunities for His Kingdom to expand on the earth. Get ready for new levels...it's breakthrough time!

THE SPIES RELEASED A SPIRIT OF FEAR OF TAKING THE PROMISED LAND

"But the people who live there are powerful, and the cities are fortified and very large. We even saw descendants of Anak there" (Numbers 13:28). A spirit of fear was released to a whole community of people even though there was visible fruit of what could be accomplished.

Yet, in the midst of doubt, one spoke up: Caleb.

Caleb believed they could take the land – Caleb did not see through the eyes of a normal person, nor did he have the same spirit as the others. There was something different about him in comparison to the other pioneers; he saw an eternal reality. In fact, he was rewarded. The Lord said of him that he had a different spirit and that he followed Him wholeheartedly. With Caleb, Joshua also stood, believing they could take the land.

It was a "new way" for all of the Israelites, and they could not believe the message of Caleb and Joshua. There were other forerunners with Caleb and Joshua, yet it was only Caleb and Joshua who carried the BREAKER ANOINTING.

SEEING IN AN ETERNAL REALITY

There are many forerunners in this hour, yet there are few that carry a breaker anointing. There are many people that are walking in a new way and obeying directions to explore this new land, but there are few that see in an eternal reality. In fact, there are many that have had experiences and have seen life from many angles, but when it comes to taking the land and establishing the Kingdom they release doubt and fear and operate out of a natural reality.

A believer with a true breaker anointing is one that stands even in the midst of everyone affected by disbelief. For them, there is a "brand new way", yet it is a possible one. Their authority is many times challenged; but their faith and declaration coupled with action is weighty and can shift societies, cultures, and nations.

FAILURE TO SPIRITUALLY BUILD-UP NEW BELIEVERS

If we take DISCIPLING BABY CHRISTIANS INTO THEIR INHERITANCE IN CHRIST out of the RESPONSIBILITY OF THE CHURCH BODY or fail to make it a dwelling place, we become like the Israelite spies that gave a report of the impossibilities. They believed they couldn't dwell in the fullness of the riches because of the giants.

But, there is a voice saying, "We can take the land, we can live in an ongoing outpouring because it is a living way." It is not just a way that is new and never seen; it is a way that is alive and unending – a living way. The path that Christ torched for us to come into the Kingdom was completely "new" and could not be opened by any besides Himself. Yet the path is still open today, and it is living – Kingdom living.

The Kingdom of God is 24/7. It is continually in season and out (see Mark 11:13,14). It must become a dwelling place, a place that is inhabited. If it isn't, the normal Christian life will be seen as just a series of intermittent events. It will be seen only through an earthly reality when, all the while, we have available for us an eternal reality...Heaven on earth.

"After this, I looked and, beheld a door was opened in heaven......And immediately I was in the Spirit.." - Revelation 4:1,2

God has made available for the Body of Christ open Heavens that will not shut, and we can dwell in these places. A living way is a breathing path that has limitless fruitful encounters.

TAKING THE INITIATIVE ONTO UNFAMILIAR PATHS

God is raising up super-breakers or super-pioneers to not only make a new way, but to make it both a new and living way. They are the ones that take initiative and do not wait for others to do it for them. They are young, old, and middle-aged. They are learned, unlearned, and of all classes.

We must not wait for others; we must not see like others, we must be like lions, stepping into God's CALLING on our life!

"I will lead the blind by ways they have not known, along unfamiliar paths I will guide them; I will turn the darkness into light before them and make the rough places smooth. These are the things I will do; I will not forsake them." - Isaiah 42:16

God is not just raising up forerunners. God is asking the forerunners: What type of report will you give? What type of reality will you see? What type of kingdom will you release? God is calling the forerunner to carry a breaker anointing and be led on unfamiliar paths – birthing a supernatural community! NEW AND LIVING.

ALBERT FINCH MINISTRY http://afministry.ning.com/

[mrlnsfrt]

Character is not Transferrable

This post is part two of my Watching, Waiting, Ready series. You can find part one here.

We began by looking at Matthew 24:36-51 and there we found two parables.

The first parable taught us that the second coming of Jesus will be unexpected. Matthew 24:42-44

The second parable taught us that we have to be more than merely passively waiting. We have responsibilities, things to do as we wait for Jesus to come again. Matthew 24:45-51

The third parable will be discussed in this post and we will learn that we must be prepared for an unexpected delay. Matthew 25:1-13.

Groundwork

Let’s clarify a few things before jumping into the interpretation of the parable of the 10 virgins.

The Messiah is the Bridegroom - Isaiah 54:4-6; 62:4-5; Ezekiel 16:7-34; Hosea 2:19 (God/YHWH portrayed as Husband)

Jesus refers to Himself as God in His parables - Matthew 13:37-39

Jesus is the Messiah and also the Bridegroom - According to John the Baptist John 3:27-30; according to Jesus Himself - Matthew 9:15; Mark 2:19-20.

The Parable of the Ten Virgins

“Then the kingdom of heaven shall be likened to ten virgins who took their lamps and went out to meet the bridegroom. - Matthew 25:1 NKJV

The parable begins by letting us know that this story will teach us something about the Kingdom of heaven. Next, we are introduced to ten ladies, described as virgins. Each one has a lamp and all of them are going out to meet the bridegroom. At this point in the story, there is no distinction between these maidens.

Now five of them were wise, and five were foolish. - Matthew 25:2 NKJV

We quickly find out that there are two kinds of maidens. Half of them are wise and half are foolish. At this point, we still have no idea what differentiates the wise from the foolish. They are all very much similar at this point in the story, we have no way of telling them apart, but we now know that there is a difference, these ladies can be divided into two groups, some are wise and some are foolish.

Those who were foolish took their lamps and took no oil with them, but the wise took oil in their vessels with their lamps. But while the bridegroom was delayed, they all slumbered and slept. - Matthew 25:3-5 NKJV

Now we know the difference! The foolish virgins are virgins and look just like the wise virgins, they are also waiting for the bridegroom, just like the wise virgins. The only difference between the two groups of virgins is that some brought a vessel filled with extra oil, while the others did not. This seems like a very small detail. It is difficult to appreciate the difference extra oil would make at this point in the story. Another similarity among these maidens is that they all fell asleep.

So far we have ten virgins that are similar in every way except five of them brought a vessel with extra oil. All ten are virgins awaiting the bridegroom and all ten fell asleep.

The Delay

Something unexpected happened. The bridegroom is late! Well, he can’t really be late, it’s his party, rather he is taking longer than the maidens expected. The maidens wait as long as they can but eventually all of them fall asleep.

The Midnight Cry

“And at midnight a cry was heard: ‘Behold, the bridegroom is coming; go out to meet him!’ Then all those virgins arose and trimmed their lamps. And the foolish said to the wise, ‘Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.’ But the wise answered, saying, ‘No, lest there should not be enough for us and you; but go rather to those who sell, and buy for yourselves.’

- Matthew 25:6-9 NKJV

At midnight, the middle of the night, the darkest part of the night, there is a shout, the bridegroom is coming! The maidens did not expect him to come so late, but they had their lamps with them and they light their lamps to go meet the bridegroom. They had been waiting for him, they all knew he was coming, however, the foolish virgins were not prepared for the delay. At midnight they realized they are not as ready as they had hoped to be. They had hoped that it was enough just to have the lamp, to be a virgin, and to know that the bridegroom was coming. They had not brought any extra oil. It is not that they forgot, it is not that they couldn’t, they just didn’t think they would need it. The wise virgins had brought extra oil, after all, the bridegroom did not have a set time, they knew he was coming, but they did not know when he would come. But they had extra oil on them in case there were any unexpected delays. However, their extra oil could not be transferred or shared with those who were unprepared. The foolish virgins had to go out and try to find oil at midnight.

The Door was Shut!

And while they went to buy, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went in with him to the wedding; and the door was shut.

“Afterward the other virgins came also, saying, ‘Lord, Lord, open to us!’ But he answered and said, ‘Assuredly, I say to you, I do not know you.’

- Matthew 25:10-12 NKJV

The bridegroom came and those who were ready joined him in the wedding feast. However, those who were not ready did not go in. After the bridegroom and the five wise virgins went into the feast the door was shut. The other virgins finally return, there is no mention of whether or not they found any oil, but they show up and ask the bridegroom to open the door to them, but he tells them that he does not know them, and there is no room for negotiating here.

How tragic, that these five virgins looked so ready, looked prepared, they knew the bridegroom was coming, they had their lamps, they even came to the door and asked to go in, but it was too late. Once the door was closed it was impossible to go in, just like once the midnight cry was heard and the bridegroom showed up, it was too late to get oil. The preparations had to be made ahead of time.

Watch!

“Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour in which the Son of Man is coming. - Matthew 25:1e NKJV

Here we have a repetition of the main theme in the three parables we have looked at so far in this series. (read about the first two here) Watching then must involve not only being aware that Jesus is coming but also being prepared for an unexpected delay. If everything had gone according to expectations all ten virgins would have gone into the wedding. The delay is what separated the wise from the foolish. It was the unexpected hardship that revealed the difference among the virgins.

Practical Application

The foolish virgins did not forget to bring the oil. It was the delay of the bridegroom that revealed they did not have enough. The foolish virgins were unprepared for the delay and so shut out in the end. The wise are referred to as wise because they were prepared for the possible delay of the bridegroom. Regardless of when the bridegroom came, they would be ready. The only difference between the wise and foolish is that the wise were prepared for a possible delay and the foolish expected to meet the bridegroom but were unprepared for a delay.

Can your faith handle unexpected challenges?

One application that is evident in this parable is that the faith of some can handle unexpected events while the faith of others cannot. Some, when they experience hardship, cease to believe. Their faith cannot handle unexpected turn of events, cannot survive an unexpected delay. The delay is a time of trial that places their faith under stress. We can interpret this to be a trial that reveals if those who claim to believe in Jesus truly trust Him and His promises.

Like the church, for a while, there is no difference between the virgins. Think of the virgins as church-attending Christians. All of them know scriptures, they all know that Jesus is coming one day, many are even eagerly looking forward to that great day.

But there is a delay, a time of trial, and a time in which their faith is tested. When the midnight cry is heard not everyone is ready. This is when many realize that mere intellectual knowledge of the truth has no noticeable impact on the soul and no power to sanctify the heart. Unless the Holy Spirit is working in us, our character will not be transformed.

The foolish virgins are not hypocrites as we saw in Matthew 24:48-51 (blog post here).

They have regard for the truth.

They have advocated for the truth.

They are attracted to those who believe the truth.

BUT

They have not yielded themselves to the working of the Holy Spirit.

They have not fallen upon the Rock (Jesus Christ) and permitted their old nature to be broken up.

The foolish virgins are “Christians” who are content with superficial work. A superficial faith that has never been tried and tested. Essentially, they don’t know how to trust God when it matters most.

So they come to you as people do, they sit before you as My people, and they hear your words, but they do not do them; for with their mouth they show much love, but their hearts pursue their own gain. - Ezekiel 33:31 NKJV

But know this, that in the last days perilous times will come: For men will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, unloving, unforgiving, slanderers, without self-control, brutal, despisers of good, traitors, headstrong, haughty, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God, having a form of godliness but denying its power. And from such people turn away! - 2 Timothy 3:1-5 NKJV

Preparedness cannot be shared nor transferred.

The foresight and preparedness of the wise virgins cannot benefit the foolish virgins when the bridegroom appears. Being surrounded by people who have a solid and vibrant relationship with God will not save you. Though it is beneficial to have people who can be an example for you, you must make your own decision. Your walk with Jesus is a personal matter, you must invite Him into your life and heart, you must learn to trust Him.

Many “Christians” like the foolish virgins are sleeping with a false sense of security, and when they are startled by hardships they become aware of how weak their faith is. They now begin to ask others to supply their lack but this is impossible in spiritual matters. No one can make up for another’s spiritual deficiency.

God’s grace is freely offered to everyone.

And the Spirit and the bride say, “Come!” And let him who hears say, “Come!” And let him who thirsts come. Whoever desires, let him take the water of life freely. - Revelation 22:17 NKJV

But no one can believe for another, and no one can receive the Holy Spirit for another.

Character is not transferrable. No one can impart to another character because it is the fruit of the inner work of the Holy Spirit.

