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fozmeadows · 2 years ago

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tools not rules: the importance of critical thinking

More than once, I’ve talked about the negative implications of Evangelical/purity culture logic being uncritically replicated in fandom spaces and left-wing discourse, and have also referenced specific examples of logical overlap this produces re, in particular, the policing of sexuality. What I don’t think I’ve done before is explain how this happens: how even a well-intentioned person who’s trying to unlearn the toxic systems they grew up with can end up replicating those systems. Even if you didn’t grow up specifically in an Evangelical/purity context, if your home, school, work and/or other social environments have never encouraged or taught you to think critically, then it’s easy to fall into similar traps - so here, hopefully, is a quick explainer on how that works, and (hopefully) how to avoid it in the future.

Put simply: within Evangelism, purity culture and other strict, hierarchical social contexts, an enormous value is placed on rules, and specifically hard rules. There might be a little wiggle-room in some instances, but overwhelmingly, the rules are fixed: once you get taught that something is bad, you’re expected never to question it. Understanding the rules is secondary to obeying them, and oftentimes, asking for a more thorough explanation - no matter how innocently, even if all you’re trying to do is learn - is framed as challenging those rules, and therefore cast as disobedience. And where obedience is a virtue, disobedience is a sin. If someone breaks the rules, it doesn’t matter why they did it, only that they did. Their explanations or justifications don’t matter, and nor does the context: a rule is a rule, and rulebreakers are Bad.

In this kind of environment, therefore, you absorb three main lessons: one, to obey a rule from the moment you learn it; two, that it’s more important to follow the rules than to understand them; and three, that enforcing the rules means castigating anyone who breaks them. And these lessons go deep: they’re hard to unlearn, especially when you grow up with them through your formative years, because the consequences of breaking them - or even being seen to break them - can be socially catastrophic.

But outside these sorts of strict environments - and, honestly, even within them - that much rigidity isn’t healthy. Life is frequently far more complex and nuanced than hard rules really allow for, particularly when it comes to human psychology and behaviour - and this is where critical thinking comes in. Critical thinking allows us to evaluate the world around us on an ongoing basis: to weigh the merits of different positions; to challenge established rules if we feel they no longer serve us; to decide which new ones to institute in their place; to acknowledge that sometimes, there are no easy answers; to show the working behind our positions, and to assess the logic with which other arguments are presented to us. Critical thinking is how we graduate from a simplistic, black-and-white view of morality to a more nuanced perception of the world - but this is a very hard lesson to learn if, instead of critical thinking, we’re taught instead to put our faith in rules alone.

So: what does it actually look like, when rule-based logic is applied in left-wing spaces? I’ll give you an example:

Sally is new to both social justice and fandom. She grew up in a household that punished her for asking questions, and where she was expected to unquestioningly follow specific hard rules. Now, though, Sally has started to learn a bit more about the world outside her immediate bubble, and is realising not only that the rules she grew up with were toxic, but that she’s absorbed a lot of biases she doesn’t want to have. Sally is keen to improve herself. She wants to be a good person! So Sally joins some internet communities and starts to read up on things. Sally is well-intentioned, but she’s also never learned how to evaluate information before, and she’s certainly never had to consider that two contrasting opinions could be equally valid - how could she have, when she wasn’t allowed to ask questions, and when she was always told there was a singular Right Answer to everything? Her whole framework for learning is to Look For The Rules And Follow Them, and now that she’s learned the old rules were Bad, that means she has to figure out what the Good Rules are.

Sally isn’t aware she’s thinking of it in these terms, but subconsciously, this is how she’s learned to think. So when Sally reads a post explaining how sex work and pornography are inherently misogynistic and demeaning to women, Sally doesn’t consider this as one side of an ongoing argument, but uncritically absorbs this information as a new Rule. She reads about how it’s always bad and appropriative for someone from one culture to wear clothes from another culture, and even though she’s not quite sure of all the ways in which it applies, this becomes a Rule, too. Whatever argument she encounters first that seems reasonable becomes a Rule, and once she has the Rules, there’s no need to challenge them or research them or flesh out her understanding, because that’s never been how Rules work - and because she’s grown up in a context where the foremost way to show that you’re aware of and obeying the Rules is to shame people for breaking them, even though she’s not well-versed in these subjects, Sally begins to weigh in on debates by harshly disagreeing with anyone who offers up counter-opinions. Sometimes her disagreements are couched in borrowed terms, parroting back the logic of the Rules she’s learned, but other times, they’re simply ad hominem attacks, because at home, breaking a Rule makes you a bad person, and as such, Sally has never learned to differentiate between attacking the idea and attacking the person.

And of course, because Sally doesn’t understand the Rules in-depth, it’s harder to explain them to or debate with rulebreakers who’ve come armed with arguments she hasn’t heard before, which makes it easier and less frustrating to just insult them and point out that they ARE rulebreakers - especially if she doesn’t want to admit her confusion or the limitations of her knowledge. Most crucially of all, Sally doesn’t have a viable framework for admitting to fault or ignorance beyond a total groveling apology that doubles as a concession to having been Morally Bad, because that’s what it’s always meant to her to admit you broke a Rule. She has no template for saying, “huh, I hadn’t considered that,” or “I don’t know enough to contribute here,” or even “I was wrong; thanks for explaining!”