“even though Noah, Daniel, and Job were in it, as I live,” says the Lord God, “they would deliver neither son nor daughter; they would deliver only themselves by their righteousness.” - Ezekiel 14:20 NKJV

‘Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit,’ Says the Lord of hosts. - Zechariah 4:6b NKJV

The Door is Shut

It is in a crisis that the character is revealed. The sudden and unexpected calamity that brings you face to face with death will reveal whether your life is sustained by grace. However, at this point, it is too late for the needs of your soul to be supplied. Your character is developed by all the small choices you make over the years.

“Not everyone who says to Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ shall enter the kingdom of heaven, but he who does the will of My Father in heaven. Many will say to Me in that day, ‘Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in Your name, cast out demons in Your name, and done many wonders in Your name?’ And then I will declare to them, ‘I never knew you; depart from Me, you who practice lawlessness!’ - Matthew 7:21-23 NKJV

Some look like they love and serve Jesus, but never made preparations for the coming kingdom. They like Jesus, but they love the world and its comforts. They claim the name of Jesus, but never truly made Him the LORD of their lives. After the door is shut it is too late to try to get serious about your spiritual life.

This reminds me of the story of the flood. After the door of the ark was shut, it was too late to want to get in. Those who waited for it to start flooding before they decided to go into the ark found out it was too late. God had already shut in those who had walked in by faith. Those who were inside the ark would be safe from the floodwaters.

On the very same day Noah and Noah’s sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth, and Noah’s wife and the three wives of his sons with them, entered the ark— they and every beast after its kind, all cattle after their kind, every creeping thing that creeps on the earth after its kind, and every bird after its kind, every bird of every sort. And they went into the ark to Noah, two by two, of all flesh in which is the breath of life. So those that entered, male and female of all flesh, went in as God had commanded him; and the Lord shut him in. - Genesis 7:13-16 NKJV

We cannot keep Jesus at arm’s length while here on earth and expect to be fitted to His companionship in heaven.

Call to action

The time to prepare is now. This is not about salvation by works, this is about developing a real and vibrant personal walk with Jesus. This is about being filled with His Holy Spirit and allowing Him to cause us to reflect His character.

People are losing their knowledge of the character of God.

God has been misunderstood and misrepresented.

A message from God must be proclaimed, and this message must be illuminating in its influence and saving in its power.

In our world full of suffering people need a glimpse of God. Does your life reveal what the grace of God had done for you?

How did Jesus live his life?

how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power, who went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, for God was with Him. - Acts 10:38 NKJV (bold mine)

And He was handed the book of the prophet Isaiah. And when He had opened the book, He found the place where it was written:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, Because He has anointed Me To preach the gospel to the poor; He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted, To proclaim liberty to the captives And recovery of sight to the blind, To set at liberty those who are oppressed; To proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord.”

Then He closed the book, and gave it back to the attendant and sat down. And the eyes of all who were in the synagogue were fixed on Him. And He began to say to them, “Today this Scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.”  - Luke 4:17-21 NKJV

What does God as of His people?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, And that you bring to your house the poor who are cast out; When you see the naked, that you cover him, And not hide yourself from your own flesh? Then your light shall break forth like the morning, Your healing shall spring forth speedily, And your righteousness shall go before you; The glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard. - Isaiah 58:7-8 NKJV

I know that these words are challenging. Where does anyone get the notion that the true Christian life is smooth and easy? Self-denial is hard, helping others is not always easy and straightforward. Caring is extremely difficult and even painful. But my friends, look around. There is so much suffering in the world. So much hate, anger, and fear, and anxiety. Would it not be nice if there was a group of people willing to aid in relieving and softening life’s hardships and misery?

Jesus calls us the light of the world in Matthew 5:14, and then He adds

Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven. -Matthew 5:16 NKJV

Jesus does not tell us to strive to shine. We do not shine because we try so hard. Jesus invites us to LET our lights shine. Just remove whatever obstructions are keeping your light from shining. Even better, invite him to remove them for you. Are you willing to let your light shine? Because if you are in the habit of letting your light shine, you will also be in the habit of carrying extra oil with you. And even if Jesus delays his coming, even if you were to fall asleep, you would have nothing to worry about, because you have been living your life in harmony with Him. Continually relying on Him to fill you with His Holy Spirit so that you might have the wisdom and power to reflect His character in this suffering world.

If you would like to read more about this parable I strongly recommend Christ’s Object Lessons chapter 29 “Meet the Bridegroom” (you can read it online for free)

[ludi-ling]

Crazy Eights

Well, here it is, a little treat for my followers - the first chapter of Crazy 8′s, the sequel to 52 Pickup. I’m sharing since it’s Day 7 (AU) of Rogue/Gambit Week 2020. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish this story, even though I got a fair way through it, since I wrote myself into a corner, and I’m not sure I like it very much. But I hope you like it anyway. Enjoy!

Crazy Eights

Chapter 1

               Thieving 101.

               Simplest rule in the book.

               Don’t get caught.

               I can hear pere’s voice in my head, clear as day, literally beatin’ the words into all of us, his snotty-nosed, grass-stain-scuffed li’l Fagin’s gang.

               Don’t. Get. Caught.

               And then his face, leaning in towards mine, grinning, saying:

               Unless, o’ course, you have a reason t’get caught.

               Yeah, that was mon pere, full of good, subtle ideas. He’d usually direct them at me cos he knew I was like the worst kind of sponge. I’d be soakin’ all that shit up, swimmin’ in it like a gator swims in swamp water.  As a kid, I’d always figured he was just picking on me. As an adult, I realise all he was doing was laying down challenges, cos he knew this punk-ass kid would rise to the bait every time, pushing every damn boundary he could along the way.

               You got potential, boy. But you got no discipline. Always halfway t’ bein’ in a rage, t’ ventin’ it out on some poor trash. You play de con, kid, you live de con. No heart-on-your-sleeve shit.  Dat stays inside. Cos y’know what? Folks can read dat crap a mile away.

               “C’mon, pretty boy,” the man to my right grunts, as the alarms I’ve set off still scream all around us. “Getcha arse in gear. The boss don’t take kindly to waitin’.”

               He prods me in the back with the barrel of his gun, a little too sharply than is strictly necessary; but I get it, he has a job to do, and actin’ mean is part of it.

               “Yeah, well, that’s what bosses are like, mon ami,” I answer with a smirk. “Never got time for nothin’. Mebbe you should think about goin’ freelance, neh?  It has its advantages.  No calls at unsociable hours… Don’t gotta do all the dirty work y’self… Get t’ have a couple of pretty femmes hangin’ on your every word… Still. I reckon mebbe you two ain’t smart ’nuff yet t’ graduate from the ol’ ‘Crime Boss 101’ course, am I right?”

               “Hey!” The guy to my left gives me a crack on the back of the head with what I assume is also the barrel of a gun. “Shut the fuck up!”

               See? Boring, predictable, run-of-the-mill flunkies. These couyons ain’t never gon’ make it past mid-tier bodyguard material.

               And those alarms are still screaming.  Ain’t some asshole gon’ shut it off already?  It’s givin’ me a headache.

               Whatever. I do as I’m told and shut the fuck up. Mostly because I’m busy scanning the décor of this corridor we appear to be walking down.  The walls are lined with paintings, a mess of eras and styles that could tell anyone with an ounce of taste that whoever’s collecting this shit has none.  Taste, that is.  All it tells me is that this guy has cash, and he don’t mind throwin’ it ’round.  We walk past a Cezanne, and I grimace.

               Hang on in there, li’l guy, I say to myself as we sweep right by it. One o’these days I’m gonna free you.  Soon.

               Cos let’s face it.

               You think I’m gonna leave a Cezanne to rot in Cain Marko’s fuckin’ playboy mansion when it could be on my wall?

               I think not.

               We get to the end of the corridor and, thankfully, as soon as we do, someone finally finds the off switch to the alarms. My lovely escorts throw open the burnished oak doors that I can only assume lead to Marko’s private hidey-hole; and before I have a chance to admire the woodwork, I’m being pushed inside in yet another unnecessary show of who’s boss.  I stumble a little over the threshold, and there he is.  Cain Marko, kingpin of London town.  A big, ugly, concrete slab of a man with a mat of red hair and a jaw like a foot.  He’s sitting on a burgundy-red velvet sofa that looks to be late Victorian.  Possibly a Chippendale? Something to research later.  True to form, he has a girl on each knee.

               Crimes bosses.  I toldja so.  Predictably borin’.  Boringly predictable.

               “Well, well,” Marko greets me with a menacing grimace and a Cockney rasp. “Robert Lord.  Your reputation precedes you.  Finally, we get to meet face ta face.”

               It’s at that point that Jake decides to kick in, a harassed voice in my earpiece, hissing: “Remy? Remy, where the fuck are you? Is everything okay?”

               I jerk my head to one side and Jake’s panicked questioning cuts out.

               “Yeah,” I address the man on the sofa. “Coulda been under better circumstances, though. Don’t much care for bein’ kicked around and chained up.” I clink the restraints at my wrists and ankles meaningfully. “Unless, o’ course, it’s consensual and there’s a woman involved.”

               An ugly grin crosses Marko���s face.  He shifts a little and pats each girl on the ass; they get the message and get to their feet, tottering out on stilettos that take a certain art to walk in – neither of them have it.

               “Well,” Marko says with mock disappointment as he, too, gets to his feet. “If ya wanted to meet under better circumstances, you coulda made a less shitty attempt to rob me, Mr. Lord.  I’d heard you were supposed to be some thief extraordinaire, but you ask me? You, breakin’ into my safe? That was pretty fuckin’ amateurish.”

               “Hey,” I banter back good-naturedly as I watch him walk over to the bar and pour himself a drink. “I got through most of your li’l traps jes’ fine, mon ami.  You wanna talk amateurish, let’s talk ‘bout your alarms. They’re more fuckin’ painful than Tante Mattie boxin’ me onna ears.  And it takes too long to shut ‘em off.  Either that, or your flunkies are too stupid to figure out how.”

               Marko, who’d looked half-amused up to this point, lets his mouth drop into a disdainful sneer.

               “Y’know somethin’, yank?” he growls at me, turning back from the bar. “You talk too fuckin’ much.”

               I raise a wounded eyebrow at him.

               “Yank? Hey, now you’re just insultin’ me.”

               “Oh really?” He laughs; and I take back the comment about his alarm system. This is worse. “Mr. Lord, insults are gonna be the least of your problems tonight. No one steals from Cain Marko and gets to just walk out again. You picked the wrong house to rob, mate.  This is one job you ain’t walkin’ out of.”

               He lifts his chin slightly and calls out:

               “Klein?!”

               There’s no answer, and he gives an irate little pause, looks over his shoulder and says again:

               “Klein?! Where the fuck are you?”

               “I’m here,” a woman’s voice replies from a darkened corner, her presence so unexpected it even causes me to jump.

               “Fuck me, woman,” Marko rasps at her. “How long you been standin’ there?”

               The woman says nothing, simply stepping out from her corner.  I realise there’s a door there.  It’s impossible to say whether she’d just walked through, or whether she’d been there all along.  Marko ain’t big on lighting.  Which is a shame, ‘cos Klein is a woman to be looked at.  Mile long legs and a figure to get all wrapped up in.  Brunette hair scraped back into a bun that begs to be loosened. A glance like wildfire.

               “Sorry,” she says with a small twist of humour, all delivered in a perfectly delicious and proper English accent.  I feel some sorta expression begin to form on my face; an appreciative little smile begins to shift round my lips.

               Forget pretty girls tottering around in sexy stilettos they can’t walk in.  This is a woman.

               She glances over at me, then back at her boss with an expectant expression.

               “This shit thief stole me old lady’s engagement ring.” He takes a cellphone out his back pocket and stares at it. “Lesse how fast you can find it for me.”

               Klein don’t waste time mincing words.  Unlike the two couyons behind me, she’s calm, quiet, efficient.  She marches on up with a roll of the hips that’s entirely unconscious.  When she’s finally in front of me, I catch a whiff of her perfume – a barely-there scent that’s not quite fruity and not quite flowery.

               I cock my head to one side and hitch her a smile.

               She doesn’t take the bait.  Her expression is composed as she sizes me up, wondering where to start.  It’s as if she hasn’t even noticed my smile at all.

           “Be gentle, chere,” I quip.

              That’s when she raises her eyes and gives me a look – part disinterested, part unimpressed. Her facade is almost frosty, but it don’t fool me. Beneath the cargo pants and the bomber jacket and the unadorned face, there’s a something to this woman. It’s in the sway of her hips and the sensuousness of her scent. It’s in a whole lot more besides.

              She frisks me in all the usual places, and, Goddamn, her hands alone are enough to set me on fire. Her movements are precise, clinical... yet as insinuating as the touch of a lover.

              Did I mention yet I haven't had sex in 8 fucking weeks?

              She gets on her knees and runs her palms down my legs, and it’s almost more than I can take.

              “While you’re down there, chere...” I can’t help but say; and she pauses, looks up at me with steely eyes and says... Nothing.

              Her gaze fixes on my fly like it’s the only option left, and now we’re talkin’.

              She holds eye contact as she raises both hands, and thumbs open the button of my pants. Her look is impassive; but there’s an undercurrent there, a something that’s signalling to me loud and clear. She unzips my fly slow as a strip tease, and that’s when the shadow of a smile flickers across her face – a brief split second of something more, something to work with.

              Jesus Christ, I’m holding my breath.

              She knows what I’m thinking. She rises to full height and this time she doesn’t bother to hide the smile. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

              “Thought you were s’pposed t’be lookin’ for contraband, p’tite,” I can't help but drawl. The comment wipes the smile from her lips and her gaze drops. She yanks open my fly and within a few short seconds she’s found the fob pocket hidden inside the waistband of my pants. Another split second later and she’s found the ring.

              She turns and flashes it triumphantly at Marko.

              “You made record time, Klein,” he observes approvingly, glancing up from his phone. “Twelve seconds. I’m impressed.”

              Twelve seconds? I swear it coulda been a lifetime...

              She throws the ring to her boss and I watch on, with a wistful sense of loss, as it arcs across the room and into his hand. Oh well. Next time, maybe.

              “If you’re done, chere,” I pipe up behind her, “mebbe you could zip me up again? O’ course, if you ain’t, we can always take dis somewhere a li’l more private... ...”

              I hadn’t exactly been expecting an answer, so I’m doubly taken off guard when she whips round and socks me hard with a fist to the face.

              I totter a bit, tasting blood and seeing stars.

              Damn, this woman packs a punch!

              In the background, Marko’s laughing raucously.

              “Looks like you chose the wrong woman t’ try and charm, yank.”

              Seriously? Enough with the ‘yank’ thing already!

              I grit my teeth and scowl as he continues:

              “Zip ’im up, Klein. I can afford to be charitable to trespassers. I think we can let him leave here with his dignity, if not his life. He has taste after all. Me old ma’s engagement ring,” and he grins sardonically over at me, “is my favourite piece outta my entire collection.”

              Klein obediently turns around and zips me up with more force than necessary. No more smiles and subtle flirtation. She doesn’t even look at me.

              “Sentimental value,” Marko is saying, turning the ring between thumb and forefinger as he approaches me. “That’s what this ring has, Mr. Lord. Me old ma woulda been turnin’ in her grave if I lost it. Specially to some shitty low-feeder like you.”

              I lick the blood from my lip slowly. Low-feeder, huh? This guy is really throwing out them punches tonight.

              “Yeah, I getcha,” I retort with a sarcastic grin. “Momma woulda slapped ya t’ kingdom come if you ever messed wit’ her jewellery. Beat you wit’ a belt, prob’ly, told ya you were a good f’nothin’ piece o’ shit, I’m willin’ t’bet. Sure, I can read a mommy complex a mile away, homme, and you got it bad.”

              I dunno what’s gotten inta me tonight. Or maybe I do. Frustration is a thing and a half. I'm fuckin’ wired, and I can’t stop running my damn mouth off. I ain’t usually this lippy. Honestly.

              Anyways, I’m steeling myself for a beating from my End-of-Level-Boss, but surprisingly he don’t take the bait. Judging from his get-up, he’s ready for a night out, and he don’t want my blood soiling his purple Savile Row suit. Which is good for me, ‘cos the rings on his fingers look like they could double up for some pretty nasty knuckle dusters.

              “I take it back,” he sneers down his nose at me. “This bloody yank don’t deserve jack.”

              He sweeps away and grabs his jacket.

              “You’ve been lookin’ t’prove yerself, ain’t’cha, Klein,” he throws over his shoulder at the woman still standing beside me. “Take care of Mr. Lord for me, and consider yerself one of the gang.” He walks over to a side table, pulls open a draw and takes out a gun. When he throws it to her, she catches it like she doesn’t even have to think about it. “Just make sure you keep some suitably gory keepsake for me to remember ’im by. I’m thinkin’ his teeth. He’s got them pearly whites you can only get in ’Murica. It'll remind me of ’is charmin’ smile.”

              He laughs to himself, throws the ring up in the air, catches it, and deposits it into his pocket.

              “Sorry, Mr. Lord,” he addresses me, “but I have places to go and people to kill.  Don’t worry. Klein’ll entertain you in the playpen.” He waves absently at a door to the right. “I’m sure she’s just itchin’ to get her hands on you.”

              He chuckles and heads for the door, followed by one of his henchmen, leaving with a final, gleeful, “So long!”

              The door bangs shut and now it’s just me, Klein, and Henchman #1.

              Wise strategy on Marko’s part, if Ms. Klein is basically untried and untested.  I might break her little heart, and Henchman #1 might have to put me down instead.

              I suppress a laugh at the thought.

              Klein says nothing. She turns abruptly and sticks the barrel of the gun into the small of my back.

              “Move,” she says.  Her voice is deadpan – nothing to work with.

              “Y’know, chere,” I venture conversationally, as I start shuffling over to the door, “I could speed up some if you’d jes’ untie these chains… Then we could get t’ playtime in the playpen a whole lot faster…”

              “Hey, shut up will ya!” Henchmen #1 barks at me, punctuated by a sharp poke in the back by Klein’s gun. All right, all right, already. I get the message.  They hustle me up to the door and next thing I know, I’m being shoved inside.  Henchman #1 shuts the door behind me and I hear the locks thunk shut.  Now it’s just me, and Klein.

              It turns out the playpen could give H. H. Holmes’ hotel of horrors a run for its money. It’s a pokey little room, and someone’s done gone and painted the walls in a nice shade of red and crusty brown. Blood, gore and brain matter.  The whole place stinks of death.  Merde. The light-hearted mood I’ve managed to maintain so far immediately takes a dive.

              “I take it housekeepin’ don't come round often,” I quip in an undertone – hardly as insolent as it could've been, but it earns me a kick up the ass anyway.  I stagger forward under the momentum, turning to face my would-be executioner as I do so.

              She has the gun pointed at me.

              “Chere, I’d put my hands up if they weren’t tied behind my—”

              The gun fires.

              And the bullet hits the wall over my shoulder.

              The crazy femme don’t give me a moment to recover.

              In a flash she’s lowered the gun and is marching right over to me, grabbing the front of my shirt and jerking me down into a hungry kiss.

              “It’s okay,” she whispers when she sees I’m too shocked to respond. “There aren’t any cameras in here.”

              The words are barely out of her mouth and she’s kissing me again. This time I slip easily out of the chains that I’ve been working on ever since they were clapped on me, and as soon as they hit the ground, I let my palms slide up over her cheeks, pulling her closer, deeper into our kiss. Her fingers wind into my hair, tugging lightly; her body presses against mine, reminding me exactly what I’ve been without the past couple of months. I grab handfuls of her perfect ass and pull her in closer.

              God, I’d fuck her right here, right now, if we weren’t in this shithole and this wasn’t a very important job.

              We kiss until we have no air left to breathe.

              “Lord, I’ve missed ya, Remy,” she murmurs against my lips.

              “Mmm, not as much as I’ve missed you,” I answer sincerely, stealing another kiss before adding heatedly, “Eight whole weeks without you, chere... It’s enough t’ drive a man certifiably insane.”

              She laughs, soft and sexy, her fingers combing lightly through my hair as she backs up a bit and regards me.

              “Darlin’,” she murmurs with a smile, “you were the one who said no contact...”

              “Didn’t wanna risk breakin’ your cover, Anna,” I reply, bridging the slight gap between us and feathering light kisses along her jawline. “Cain Marko’s gang don’t got a real nice reputation, sweet.”

              “Pfft,” she scoffs. “I can handle myself.”

              “For sure,” I agree. “But I’d prefer it if we didn’t tank this mission ‘cos we couldn’t keep our hands offa each other.”

              She hums with vague agreement and runs her thumb across my bottom lip.

              “Sorry about the fist to the face, babe,” she apologises. “Hope I didn’t hurt you too much."

              “Peh.” I wave it off absently – I'd pretty much forgotten it already. “You do what you gotta. Speaking of...”

              But she’s already way ahead of me, rooting around in her utility belt and taking out the small mem-chip case.

              “Nice distraction, by the way,” she congratulates me wryly as she hands me the goods.

              “Didja like it?” I ask her, pocketing the small case.

              “In theory. Thought you had more style, though, Cajun. You managed to set off every alarm in the fucking building.”

              “Heh. Just wanted to make sure you had enough time to pull the heist, cherie.”

              She rolls her eyes expressively.

              “You thought it was funny pissing everyone off, admit it. And what was all that business with the fob pocket?”

              “Chere,” I answer with mock sincerity. “Eight weeks of celibacy and you think I’m gonna pass up the chance to have you feel me up? C’mon.”

              The punch she lands on my bicep is enough to hurt.

              “You are such a troll!” she shoots at me with more affection than ire, I’m happy to say.

              “You love it,” I mutter, grabbing her helplessly and kissing her mouth soundly. We end up wasting a few more precious seconds making out again.

              “So what we gonna do, huh?” I ask her once we break apart. “Henchman #1 is waitin’ outside, and I figure we could both take him out pretty easy...”

              “Nuh-uh,” she cuts me off with a mischievous grin. “That’ll break our cover for sure. You, sweetheart, are taking the back door out.”

              Her gaze slides over my shoulder, and when I look back, I see that the back door is actually a chute in the wall. From the amount of gore it’s covered in, it’s pretty obvious it's a disposal chute – for corpses.

              “You have got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me, p’tite,” I groan under my breath.

              “Think of it as payback for kicking me down that garbage chute back at the Plaza hotel,” she banters back lightly, clearly enjoying this.

              “Anna, after this, we’re even and then some,” I say dolefully.

              “Yup,” she replies cheerfully. She swoops in for another quick kiss before saying: “I’ll be waiting for you by the East gate in about 30. Got some stuff to finish up here, otherwise they’ll get suspicious.”

              “All right.” My response is half-hearted. I ain’t relishing goin’ down that chute, that’s for sure. Anna, however, is completely indifferent to my plight. She’s almost at the door already when I stop her.

              “Uhh… Anna?”

              She stops, turns.

              “What?”

              I point down at my chained-up ankles.

              “Li’l help, please?”

               She gives a theatrical sigh; but she comes back anyway, dropping to her knees and undoing the chains round my ankles.

              “I’m pretty sure you could do this yourself faster than I ever could, Cajun,” she says pointedly, to which I shrug and reply:

              “Sure. But havin’ you down on your knees in front of me brings back all sorts of happy mem’ries I’ve been denied the past couple of months.”

              The chains clatter to the floor and she quirks an unimpressed look at me.

              “Jesus. You’re puttin’ out more pheromones than a skunk puts out spray.”

              “Chere, I been insulted ’nuff today, bein’ called a ‘yank’ an’ all. You reckon you could find an analogy a little more flatterin’ than a skunk?”

              She gets to her feet and plants her hands on her hips.

              “Swamp boy, there ain’t enough analogies in the world for the dirty things I wanna call you right now,” she declares in her gorgeously titillating and rarely-bestowed native Mississippi accent.

              “Oooh,” I banter back. “Dirty, huh? Beb, when I get you home tonight, you can call me all the dirty things under the sun. I can’t wait.”

              She chooses to ignore the statement, walking over to the chute instead and pulling it open. When she looks back at me, she’s smiling sweetly.

              “Sugar, when we get home tonight, the first thing you’re gonna do is take a shower. Cos once you’ve gone down this here chute, you’re gonna be dirty as hell, and not in a good way.”

              Trust her to kill the mood. I peer down the hole gingerly. The miasma wafting up from down below is worse than any skunk’s.

              “Chere, you wanna rethink this? Only I get the feelin’ one shower ain’t gon’ be enough t’ get the stench out...”

              “Quit being such a baby!” She’s smiling way too hard for my liking at this point. “The sooner you get this over with, the sooner we can wrap up this job.”