So instead, when challenged, Sally remains defensive: she feels guilty about the prospect of being Bad, because she absolutely doesn’t want to be a Bad Person, but she also doesn’t know how to conceptualise goodness outside of obedience. It makes her nervous and unsettled to think that strangers could think of her as a Bad Person when she’s following the Rules, and so she becomes even more aggressive when challenged to compensate, clinging all the more tightly to anyone who agrees with her, yet inevitably ending up hurt when it turns out this person or that who she thought agreed on What The Rules Were suddenly develops a different opinion, or asks a question, or does something else unsettling.

Pushed to this sort of breaking point, some people in Sally’s position go back to the fundamentalism they were raised with, not because they still agree with it, but because the lack of uniform agreement about What The Rules Are makes them feel constantly anxious and attacked, and at least before, they knew how to behave to ensure that everyone around them knew they were Good. Others turn to increasingly niche communities and social groups, constantly on paranoid alert for Deviance From The Rules. But other people eventually have the freeing realisation that the fixation on Rules and Goodness is what’s hurting them, not strangers with different opinions, and they steadily start to do what they wanted to do all along: become happier, kinder and better-informed people who can admit to human failings - including their own - without melting down about it.

THIS is what we mean when we talk about puritan logic being present in fandom and left-wing spaces: the refusal to engage with critical thinking while sticking doggedly to a single, fixed interpretation of How To Be Good. It’s not always about sexuality; it’s just that sexuality, and especially queerness, are topics we’re used to seeing conservatives talk about a certain way, and when those same rhetorical tricks show up in our fandom spaces, we know why they look familiar.

So: how do you break out of rule-based thinking? By being aware of it as a behavioural pattern. By making a conscious effort to accept that differing perspectives can sometimes have equal value, or that, even if a given argument isn’t completely sound, it might still contain a nugget of truth. By trying to be less reactive and more reflective when encountering positions different to your own. By accepting that not every argument is automatically tied to or indicative of a higher moral position: sometimes, we’re just talking about stuff! By remembering that you’re allowed to change your position, or challenge someone else’s, or ask for clarification. By understanding that having a moral code and personal principles isn’t at odds with asking questions, and that it’s possible - even desirable - to update your beliefs when you come to learn more than you did before.

This can be a scary and disquieting process to engage in, and it’s important to be aware of that, because one of the main appeals of rule-based thinking - if not the key appeal - is the comfort of moral certainty it engenders. If the rules are simple and clear, and following them is what makes you a good person, then it’s easy to know if you’re doing the right thing according to that system. It’s much, much harder and frequently more uncomfortable to be uncertain about things: to doubt, not only yourself, but the way you’ve been taught to think. And especially online, where we encounter so many more opinions and people than we might elsewhere, and where we can get dogpiled on by strangers or go viral without meaning to despite our best intentions? The prospect of being deemed Bad is genuinely terrifying. Of course we want to follow the Rules. But that’s the point of critical thinking: to try and understand that rules exist in the first place, not to be immutable and unchanging, but as tools to help us be better - and if a tool becomes defunct or broken, it only makes sense to repair it.

Rigid thinking teaches us to view the world through the lens of rules: to obey first and understand later. Critical thinking teaches us to use ideas, questions, contexts and other bits of information as analytic tools: to put understanding ahead of obedience. So if you want to break out of puritan thinking, whenever you encounter a new piece of information, ask yourself: are you absorbing it as a rule, or as a tool?

#critical thinking #logic #rhetoric #purity culture #fandom #evangelism #hierarchy #thinking

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bakasara · 1 year ago

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Trying to parse my thoughts on Izzy's death and why I had a different reaction to it than I thought I would. To summarize: I thought I wouldn't like it, but also that they wouldn't do it; the opposite happened– they did it but I'm ok with it.

I'm also feeling like talking through some mourning for an amazing character, so follow along if that's you, too 😌

(I should probably clarify the following thoughts are coming from someone who deeply enjoyed this season.)

I first wondered what would be of Izzy around the end of season 1. I expected him to have a heel-face turn – which I object to calling a redemption arc and I'll get into why, because the distinction ties into his death imo. A lot of antagonistic characters' changes of heart end directly in death, but I thought they'd subvert that trope. And they... did, actually, despite Izzy dying. Not an option I had imagined.

What the show avoided is the logic, the set of tropes attached to the deaths of this kind of character. These deaths usually come as a consequence of the character's changed ethics or "redemption". My being against that scenario came from the diverging natures of traditional redemption arcs and OFMD's rhetoric.