              I step reluctantly up to the edge of the hole, and she leans in over my shoulder, murmurs in my ear: “And the sooner I can get my hands on you again.” She lets that suggestion linger. And, Dieu, does it linger.

              “Now buckle up and hold onto the railings,” she warns me.

              “What railings?” I manage to get out, before her boot heel connects with my ass, and I’m suddenly tumbling through the filth and mire down, down into the depths of the Marko mansion.

-oOo-

[Chapter 2 now here!]

[vellawrites]

One Night || Sherlock x Reader (smut below cut)

He showed up minutes to noon.

You’d been up late studying, pouring over textbook after textbook that you’d been too tired to bother putting away when you finally crawled into your bed in the young hours of the morning. Your flat was as cluttered as it had ever been with a disarray of notes occupying every surface the eye could see and beside your open laptop, a cold cup of tea sat forgotten amidst the middle of it all, half empty with a shallow ring forming on the wood beneath it.

Your eyes were slow to open at the sound of the incessant knocking on your front door and you stretched with a groan, your half asleep mind fumbling to remember if you were expecting company then. The knocking grew louder, faster, and only after determining that the visitor was definitely not going to stop did you throw your legs over the side, the wood cool cool beneath your feet.

You didn’t bother to move a single hair, despite how atrocious your bedhead surely was, and your eyes fought against every instinct to fall back shut and crawl back into your bed as you stumbled to the front door. Whoever it was had the indecency to wake you from your near-coma and as punishment, they would be forced to endure your unkempt state and most likely harrowing morning breath.

You had barely unlocked the bolts when the door flung open, nearly knocking right into you, and the tall dark blur of the consulting detective swept past you into your flat.

“Y/N, you won’t believe what I saw on my way here.”

You blinked at him, your mind suddenly on as high alert as it could be, and you pushed the door shut behind you. He’d yet to even spare a glance in your direction as he rushed through the room like a storm, his hand running along every surface he passed until he plopped unceremoniously to the spot you’d occupied most of the night before. You watched him fumble with the teacup and he took a sip before promptly spitting it back out into the porcelain.

“Gah, it’s cold.”

“Yeah,” you rasped in a tone that called him out for stating the obvious. “It’s been out all night. Why would you just drink from random cups?”

“Not random,” he mumbled, “it was yours. And I love tea. Can we make tea?”

Your arms crossed as the cogs in your head started to turn. Leaning against the arm of your chair, you peered down at him as he begun to flip through the pages of your various textbooks with both hands, eyes flitting wildly from one page to the next as though he could absorb all the different passages simultaneously.

Though, this was Sherlock, so perhaps he could.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

The question went ignored.  

“These are boring.” A look of disgust curled the edges of his lips as he moved on to the other open books spread out, finding nothing of interest in those either. “Why are you reading these, Y/N? They’re so boring.”

“They’re for my classes, Sherlock.”

“You already graduated,” he protested, at last turning those bright blue eyes your way. His brows furrowed. “These aren’t for forensics. Why are you studying anatomy now?”

“I enrolled in a nursing program.”

“Why?”

“Because—because I needed a change.”

“Change is upsetting.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “I’m not surprised you would say that.”

“Oh. Oh!” In an instant, he was at his feet once again, all but leaping over the coffee table to cross the room to you. His hands clamped onto your arms and he leaned in, like he often did when he had a breakthrough on one of his cases. “Y/N, you’ll never believe what I saw on my way here.”

“You said that before. So what was it?”

“I was on my way over here and there was a car parked down near Mr. McGillis’s shop—you know the one, with the knives and the clocks?”

“Yes. You took me there two weeks ago on one of your cases.”

“Yes! That one. Well you’ll never believe it but the car—a dog was driving it!”

You cocked your head with a most perplexed expression, one eyebrow raised in disbelief—and not because of his story, but rather the enthusiasm with which he was relaying it.

“I know! Isn’t that the oddest thing?” He let out a burst of laughter and his eyes shined wildly. “Well, of course it wasn’t really driving, but there were two dogs in the front seats and the small one had its paws up on the wheel—here, I have a picture. You have to see!” As he fumbled to reach into his pocket for his mobile, his grip on your arms fell and you took a step away.

“Sherlock.”

His hands abandoned his search and he looked at you once more, a stupid little smile that, in any other circumstance, would have been charming gracing his lips. “Y/N.”

You held out your hand. “Sherlock, give me your list.”

This time, it was he who looked at you in confusion. “My list?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Your list.”

Recognition hit and for a moment, he said nothing.

“I don’t have it,” he lied.

“Yes you do. You always do. Give it here.”

“No.”

“No?”

Like a petulant child, he crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his chin.

“If you want it, you have to take it from me.”

You eyed him up and down, reading everything from his posture to his stubborn glare and letting out a resigned sigh, you took a step forward. Your hand slipped into his pocket.

“It’s not in there.”

You glanced at him. “Then wh—“ As your understanding took root, you drew back and glowered. “Sherlock.”

“Go on, love. Take it.”

He was challenging you, his eyes glinting playfully—dangerously—and he pulled the corner of his lip between his teeth with a smirk. You took another step forward as he lifted back the side of his coat and cautiously, as though you could be burned, your fingers slipped into the pressed pocket of his trousers, brushing the crumpled note hidden inside. Before you could pull away, his arms wrapped snugly around you and all but pinned your body against his own, chest and legs and hips pressed firmly together.

“You’re so warm,” he groaned. “Are you always this warm when you’ve just woken up?”

“Sherlock, you’re crushing me.”

His arms loosened ever so slightly but he didn’t let go and he didn’t give you any space to escape from his embrace. It was enough, however, that you could pull your hand out from his pocket, clenching the crumpled paper between your fingers.

“My god,” he groaned again, his deep voice rumbling against your form in a most confusing and pleasant way, “you smell absolutely divine. How is it you always smell so delicious?”

His head dipped and you felt his nose bury into the skin of your neck, into your messy hair, and he hummed against you, sparking tiny shivers that wracked up and down your spine. You were nearly distracted enough to forget the entire purpose of standing so intimately close to him but with how oddly he was behaving, it didn’t stray far from your thoughts. You unfolded the note and did your best to smooth it with the little dexterity your single hand would provide.

As you struggled to see the words from over his shoulder, your eyes widened.

“What the fuck, Sherlock? Ecstasy?”

“It’s fascinating. I can’t believe I’ve never tried it before.”

“Sherlock, why would you take ecstasy?”

For a man who so seldom felt any strong emotions and even rarer still wanted to feel them, it was a most peculiar whim and you found yourself at a loss for words.

“For a case,” he mumbled. His face was still so close to yours, the tip of his nose drawing a delicate path along the line of your jaw. “The victim was drugged at a nightclub and the assumption is that it was the dosage that killed her. Obviously I had to adjust it for my stature.”

In your younger years, you had become well acquainted with it while you were away at university. You were no stranger to its effects or the dizzying euphoria that it created, but seeing that high experienced through Sherlock was jarring and alien to say the very least. You read over the number written out beside the long pharmaceutical name and your eyes widened again.

“I can’t believe you took this much. Jesus Christ—“ you tried to push away but his arms held you against him with alarming strength. “So you, what, figured you would overdose to see if it would kill you?”

“No,” he murmured so softly against your neck. “On the contrary, I’ve never felt so alive. Do people feel like this all the time?”

“When they’re high, yes. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”

“And appealing.”

It would have been impossible not to notice the way his firm hands began to slide across your back, fists curling and uncurling in the fabric of your sleep shirt as though it were an instrument he was all too eager to learn.

His breath fanned warmth against the shell of your ear as he gasped your name. “I feel so strange. And you feel so good.”

This was getting to be too much.

“That’s the drugs talking, Sherlock.”

Your hands rose up between you and as they slid over the smooth fabric covering his chest, he let out a moan that once again left you shivering, unsure if it was your body reacting to the proximity of your situation or if it was a thousand tiny alarms setting off at the sound.

“Fuck, it feels so good when you touch me.”

At that, you shoved him back with every ounce of strength in your body. He stumbled on his feet and looked at you in confusion—dare you say dejection—and his lip pulled down into a pout.

“Why did you do that?”

With the distance returned between you, you were able to clear your mind of the strange illusion he’d cast. Your hands fell to your hips, lips pulling into a most unpleasant scowl. “Damnit, Sherlock, how could you be so foolish?”

“Please.” In an extravagant motion, he waved the pesky thought away and his eyes remained locked on your form, raking up and down over and over in a slow way that made you feel far more exposed than you were. “I’ve done much worse than this.”

“Yes, as though I need the reminder.” Your eyes clamped shut and you pinched the bridge of your nose.

What were you going to do with him? How long has it been since you’d had to deal with someone this high on this particular drug—he might as well have taken Viagra with the way he was carrying about. You let out a sigh, mind searching everything you’d read about drug interactions since beginning your studies and everything you knew from before then, scrambling to remember if you had anything useful for the situation at hand.

You had nothing.

You couldn’t think clearly.

Your eyes snapped open, suddenly, when his face was buried into your neck again—only this time, his tongue lapped out, tracing a lazy pattern against your skin up to your ear and before you could properly prepare for it, his lips closed over the sensitive flesh of your lobe, nibbling and pulling and breathing in a way you never—not in a million years—would have expected from him.

“Sherlock.” Your voice was needy, pleading, but whether you were pleading him to stop or to keep going, you hadn’t the foggiest.

“You’re so bloody soft,” he moaned against you. “Softer than velvet. I wonder if you’re this soft everywhere.”

His warm fingers squeezed your fleece-covered thigh, running up and down with enough force to bruise and his other hand had somehow snaked its way underneath your shirt in your momentary distraction, sliding up and up and up along your ribs until he could very nearly—

“Sherlock Holmes, watch your hands!”

You all but jumped away from him, catching yourself on the edge of the chair to keep from falling backwards in the clumsiest way.

Focus. You needed to focus.

The man looked almost as dazed as you were sure you did and his lips were moist and red and if you weren’t so utterly astounded, it would have turned you on like nothing ever had.

Okay, so it did that anyway—

“I’d like to watch my hands touching every inch of you.”

Fuck.

When his lips stretched into a smirk once more, you almost lost it. You stepped around behind the chair and held your hand up, signaling him to stop before your hormones could cloud your judgement.

“Sherlock, stop it. This isn’t you and I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re high as a kite.”

He made that face again—the one that relayed the depths of his confusion, looking a breath away from upset with his bright blue eyes as wide as could be.

“But I want this.”

“Now you do. Tomorrow you’ll regret it.”

“I promise you I won’t.”

He took a step closer, around the side of the chair you hid behind, and your feet mirrored his to keep distance between you.

“No, Sherlock, please. Your not thinking straight. You need to go sleep this off.”

“Sleep is the last thing I need right now.” His voice was the embodiment of pure sex. He took another step and so did you.

“Then go take a shower. I recommend a cold one.”

“I’d be more inclined if you joined me.”

The thought crawled into your mind and made a nest of its own and for a single moment, you thought your feet might betray every rational thought you had and take him up on the offer.

You couldn’t let that happen.

You darted past him in a quick burst and plucked your purse from its spot beside the door.

“No. I—I have to go to work. I’ll be late for my shift.”

Sherlock stared at you, expression unchanged. “No, you’re lying. I may be ‘high as a kite’, as you put it, but I can still read you like an open book. Or open—“

“Nope.” Your voice pitched and you shrugged your purse onto your shoulder. “Not lying. Gotta go.” Your hand twisted the knob. Without sparing a glance back at him, you called out to him over your shoulder. “The towels are under the sink.”

You slammed the door shut behind you and lasted all the way to the stairwell before you fell back against the wall and let out a long-held groan.

What the hell was he doing to you?

You returned late at night, just past midnight, after having opted to work a double to cover for your coworker who desperately wanted to leave early to meet up with a date. It kept you from returning to your flat and that was enough motivation for you to power through your sleepless fatigue, haunted mercilessly by the memory of Sherlock’s mouth and his tongue on your sensitive neck and the memory of his hands pressing you together as close as your clothes had allowed.

The walk home from the tube was long and cold and you took it at a slower pace than you normally would, both hoping and dreading to find him there when you returned—so you could make sure he was alright and that the drugs had passed through his system in the twelve hours since your confusing and frustrating drug-fueled encounter. Your pyjamas were in a wad in your arms, keeping your hands sheltered from the sparse snow that had started to fall and since you had rushed out before grabbing a coat, you forced yourself to focus on that small bit of warmth instead of the biting chill that burned at your bare arms and legs. By the time you pushed inside your building, you swore your legs were going to fall off and you shivered violently the entire way up the three flights of stairs.

Your flat was quiet when you pushed your way inside and the sound of the bolt sliding shut was next to deafening. You glanced, your heart beating in alarm, to the couch—his normal spot—to see if it had awoken him, but a mild wave of surprise filled you when you found it to be empty and untouched despite his coat hanging beside your own as a clear signal that he’d yet to leave. In the scant amount of light streaming in from the window, the mess from your studying appeared to have been straightened, all your textbooks closed and aligned neatly in the middle of the table, stacks of your crumpled and loose notes beside each one correspondingly almost as if the mess had never been there at all.

You crossed the floor to your bedroom but before you even stepped foot over the threshold, you spied his curly mop of hair spilling over your pillow as he lay curled up in your soft blankets. Sound asleep. In your bed.

You shook your head. Of course he’d taken up residence in your bed. This was Sherlock and why you were surprised by his intrusive approach was a surprise in and of itself.

A quick trip to your kitchen had you returning with a small tray of toast and a tall glass of water. As you drew near to the bed, he stirred and rolled over. His eyes blinked at you blearily, neither asleep nor awake.

“Hey.” You whispered, unwilling to completely rouse him from his slumber more than you already had. Timidly, you sunk into the mattress at his side. “I brought you some food.”

“Ugh.” His expression soured and he closed his eyes once more. “Thank you for the gesture but I couldn’t possibly eat.”

With a disapproving frown, you slid the tray onto the table beside your bed and scooted closer to him, pulling his arm out from underneath the blankets. He groaned, objecting loudly against escaping the warm cocoon he’d created, but with your trek through the wintry streets you had little to no sympathy for the complaint.

Your fingers pressed steadily against his wrist and your eyes followed the ticking on your wrist watch. As your focus wandered from him, he pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. His eyes were clearly still halfway caught in sleep but they were much more clear than when you’d left him earlier and his pupils no longer fought to swallow the sky from his eyes.

You let his hand fall gently onto his lap and leaned back, propped up by your arms as you continued to survey him. “Your vitals are back to normal.” You hadn’t needed to say it aloud as you both already knew it to be true, but your need to fill the silence in hope of forgetting the strange events of earlier overpowered the comfortable quiet.

“Your hands are freezing.”

“I’m freezing,” you corrected. You curled  your legs beneath you to get closer the the heat from his nap that radiated from the blankets beneath you. “I forgot my coat when I left.”

“You did run out without even changing out of your pyjamas.”

Your supervisor had been furious about the fact, too, and you’d had to borrow an extra uniform from one of your coworkers who was  quite a bit shorter and decidedly less endowed and had only a spare skirt to cover you from the waist down. Your entire shift had left you feeling the burn of leering gazes as you moved from table to table in the clothes that were just a bit too fitting and as the night settled in, you had begun to curse yourself for running out as quickly as you had instead of just sucking it up and getting ready beforehand. You could have locked Sherlock in the bathroom and shoved him fully clothed into an ice bath or something while you dressed and then you wouldn’t have had to deal with any of that or the heckling you’d awkwardly received when you explained you’d had a restless night and the other waitresses assumed less innocent things than the truth.

Of course, the light mark he’d left on your neck definitely didn’t help you plead your case.

You shook your head and reached over to the bedside table to lift up the glass of water and passed it to him.

“So was it the drugs that killed her?”

“No.” He gave a wry smile as he took the aspirin from your outstretched hand and threw them back. “I knew that from the beginning, I just had to prove it.”

You just shook your head. “You’re absolutely insane. You’re the only man I know who would put their body through that just to prove something you already knew.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He finished the glass and returned it to the table at his side, straightening his posture as he stared at you quizzically. Silently.

The cold was getting to you. That was the only reason why you were shivering.

“So you’re feeling better then?”

“More normal, at any rate.”

“Good.”

With a soft pat to his covered knee, you swung your legs off the bed and walked to your chest of drawers across the room and pulled out your warmest pair of pyjamas. You could feel his eyes trail after you—there was no mistaking the burning way they bored into your back—and your bare legs shook as you thought of the warmth of your plush bed he had overtaken, a tinge of jealousy touching you when you realized what you’d be giving up after such a long day for the sake of his well being.

“Okay. You should get more rest. I’ll sleep out on the couch tonight.”

“No, wait.”

Before you can walk away, he grabbed you by the wrist and you hadn’t realized he’d even stood at all until you slammed firmly into his chest.

“I meant what I said before, Y/N.” His grip dug into your hip and a finger trailed across your cheek as lightly as a feather, brushing the stray wisps of hair away. “I do want this.”

Your breath caught in your throat and you tilted your head to stare up at him in the darkness, trying to make sense of the strange words tumbling from his mouth. Strange, too strange, even for him.

“I don’t think you do.”

The littlest sound escaped his lips, trapped somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh and those gentle, warm fingers trailed so delicately around the curve of your ear, slowly making way down the slope of your neck. This time, there was no denying the cause of your shiver and it took everything not to lean into his touch.

“It’s been on my mind for quite some time—and you know how prone to obsession I am.”

You didn’t trust his words and you didn’t say a thing, you just continued to stare up at him with the slightest crinkle on your brow. Your hands had come up to rest against his chest but you weren’t sure if it was to keep this strange, imaginary connection between the two of you real or if it was to quicken your ability to push him away.

“I’ve been thinking about the way you must taste,” he whispered, leaning in, brushing his lips like a ghost against the shell of your ear. “And after the small glimpse I managed to steal earlier, I can’t get it out of my mind—I can’t think clearly. You always smell like firewood and nutmeg and I can’t help but wonder if your skin is just as intoxicating.”

His lips moved away from you, your skin cold and empty at the loss of contact. “It’s quite inconvenient, how distracting you‘ve become to me.”

Inconvenient.

He had such a way with words.

A familiar thought spilled into your mind—what was he doing to you? You were sure he didn’t even realize what he was doing or that he was at all, but it tormented you just the same.

Your breath shuddered. “This doesn’t sound like you.”

“No, it doesn’t. I’m not very familiar with this sensation—this need. I don’t understand it in the least,” he confessed. He tilted your chin and studied the planes of your face, the depth of your eyes, as though there were answers hidden somewhere should he only seek them out. “I don’t like not understanding.”

“You know, you don’t have to understand everything.”

“Yes, I do.”

How could you have expected anything less from him? You shook your head and scoffed. He pulled back but his fingers continued to toy with the hem of your small shirt, just barely still tucked into the high waist of your skirt. The warmth from his touch was so pleasant, so inviting, that even though your head told you otherwise, you did not pull away or make any move to stop him.

He cocked his head. “How long has it been since you were with Mark?”

You almost whipped away at the question.

“Michael.” You knew he knew the man’s name but his insistence to ignore social pleasantries always had him playing the same game with those he considered insignificant. “We ended it three weeks ago.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “how long has it been since you were with a man?”

What business was that of his? Truly, it wasn’t.

Still, you answered. “Two months.”

That toying, teasing smirk returned to his face. “Then you want this too, I imagine. From what I understand, that’s a rather long time to go without fulfilling this particular need.”

Your mouth opened so slightly to deny it but before you could squeeze out a word, his fingers slipped underneath your shirt, splaying across the soft skin of your stomach and squelching your objection in a single heartbeat.

He leaned in and his sweet breath fanned across your cheek. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your eyes,” he murmured, skin so close to yours you could feel the electricity humming between you. “You like the way I’m touching you.” His touch moved seamlessly from your stomach beneath the band of your skirt, softly caressing the top of your hips and you had no control over your resulting shudder.

“I can feel your pulse racing—right here.” A spark shot through your body when his lips closed in on the bare skin at the base of your neck, his lips soft and warm as his tongue moved so gently there just like he’d done earlier when the sun was bright in the cold sky.

“Of course my pulse is racing,” you managed to whisper. “You’re making me nervous.”

His chuckle tumbled against your throat, resonating down through your stomach. “Nerves and excitement can be easily confused.”

“How would you know?” You hadn’t intended the words to come out as bitterly as they did, as harsh, and once they were out your voice softened. You weren’t sure he ever would truly understand. “The only emotions you’re familiar with are boredom and arrogance.”

He hummed. “You call it arrogance; I call it confidence. And right now I’m confident about two things—I’m confident that I want this, I want you, and I’m confident you want me too.”

As usual, he was right.

You did want him. His teasing words from earlier had taunted you all day, sullied by the confusion between what you knew to be Sherlock and this strange behavior he was displaying, muddled by the frustration that had been building that you were sure he would never feel in the same way you did.

You weren’t in love with him, no. But god you wanted him.

He waited as you mulled over your silence and the lack of affirmation thrummed in his chest like rejection.

“If I’m wrong,” he rasped, deeply and needing, “just say it. Say it and I’ll stop and we’ll never speak of this again.”

He had laid the line before you and now it was up to you whether you would cross it or not.

You let out a soft breath, tongue flicking out across your lips to wet them—a motion that did not escape his attuned senses.

“And what if I do admit to wanting this?”

Finally, your hands trailed up his chest, curing around the loosely unbuttoned collar of the crisp dress shirt he’d fallen asleep in while you were gone. Your fingers toyed with the third button, gently brushing the pale skin just beneath and his eyes darkened as he watched you. They darkened more when he caught your gaze, challenging and fierce but still so reluctant to push him into this unfamiliar territory you both seemed to want so much.

“What would happen in that case, Sherlock?”

“Then,” pausing for effect, he leaned down to press his mouth against your ear again, like it was only natural. “I believe I have a few ideas that we would both enjoy.” His hand slipped down your thigh, playing at the hem of your skirt, and he pulled you taught against him with the other, your hips flush in a strange and new and magnetic way. “And each and every—single—one of them ends with you saying my name.” As if on command, he found the spot just below your ear and clamped onto it with delicious pressure, pulling his name from you in a soft moan. “Just like that.”

You hardly even recognized the sound of your own voice.

He pulled back and smiled down at you, lips brazen and cocky but for once, you didn’t care. Any objection, every inhibition, that you had melted away under his touch, under his hands as they slid to your back and those long musician’s fingers slid the zipper of your skirt loose around your waist. Under the fabric, he groped at the soft flesh of your hips and you hadn’t known it to be possible to get closer than you were but he managed to make it happen, always surprising you.

“Oh, fuck it.”

You’d no sooner said the words before you were working his shirt open, taking care not to snap the buttons despite your frenzied want. More and more of his lean, toned chest came into view and your nails trailed softly over the newly exposed skin as you went. You lurched up on your toes, wondering if his neck was as sensitive as your own, but just before you could, he pulled away and he held your weight against him, staring down at you with lust blown eyes and a grin.

“You want this?” His fingers brushed again and again over your hips, slowly sliding the skirt further and further down.

“Sherlock, please,” you keened, “stop teasing.”

His laugh shook straight to your core and as he leaned in to his new favourite spot on your neck, his leg slipped between yours and the fabric of his trousers raised goosebumps all the way up your spine.

“I need to hear you say it, love.”

“Yes. Fuck, I want this.” Your hands carded through his hair, curls soft against your fingertips. “I want you,” you moaned. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you but I want every second of it that I can get.”

That was all he needed to hear.

In the space of time it took for you to process what was happening, his hands slid down and grasped the back of your thighs and he hoisted you up his waist with all the strength of a man possessed. He pulled you against him by the back of your neck before finally—finally—your lips crashed together, his tongue slipping greedily between yours and you opened your mouth to him without a thought as the delicious warmth sent you reeling. His lips, his tongue, were softer than you would have ever imagined and his sweet breath had you pushing harder against him, your nails raking through his dark curls and legs tightening around his waist with desperation.

Closer. You needed him closer.

Your back sunk into the soft mattress and only then did he pull back, panting as softly as you. His blue eyes locked on yours and he slid the unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders, casting it away carelessly to land somewhere crumpled on the floor of your room. Where he knelt between your legs, he had the perfect view of the length of your entire body and he followed with those fathomless eyes the trail made by his hand, starting at your knee and to your hip, brushing the skin of your waist and along your side that your shirt had ridden up to expose.

His swollen lower lip pulled between his teeth in concentration as he watched your every reaction, every shiver, that his touch elicited. You leaned forward, eager to pull that lip between your own, but his hand pressed firmly against your hips and pinned you in place.

“Patience, love.”

The whine that tore from your throat rose a blush along your cheeks.

“You’ve been teasing me all day.”

Even if he didn’t realize it—which at this point you were sure he did—it was the truth.

Sherlock hummed in response to your protest. He leaned in closer, his breath fanning across your collarbone before his lips touched there as well.

“I had to make sure that you wanted this as much as I do.” His hand slipped up underneath your shirt, dragging lazily along the curve of your breast—teasing, taunting, but never moving any closer to where you wanted. His dark hair tickled your neck and he murmured against the soft mound, still shrouded from view by the white cotton.

“I’m still not sure I’m convinced.”

His lips clamped around your nipple through your shirt and you gasped immediately. He pinned you in place still through the arching of your back and when he added his teeth, sucking and nipping and playing at the sensitive bud, your knees clamped tightly to either side of his hips, trying and pleading and begging for the friction he’d abandoned.

“Sherlock,” you moaned, “please.”

He hadn’t even really touched you yet and you were sure you were going to cry out from sheer frustration.

The cocky bastard chuckled, his lips pulling away from your pert nipple and leaving it open to the chill of the room.

“Shall I find out how badly you want this?” He moved his hand at last to your nipple  beneath the fabric of your shirt and deft fingers squeezed and rolled in just the right way that had you squirming under him.

“I wonder just how wet you are.”

Your chest heaved and his hand slid past your hips, past the scrunched up skirt, and for one glorious moment moment, his hand sunk down to cup your dripping core.

But all too soon, he pulled away.

What the fuck?

If looks could kill, you would have struck him down as he rocked back on his heels and swiped your skirt down to reveal your absolutely bare legs, devoid even of the knickers he’d expected to find.

“Well,” he gushed, “this is a pleasant surprise.”

“I was in a rush,” you snapped.

He grinned down at you wickedly and once again you flushed. “It’s all the same—even if you hadn’t run out on me earlier,” he pressed a quick, suckling kiss to your stomach, “I wouldn’t have let you leave with them on.”

You panted incredulously, beyond frustrated by his games.

“You’re so sure about that.”

“Mm.” One after the other, his legs slipped from the bed and little by little, he tugged your skirt down past your ankles. Tauntingly slow. Once get offending garment was thrown, he lifted your leg and his mouth closed around the skin of your inner thigh, inches north of your knee.

“I’m positive.”

His fingers traced small circles against your hips but he didn’t move any closer, even when you let out a small whine, even when you wriggled in place, aching and begging without words. He watched you squirming in your distressed state, his expression a blank canvas as he studied your every curve splayed out before him in waiting.

You glared at the cracked plaster of your ceiling.

“You know, Sherlock,” you hissed through your teeth, “you’re talking a big game but you’ve yet to have anything to show—“

A harsh tug pulled you to the edge of the bed and before you could finish spouting out the word, two long fingers slipped inside of you and he smiled as he nibbled at the apex of your thigh.

“Fuck.”

His fingers pulled almost completely out before he pushed them back in, twisting just so and the pad of his thumb brushed over your clit. A moan fell through your lips like honey before you could stop it, before you could deny it.

That familiar, arrogant chuckle broke through the walls of your momentary bliss. “What was that were you saying?”

“Nothing,” you gasped. “Just keep going.”

“Mm-hmm.” The sound rumbled against your thigh. “That’s what I thought.”

A third finger joined the others, stretching you around him like you hadn’t felt in a while and somehow only serving to make you wetter, needier for his touch. His thumb moved away from your sensitive bud and briefly, you considered shouting out to him.

Not again.

But before your dry mouth could gasp a single protest, his tongue had already taken its place.

That was unexpected.

He lapped delicately against you, drawing the sensitive flesh between his lips as his fingers continued to work you—play you, like a well-known melody. You felt his lips release your clit and trail down, drawing a stripe from your dripping center up over your hooded nerves and your legs began to quake.

This time, you gasped soundlessly—what was he doing to you?

He was here, touching you, but you still weren’t entirely convinced any of it was happening. That it was real.

The still of the room filled with your heavy breathing, with your mewling whimpers, and every sense you had was focused on him and the way he moved so warmly between your thighs. Everywhere he touched was on fire in the most pleasant way and by now you had completely forgotten the cold you had suffered what felt like hours earlier.

Somehow, he’d found a way to go deeper, curling just so, fingers strong and eager as they worked you so deliciously. They slid in again before sliding completely out of you, drawing a whimper as you pleaded for the fullness they had given you. His hands moved to knead the curve of your arse, pulling you closer to him and in a sure motion, his tongue flicked out and his lips teased and sucked in a way that was so different from his fingers but so good. Naturally, instinctively, your hands twisted into the sweat dampened hair at the nape of his neck.

“You taste even more exquisite than I imagined,” his deep voice rumbled against your core in the most delightful way.

You’d always known he had a sharp tongue but if you’d known how good he was with it, if you’d known how it could make butterflies fly through your stomach as well as it could cut, you might have begged to sit on his face years ago.

You whispered his name and pulled him closer, guiding his head in the way that drove you wild. Your hips ground wantonly against his face as you chased the blinding, numbing ecstasy that you could feel breaking way to the surface. That tight and hot and desperate feeling pitted deep within you, begging to be freed.

“Oh my god—“

Then, all too soon, he was gone. Again.

You groaned. “Sherlock—“

With both hands still cupping your thighs, he lifted you up, his face burying in the flushed crook of your neck. His teeth nipped and he sucked against your pulse, harder still when you curled into him and dragged him down with you. His thigh ground against your aching core, rubbing just enough with the friction from his trousers to keep your excitement mounting and building but never spilling over. Every sigh and every gasp you made, he moved further up your neck, his hands groping and sliding until finally his lips reached yours.

He moved closer, so close you could feel his breath but he kept that scant distance with his arms caging around you on either side of your head.

Your mouth fell into a pout. “Sherlock, please.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were enjoying this.”

You wriggled beneath him, trying in vain to catch his lips. “And if I didn’t know any better,” you panted, “I‘d think you were enjoying it, too.”

He brushed away a lock of your hair. “Oh, I am.”

“Just kiss me already.”

He did. Finally, he did. You could taste yourself on him, the soft and salty and sweet flavor so exotic and unlike anything you’d ever tasted before and to experience it through him was so heady, so primal, you wanted nothing more than to soak up all of it. You pulled his lip between yours, suckling and tender and the dangerous thought that you were sure you couldn’t get enough of the intoxicating way he made you feel swam around you, filling your ears with a symphony composed of his touch and the deep, rumbling tones of his voice. Your tongues moved together in a gentle duel, curling against the unspoken whispers of desire.

Clothes. He was wearing far too much.

“Trousers,” you managed to mutter against his lips. “Take them off.”

He didn’t stop kissing you and when his hands wandered lower, they caught on the hem of your shirt, sliding the cloth higher up your ribs.

You pulled away roughly. “Take them off. Now.”

Blue eyes glazed from the intimacy between you met your own and your eyebrow rose, both ordering him and begging him to heed your command. You needed it. You needed him.

His tongue dragged lazily against the bare skin of your stomach but he did as he was asked. You heard the telltale sound of his belt clattering against the hardwood and a few seconds later, he urgently—clumsily—kicked them away.

You took a second to soak in his form and though you’d never really taken the time to do so before, you weren’t disappointed. Beneath the layers of dark clothes he elected to wear day after day, he hid a well toned physique, his waist tapering softly where a trail of dark hair dove just beyond your line of sight from where you lay sprawled before him.

He climbed back onto the bed, hovering above you with still so much space—still too much space—empty between you. Those hands glided up your ribs, like he had before when you’d pushed him off, and this time you didn’t stop him as he pulled the tight shirt up over the mounds of your breasts, baring them in all their glory to his feasting eyes. You laughed when the collar snagged on your chin and laughed harder still as he pressed closer, trying to finesse it off of you without pulling your hair any more than doing so already had.

Finally, your sight returned to you as your borrowed shirt was cast far off into the darkness of your room without a thought.

His hot palms slid along your sides, starting at your narrow waist until he reached your supple breasts, cupping you, kneading you.

Stalling.

“You’re not wearing anything here either,” he mused just before nodding his head and flattening his hot tongue over your hard, peaking nipple.

“Like I said, I was—“

“In a rush. Yes. Running away from this.” His teeth raked gently at the startled nerves, your back arching with him as he pulled. “Trying to hide from your desire for me.”

His hands skirted down your hips, brushing your inner thighs. He spread them open, sinking into the crevice between, and his hips rocked so gently against your own.

“Sherlock.”

In an instant, he pulled away and he wasn’t touching you at all; not with his hands, not with his mouth. Nothing.

“I need you to tell me what you need, Y/N.”

“More. I need more.”

He hummed, taunting you with, “I thought you weren’t interested in taking advantage of my curiosity.”

Oh, this was just cruel. If you weren’t so desperate, if you didn’t want him as badly as you did, you would have shoved him away.

“Fuck you,” you spat.

“That’s sort of the plan, love.”

And then he slid into you, roughly, until he was sheathed as deeply as could be. Hips flush against your own in a way that sparked every sensitive nerve alive, the way he twisted had you shaking beneath him and the groan that tore from your lips was nothing shy of pornographic.

For a second, he paused. Your eyes had closed, head tilted back into the sheets, and his hands fluttered helplessly at your waist.

“Did I—“

“Do it again,” you gasped, finally finding your voice. “Please.”

That had been a good sign after all.

And so he did, again and again. His movements were clumsy at first, not quite sure where to put his hands or how he should move, but he was a fast learner and this, it seemed, was no exception.

Soon the clumsy pace and tentative touches lead way to confident thrusts, dragging unintelligible noises from you both and his hands grew bolder in all the right places, sure to leave bruises though you couldn’t find it in you to care. He hiked your legs up around his waist and you were more than eager to oblige as flesh pressed firmly against flesh, his lips sucking and tongue curling from your collarbone to your chin, leaving no inch of skin untouched. His mouth met yours, hot and hungry and full of desire, and his tongue begged for access as his hips did the same, both moving in slow, languid strokes that tingled through your spine.

You reached up for him, tugged at the long hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer and your hips bucked up against his own, begging—pleading—for the release he’d been building you up to for so long. You felt him shiver as your nails raked down his back, felt him pulse inside of you and in a flash, he gathered your hands in his own and stretched your arms far above your head.

Your hands struggled in his grip.

“I need to touch you.”

“You’ll get your turn,” he promised gruffly, grinding into you without pause. “Right now, it’s mine.”

And though a part of you yearned to disobey and pull at him, to touch him like he was touching you, you submitted to his mercy with very little complaint. His lips, his hands, his teeth, his tongue moved all over you in perfect harmony, his thrusts just the right strength and speed to send your head reeling, make you see colors around you like the cosmos.

He kissed you tenderly, he kissed you roughly, and every touch of his lips hummed against your skin. His hands continued to wander in their mindless, greedy path, fingers reaching between you as you tightened almost unbearably around him.

His name tumbled from your lips like a chant, a mantra inspired by the intimacy between you.

Overwhelmed by everything about him and overtaken by the mindless, numbing sensations that overtook you, he lead you to the very edge like he had time after time that night but this time he didn’t hold you back, he didn’t pull away, he didn’t stop even when you were screaming out in pleasure that left your throat raw and your mind spinning. This time, he tumbled right along with you.

Neither of you moved, content in the silence spoiled only by the rise and fall of your heavy breathing as you both let the beating of your hearts return to normal. His head fell into the crook of your neck, your skin hot to the touch and slick with sweat that he didn’t seem to mind.

Moments trickled by before he moved, pulling out of you with a soft groan, and then he lay at your side. He folded his arms beneath his head, keeping the space between your naked bodies as though they hadn’t been pressed together so tightly only moments before. Your knees fell together at his side, the throbbing between them the only tangible evidence of what had transpired between you from out of thin air, and your hands brushed away the sticky, wild tendrils of hair that stuck to your face.

You didn’t need him to say anything, you didn’t need to hear anything, but something inside of you wanted to hear his voice thrumming against you again.

And at last, he spoke.

“Most enlightening.”

You took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling.

“So that’s—you got what you needed?”

For a moment, the disappointment in your tone was nearly palpable and while your mind was still struggling to come back down to your body, you wondered if his words of rejection would hit you as hard as the pleasure he’d made you feel.

But to your surprise, the rejection you expected never came.

Legs still shaking from his touch, the calm tingling still coursing through you, he pulled you on to his lap and his hands raked up your form without a moment’s hesitation. With alarming fervor, your lips crashed together, searing and greedy. He pulled back shortly after and the smile he looked down at you with was purely wicked, lips swollen from your kiss and his hair a mess across his forehead, and the way his dark eyes drank you in made you swear you could nearly come on the spot.

“Oh, not even close.”

————————

You sat on the fire escape outside of your window dressed in his half buttoned shirt, a cigarette lit between your lips. Wrapped in only your dark sheet, Sherlock sat beside you, arm snaked around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder. Without a word, you passed it to him. His chest rose and fell against your back with his deep inhale and he blew a stream of smoke before you both, out into the snowy morning.

Your mind was clouded, your body still tingling from his touch.

“One time,” you whispered softly, fog spilling into the air with your breath. “That’s all this was.”

You’d loved every moment of what had happened but that’s all it could be. He admitted to being especially prone to obsession, driven by impulse and understanding and when his mind set to something, he pursued it with no exception. But much like him, you too were prone to the whims and the draw of addiction and you knew that without a doubt, this was something that would absorb you if you let it. The feelings he brought out of you were nothing short of intoxicating and the way he touched you with such determination, such fascination, left you craving more and more.

It was the only way you knew to keep from driving yourself mad. Declaring an end meant you had control. It ensured your ability to separate what was real from what was fleeting and Sherlock Holmes was known for wants of the fleeting variety.

You might have allowed yourself to get high off of him but you wouldn’t allow yourself to get hooked.

“Two times, technically.”

You were quick to smack your hand to his chest. “You know what I meant.”

“One night,” he offered in compromise. His hand slipped from your waist to the bare skin of your thigh, still warm from his touch. His fingers trailed, in a touch that was barely here, higher and higher and you shook as they moved closer to your most sensitive area. “I’m not finished discovering all the ways I can make you quiver.”

“Sherlock.”

With a deep chuckle, he pulled you tighter into his side and kissed your neck tenderly in the spot where a dark bruise had already started to form. You shivered against him.

“I’m not sure I’ll tire of hearing you say my name like that.”

“Of course you will.” You took in another puff. “I’ve never met anyone who tires of things as quickly as you.”

“Mm. Perhaps.” He didn’t stop and his lips fell to your shoulder. “But I find this quite intriguing. I’m enjoying the opportunity to expand my knowledge.”

“One night,” you whispered, reminding him of the words he’d just spoken. “Just one night.”

“If one night is all we have, then I intend to make it count.”

He pulled you easily onto his lap and kissed every inch of exposed skin as his fingers slipped loose every button of the only clothes you wore. Despite the bone-chilling cold, your skin was warm beneath him, burning from his touch so much that you hardly felt it at all.

He pulled just far enough away to smile at you as he slid the fabric from your shoulders like he was unwrapping something fragile. “Call it narcissistic if you must, but I think I like the sight of my shirt falling from your body as much as I enjoyed watching you put it on.”

The sheet fell from his chest as he pulled you tight against him, hands roaming shamelessly over your naked skin, over your hips and thighs, fingers brushing so intimately close to your heated core. He pulled your earlobe between his lips and with his hot breath fanning against your cooling skin, the shiver that overtook you had nothing to do with the winter air.

You leaned into him before you realized you had.

“Sherlock, we’re outside.”

“Yes, we are.”

With your attention so easily distracted, his fingers slipped easily inside of you, drawing out the softest mewl from your lips. That didn’t stop him, however, and his hands moved faster, fingers sliding and rubbing and before you could gasp out a word, his mouth latched eagerly to yours as he swallowed every moan, every whimper, every cry that he pulled from you.

And then for an instant, he pulled away. He grasped your jaw, still toying with you with devious, delectable ardor. You squirmed in his lap and he merely smiled, that lazy sexy smile with so much challenge in his eyes that would have made you weak in the knees if you were standing.

“I suggest you do try to keep your voice down. We wouldn’t want to wake anyone up.”

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

23rd August >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on Matthew 16:13-20 for Twenty First Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A: ‘Who do you say I am?’.

Twenty First Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

Gospel (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)

Matthew 16:13-20

You are Peter and on this rock I will build my Church

When Jesus came to the region of Caesarea Philippi he put this question to his disciples, ‘Who do people say the Son of Man is?’ And they said, ‘Some say he is John the Baptist, some Elijah, and others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’ ‘But you,’ he said ‘who do you say I am?’ Then Simon Peter spoke up, ‘You are the Christ,’ he said, ‘the Son of the living God.’ Jesus replied, ‘Simon son of Jonah, you are a happy man! Because it was not flesh and blood that revealed this to you but my Father in heaven. So I now say to you: You are Peter and on this rock I will build my Church. And the gates of the underworld can never hold out against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven: whatever you bind on earth shall be considered bound in heaven; whatever you loose on earth shall be considered loosed in heaven.’ Then he gave the disciples strict orders not to tell anyone that he was the Christ.

Gospel (USA)

Matthew 16:13–20

You are Peter, and to you I will give the keys of the kingdom of heaven.

Jesus went into the region of Caesarea Philippi and he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?�� They replied, “Some say John the Baptist, others Elijah, still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” He said to them, “But who do you say that I am?” Simon Peter said in reply, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” Jesus said to him in reply, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah. For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my heavenly Father. And so I say to you, you are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it. I will give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven. Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” Then he strictly ordered his disciples to tell no one that he was the Christ.

Reflections (5)

(i) Twenty First Sunday in Ordinary Time

There is a programme on television called ‘Who do you think you are?’ In each episode a well-known person traces their family tree. The question, ‘Who am I?’ is one of the big questions that we engage with throughout our lives. In trying to answer that question, we sometimes unearth the story of our grandparents, our great grandparents, and our great, great, grandparents. We know that who we are has been shaped by those who lived long before us. We can never fully answer the question, ‘Who am I?’ We remain something of a mystery to ourselves and to others, no matter how much delving we do.

Perhaps that is because, according to the Scriptures, we are made in the image and likeness of God, and God is ultimately mysterious. This is the conclusion that Paul arrives at in today’s second reading. He has just come to the end of a very long section of his letter to the Romans, in which he has explored God’s relationship with humanity from Adam to the coming of Christ. It is a challenging read in places, but very thought provoking. At the end of it all, he says, in the words of today’s second reading, ‘How rich are the depths of God – how deep his wisdom and knowledge – and how impossible to penetrate his motives or understand his methods’. Even Saint Paul, the greatest theologian in the early church, had to admit that the depths of God were beyond him. Another great theologian of the church who lived over a thousand years later was Saint Thomas Aquinas. Since his early youth, when he decided to become a Dominican and defend the faith, he studied and wrote. His greatest work was called a ‘Summary of Theology’. When he came to his early fifties, he couldn’t write any more. One of the brothers asked him, ‘Master, will you not return to your work?’ Thomas replied, ‘I can write no more. All I have written seems like straw’. He died some months later. He recognized that the mystery of God he had sought to probe was, in the end, beyond him.

Great thinkers like Saint Paul and Saint Thomas Aquinas remind us that there is so much more to God than we will ever know. If the question, ‘Who am I?’ is of the big questions of life, the question, ‘Who is God?’ is an infinitely bigger question. In today’s gospel reading, Jesus asks his disciples two questions. The first was, ‘Who do people say I am?’ The answers given by the disciples were all variations of one answer, ‘Jesus is a great prophet’. If Jesus were to ask us that question today, ‘Who do people say I am?’ we too could answer that some people, such as Jews and Muslims, say that Jesus is a great prophet. Jesus’ second question to his disciples shows that he knows there is so much more that could be said about him, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ He was saying, ‘You have been my close companions. You have seen what I have been doing and heard what I have been saying. What have you to say about me?’ As so often in the gospels, Peter speaks for the other disciples, ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God’. Peter is a spokesperson for us all. His confession of Jesus is contained within the Creed we recite every Sunday, ‘We believe in one Lord, Jesus, Christ, the only Son of God’. These words attempt to express the mystery of Jesus, without fully exhausting it. There is so much more to Jesus than any set of words could express. The evangelists themselves who wrote the gospels were very aware that their words could not express fully who Jesus is. The fourth evangelist finishes his gospel with the statement, ‘there are also many other things that Jesus did; if every one of them were written down, I suppose the world itself could not contain the books that would be written’.

That sense that there is more to Jesus than we could ever express in words is, ultimately, very consoling. One of the most profound statements ever made about God is to found in the first letter of Saint John, ‘God is love’, and it was Jesus who revealed God to be Love. There is a richness and depth to the love of God made flesh in Jesus that we cannot fully grasp in this earthly life. Saint Paul, who claims to have met the risen Lord, was very aware of this. In his letter to the Ephesians, he prays that we would have ‘the power to comprehend… what is the breadth, and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge’. It is a wonderful prayer, that we would know, not just with our head, but with our heart, the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge. Paul then says that when we do come to know Jesus in this way, ‘we will be filled with all the fullness of God’. That sounds like our ultimate destiny, not one we will fully attain in this earthly life. It is a destiny worth journeying towards by allowing the Lord to be at the centre of our lives, here and now.

And/Or

(ii) Twenty First Sunday of the Year

 Most of us have at least one set of keys. If you are like me, you will loose one or other set from time to time. We worry until we find them again. We know that keys have the power to open and shut, and we do not like to think of that power falling into the hands of strangers. We are careful about who we give our keys to. We give them only to those we really trust. To give somebody a set of keys to our house is saying: ‘I trust you enough to give you the freedom to enter a place that means a great deal to me’.

 The first reading and gospel reading today make reference to the giving of keys to people. In the first reading, the Lord gives the key of the house of David to Eliakim. This key gave him the authority to open and to shut the palace in Jerusalem where the king, David’s successor, lived. In today’s gospel reading, Jesus promises to give the keys of the kingdom of heaven to Peter. The keys of a royal palace are one thing; the keys of the kingdom of heaven are quite another. Of course, Jesus was not speaking literally here. He would not hand over to Peter a physical set of keys. The kingdom of heaven is not a purely earthly kingdom; there are no keys to it in the sense in which we all have house keys. However, the language of giving keys suggests that Jesus is investing Peter with significant authority – authority not in the sense of power, but in the sense of responsibility and service. It is extraordinary that someone whom Peter had just addressed as the Christ, the Son of the living God, should give such responsibility to a human being, to flesh and blood. What was the responsibility given to Peter that was signified by the keys? The answer to that question is to be found in the phrase which sounds somewhat obscure to our ears: ‘whatever you bind on earth shall be considered bound in heaven; whatever you loose on earth shall be considered loosed in heaven’. The language of ‘binding’ and ‘loosing’ is a Jewish expression and it refers to teaching authority. Jewish rabbis had authority to bind and loose the Jewish law, to declare which parts of the law were binding and which could be interpreted loosely. Rabbis had the authority to interpret God’s law for people’s lives. What Jesus is portrayed as doing in our gospel reading today is giving Peter responsibility for interpreting, not the Jewish law, but the teaching of Jesus. Peter is given the task of interpreting the teaching of Jesus for the lives of the members of the church.

 This is not the time or place to explore the claim of the church that this responsibility has always resided and resides today in the Bishop of Rome. What is more relevant for our life today, perhaps, is the more general point that Jesus was willing to entrust enormous responsibility to human beings. He may have given special responsibility to Peter, but he also entrusted great responsibility to all his followers. At the very end of Mathew’s gospel he called on all his disciples to go forth and make disciples of all the nations. In the Our Father we pray, ‘Thy kingdom come’. We, thereby, recognize, that the coming of God’s kingdom is primarily God’s responsibility. We look to God to see to the coming of God’s kingdom. Yet, there is a great deal in the gospels to suggest that the coming of God’s kingdom is also our responsibility. Jesus has made the coming of God’s kingdom, the promotion of God’s values, dependant on all of us - on some more than on other, certainly, but on all the baptized. You could argue that Jesus was taking a tremendous risk in doing this. Peter, who was given the greatest responsibility, left a lot to be desired. In next Sunday’s gospel reading, which follows immediately after our gospel reading today, Jesus turns to Peter and says, ‘Get behind me Satan’. The rock on which the church was built immediately became an instrument of Satan. Yet, there is no indication in the gospel that Jesus then took back the responsibility he had given to Peter. Jesus presumably knew that he was dealing with very fickle instruments, and yet he entrusted enormous responsibility to them.

 Most of us are reasonable aware of our own failings and limitations; the older we get, the more aware we become of them. I am afraid that our weaknesses do not let us off the hook. Jesus continues to entrust us with responsibility for the coming of God’s kingdom on earth. What else can he do? We are all he has. The choirs of angels cannot do the job he wants done. It is a job for flesh and blood, for flawed people who are, nevertheless, generous, and who can learn to trust the Lord as much as he trusts them. When it comes to doing the work of the Lord, whatever that might mean for any one of us, we are not on our own. The Lord is with us. We have his word for it. ‘I will be with you always until the end of the age’. The Lord will work within us and among us, if we grasp the responsibility he has given us. That is clear even from today’s gospel reading. When Peter made his marvellous confession, Jesus said to him, ‘It was not flesh and blood that revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven’. Jesus was saying to him, ‘Well done, but it was not all your doing’. It is never all our doing. If we do what only we can do, God will certainly do what only God can do.

And/Or

(iii) Twenty First Sunday in Ordinary Time

 We often struggle to get to know each other well. If we were to ask even close friends, ‘Who do you say I am?’ they might struggle to give an adequate answer to that question. If people are to know us, we need to reveal ourselves to them, and self-revelation does not come easy to us. Even if it does, there is always more to us than we can ever reveal. We are, all of us, mysterious. Having been made in the image and likeness of God, we share in the mystery that is God. In this morning’s second reading, St Paul seems awestruck by the mystery of God. He exclaims, ‘How rich are the depths of God – how deep his wisdom and knowledge – and how impossible to penetrate his motives or understand his methods’. This is coming from the greatest theologian of the early years of the church. Even he would have struggled to answer the question that God might have put to him, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ If Paul can say ‘How rich are the depths of God’, to a lesser extent we can say, ‘How rich are the depths of every human being’.

 We can certainly say of Jesus, ‘How rich are his depths’, because he was no ordinary human being; he was God in human form. The gospels suggest that people struggled to get to know the person of Jesus. When Jesus turns to his disciples in today’s gospel reading and asks them, ‘Who do people say the Son of Man is?’ the answer he got showed that the general perception of him was somewhat inadequate. Jesus was not John the Baptist, or Elijah, or Jeremiah, or one of the other prophets, even though he had something in common with all of them. When Jesus asked his disciples the more probing question, ‘But you, who do you say that I am?’ Peter’s answer on behalf of the others was much more satisfactory, ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God’. Here indeed was real insight into Jesus’ identity. Jesus acknowledges Peter’s insight, ‘Blessed are you, Simon’. However, he immediately declares that this insight of Peter was a God-given insight; it was not simply the result of Peter’s own natural abilities, ‘it was not flesh and blood that revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven’. What is true of Peter, in this regard, is true of all of us. If any of us are to come to know Jesus more fully, it is only with God’s help that we can do this; we need the light of God’s Spirit if we are to come to know God’s Son. It is above all the Spirit who leads us to the truth, who leads us to the one who said, ‘I am the way, the truth and the life’.

 According to the gospel reading, what singled Peter out from the other disciples was his God-given insight into the identity of Jesus. Peter knew Jesus better than any of the other disciples. It is because of this unique insight that Jesus gives Peter a unique role among his followers. He is to be the rock, the firm foundation, on which Jesus will build his church. It is an extraordinarily significant role for Jesus to give to any of his disciples. Peter’s role is further spelt out by Jesus promising him the keys of the kingdom of heaven. The image of the keys suggests authority and responsibility. Jesus spells out the nature of that authority in terms of binding and loosing. This is probably a reference to a teaching authority. Peter is responsible for discerning what aspects of Jesus’ teaching are binding and what elements can be interpreted more loosely. Peter is being entrusted with the task of authoritatively interpreting the teaching of Jesus for other members of the church. As Catholics, we believe that the teaching authority entrusted to Peter resides in a special way in the Bishop of Rome, the Pope. Later on in Matthew’s gospel Jesus will criticize the Pharisees for locking people out of the kingdom of God by their teaching. In contrast, Peter’s teaching is meant to pave the way for people to enter the kingdom of God. All Christians can look to Peter as the one to whom Jesus entrusted his own teaching role in a special way. He is, in that sense, the patron of all teachers of the faith. Peter shows us that authoritative teaching is grounded in insight into the person of Jesus. We all share that teaching role of Peter to some degree.

 This morning’s gospel reminds us that the church will always be a teaching church. Jesus intended it so from the very beginning. The church will always need teachers of the faith, teachers whose teaching, like that of Peter, is grounded in a God-given insight into the rich depths of the person of Jesus. The church, of course, is also a learning church, and all teachers of the faith are also learners. We are all learners when it comes to the ways of the Lord. None of us can ever adequately answer the Lord’s question, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ At most, we will only ever be on the way to answering that question. That is why we need, each one of us, to keep on invoking the coming of the Holy Spirit to lead us to the complete truth.

And/Or

(iv) Twenty First Sunday in Ordinary Time

 We struggle to know ourselves well. It is only with experience that we become aware of our strengths and weaknesses. There are probably levels to ourselves that we never fully know. If we struggle to know ourselves, it is even more of a struggle to know someone else. Even people we have been close to for years can remain something of a mystery to us. After many years they may reveal some side to themselves that we had not been aware of. We sudden realize that, perhaps, I don’t know this person as well as I thought.

 If we struggle to get to know others, even those who are closest to us, it was certainly a struggle for people around Jesus to get to know him. He was more mysterious than the average person. What Paul says of God in today’s second reading could equally be said of Jesus, ‘How deep his wisdom and knowledge! How impossible to penetrate his motives or understand his methods! Who could ever know the mind of the Lord?’ When Jesus asks his disciples in today’s gospel reading what people were saying about him, they answered, ‘John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, one of the prophets’. That answer is reasonable in some far as it goes. It is the answer that Moslems and Jews would give today. Jesus was a great prophet who proclaimed God’s word. However, Jesus himself did not find that answer adequate. That is why he turned to his disciples and asked them, ‘But who do you say I am?’ He wanted to know what the people who were closest to him thought. Simon Peter answered on behalf of them all, ‘You are the Christ (Messiah), the Son of the living God’. There is an answer which shows real insight into the identity of Jesus. Yet, even that fine answer was open to more than one interpretation. When Peter gave that answer, he wasn’t thinking of a crucified Christ, a Son of God who would be rejected and put to death. Peter, even with his rich confession of faith, was only beginning to understand who Jesus really was and what that meant for the life he was being called to live.

 Jesus’ question, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ is in some sense addressed to all of us. We are each asked to give our own answer to that question. It is not just an academic question that is looking for correct knowledge. That is certainly important. As Christians, we need to understand with our minds who Jesus is. We find the core of our understanding of Jesus in a section of the Creed which we will shortly recite together. A correct understanding of who Jesus is remains important for all of us as Christians today. The early church struggled for the first three hundred years of its existence to come up with an adequate answer to the question of Jesus’ identity. The great creeds were the fruit of that intellectual search. However, the question of Jesus has another dimension; it contains within itself another, more personal, question, ‘Who am I for you?’ ‘What place do I have in your life?’ ‘Where do I stand in your life?’ There is a modern religious song which I like very much and which the parish choir sometimes sing. The chorus goes, ‘You are the centre, you are my life’. That is one answer to that second way of understanding Jesus’ question. It is the answer, perhaps, that we would all like to give, and, yet, in our heart of hearts we often know that Jesus is not always at the centre of our lives. As Peter would soon discover, there can be a great deal of self at the centre of our lives. In a sense, the whole of our lives as Christians is a journey towards putting Jesus at the centre of our lives, or allowing Jesus to place himself at the centre of our lives. We are always on a journey in that regard. That is really what we mean by conversion, the process of putting the Lord at the centre of our lives, that continuous turning from self towards the Lord.

 Because of Peter’s inspired insight into who Jesus was, Jesus gave him a momentous role within the emerging community of believers, the church. He was to be the rock, the foundation, on which Jesus would build his church. He was given keys as a symbol of authority - authority as understood within the kingdom of God, not the authority of domination, but the authority of service. That service would consist especially in binding and loosing. That language is a metaphor for teaching, for interpreting the words of Jesus for the other disciples. Peter was given this role, even though he was still at the beginning of his journey, and in the very next passage he would actually be addressed by Jesus as Satan. Yet, that is how the Lord works. Even as we struggle to grow in our relationship with him, as we try to know him better, with our heads and our hearts, he nevertheless entrusts all of us with great responsibility. He does not wait for us to be perfect before calling on us to share in his work. What he does ask, however, is that we are always open to ongoing conversion, just as Peter was.

And/Or

(v) Twenty First Sunday in Ordinary Time

 We know from our own experience how difficult it is to get to know someone, even someone whom we have been around or with whom we have lived for a very long time. We may think we know someone well and then we may suddenly discover something really important about them that we had never suspected. Some of you may have seen the film, the Dead, which is a film adaptation of the short story by James Joyce. At the end of the film the husband discovers something about his wife he had no inkling of up until then, her deep feelings for someone she knew as a young woman and who died tragically.

 Each of us is something of a mystery. We are all made in the image and likeness of God, and, in this morning’s second reading, Paul is very aware of the profound mystery that is God, ‘Who could ever know the mind of the Lord?’ We each reflect something of the mystery that is God. If that is true of each of us, it is even truer of Jesus, who was the perfect image of God. His own disciples, those who spent time with him, struggled to come to know him, and really only began to grasp him after his resurrection and the coming of the Spirit.

 When Jesus asks his disciples in this morning’s gospel reading - ‘Who do you say I am?’ - he was testing how well they had come to know him. The answer that Peter gave to that question was as good an answer as Jesus could have expected, ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God’. Here is an answer that has stood the test of time. We continue to give that same answer today. It is the faith of the church. In the creed we will be shortly reciting we say, ‘I believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God’. That statement goes a little bit further than Peter’s answer because it reflects the developed understanding of Jesus gained by the church over several hundred years. Yet, Peter’s confession of Jesus contains in nucleus what we profess in the Creed. It is a reminder to us that the roots of our faith today are to be found in the faith of those who were eyewitnesses of Jesus’ life and ministry.

 Yet, even though Peter’s confession of Jesus’ identity was accurate, at the time he didn’t fully understand the implications of what he said for his life. Jesus would show himself to be the Son of the living God above all by his faithfulness to God’s mission, and this faithfulness would take him to his passion and his crucifixion. The Son of the living God was also the suffering Son of Man. To follow such a Son of God would entail being ready to travel the way of the cross with him, and it soon transpired that this was something Peter was not prepared to do. He went on to deny Jesus publicly and then to abandon him. Although Peter spoke the right words, it took some time before those words really shaped his life.

 The question ‘Who do you say that I am?’ is addressed by the risen Lord to all of us. It is a question that isn’t just looking for correct information or an accurate verbal expression. It goes deeper than that. In asking, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ the Lord is asking ‘Who am I to you?’, ‘What part do I play in your life?’, ‘How deep is your relationship with me and to what extent does it shape all your other relationships, all you say and do?’ In a sense, Jesus is asking, ‘What difference do I make in your life?’ If Jesus is asking for knowledge in putting the question, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ it is as much a knowledge of the heart than a knowledge of the mind, the kind of knowledge that is the fruit of love, that flows from a loving fidelity to Jesus and all he stands for. It was this loving fidelity that Peter lacked initially but eventually went on to attain, as he gave his life for Jesus.

 In living out that loving fidelity to the Lord, we need the support of the community of the believers, what we call the church. In this morning’s gospel reading, Jesus speaks of ‘my church’. Because it is his church, he protects it; he promises Peter that the gates of the underworld will never hold out against it. The powers of death and evil will never destroy it. The church will always be there and we will always need it. This morning’s gospel suggests that Jesus gave Peter a special teaching role in his church. The language of binding and loosing is Jewish terminology for interpretation God’s law, God’s will. Peter has a special responsibility for interpreting the teaching of Jesus for the other members of the church. As Roman Catholics we believe that this special teaching role assigned to Peter continues to reside in the bishop of Rome, the Pope. We need the Lord’s church in all its dimensions if we are to live our faith to the full; we need each other’s lived witness and we need the church’s teaching and guidance.

Fr. Martin Hogan.