A traditional redemption arc functions by a kind of catholic logic, if you will: the villain can become one of the good guys by balancing out his "sins"/bad deeds with enough good deeds to tip a moral scale. This often involves a purifying suffering, which acts as an agent to expiate one's faults. To the viewer, this suffering can serve to activate our empathy and make the character more sympathetic. It can also legitimize his quest: our trust in the character's good intentions comes from seeing that the character is ready to make sacrifices to become better and he isn't deterred by the hardships of doing the right thing.

The death occurring at the end of a traditional redemption arc acts as the ultimate sacrifice and/or purification. A number of ideas might be at play behind it, depending on each story: only in death can the soul become fully pure, or a final sacrifice is "needed" to demonstrate the change once and for all, or change was only possible up to a point after which there is no viable/acceptable future – the character deserves moral points for changing, but not so many that he also deserves a full life, or past crimes make him more expendable, etc.

But these are all ideas that aren't evoked in any of the crew's journey in OFMD. For starters, the show isn't interested in "catholic" redemption; its focus is on reintegration/rehabilitation into the community. Rather than appealing to the more traditional (in Western media) and more christian principle of "purification of the soul through mortification of the body", it plays with notions of restorative justice.

We see it especially this season with Ed and Izzy. Ed's arc is a whole little lab for it. We have the community being made to decide whether he can stay or should leave; catbell!Ed is made to apologize to the people affected – which he initially does abysmally, with what fandom has dubbed his "CEO's/YouTube apology". Later, he's given the opportunity to have a more honest and genuine conversation with Fang where he learns about how he hurt him. He's made to repair some of the material damage his behavior caused. Some members feel repaid by the idea that they did to him the same he did to them (Fang) while others don't (Lucius), and the show touches on what this means for each/legitimizes both feelings. Arguably, Ed using his treasure to throw Calypso's birthday party – a much needed refrain and moment of social (re-)connection within the community – is an additional form of reparation. While Stede's belief in Ed has a clear role in helping Ed change for the better, Izzy's s2 journey focuses even more intensely on the role of social support within an individual's constructive (re-)integration into their community. The show is condensed by choice of format, but the beats are all there.

With that kind of rhetoric set up, I'd never be able to accept Izzy dying in a way that feels like a punishment for his past crimes, nor in a way that should "confirm" his positive change/"purify" him for good. And he doesn't! By the time he dies, we know full well he's deeply changed, it's already established to completion. How it happens has nothing to do with proving himself – he's randomly shot in battle. It's never questioned that the time he got to live surrounded by affection mattered. The speech he gives Ed is only possible because he's changed, accessing a completely different perspective on piracy/life than before, like we see when he talks to Ricky earlier. The reason the whole crew is paying respect and crying is because he became "the new unicorn", a treasured member with a defined role. But his death itself is the show going back to the initial symbolism of Izzy as ultimate pirate. The narrative function of his death is underscoring that the age of piracy has come to an end. It's nothing to do with his change. It's posited as the "natural conclusion" (again, by symbolic function) of a character that represented piracy through-and-through, not the "natural conclusion" of a process of becoming better.

And for me, that difference changes everything. I can see and accept the logic behind it, even as I mourn Izzy as a character. It makes the grief feel like a catharsis I experience within the context of the story I'm watching, rather than a grief I feel from a show "betraying" me.

It's also a difference that completely changes how Izzy's death relates to his queerness. Izzy's change is intertwined with being able to express queer affection openly. Becoming "a unicorn" is this extremely queer imagery already – a magical rainbow creature. His role becomes akin to a mother to the crew (the mother hen!Izzy many headcanoned last season, tapping into his potential), a position that isn't extraneous to older queens, including our honored real-life mean-old-queer men. Last season he threatened another queer man for showing too much delicacy, effeminacy, vulnerability. Now, his change is a process that culminates in him singing a tender love song among the crew in drag. He's given the privilege of playing the soundtrack to our protagonists making love for the first time, which ties him symbolically to the event in a way it does no other crew member. Suffice it to say that insinuating his process of change should end in death would have been disastrous, as far as I'm concerned. Antithetical to the show's supporting ideology.

But that's not how it went. Grief occupies a big role in the queer community, but it's so rare that we get to experience it cathartically. In real life, we often have to contend with the ways queerphobia causes us trauma or even shortens our lives, or the lives of our friends. In fictional narratives, a lot of characters that get to express queerness unabashedly still die for the transgression. They're still usually the only queer character with relevant screen time or at all, at best one of two that formed a tragic couple.

We almost never have the opportunity to just mourn some motherfucker who died because they meant something else as well that was central to their character. To mourn and know we're mourning someone who wasn't ever punished for being queer-as-in-fuck-you and going all out. To mourn and not feel like it's another message of queer doom, because for once the character is surrounded by an entire crew of other queer characters that go on to live and be happy. To know the story is saying something about life, not about being queer. To know this kind of crafting was deliberate, too, because the creator has talked about working to avoid those tropes. I struggle to remember another time I had the opportunity to grieve for a queer character like they're a human being, without the implication that it's queerness itself that's a death sentence.

And honestly? It feels good. It feels like a form of catharsis I do not dislike. That I'm maybe kinda glad for. OFMD is and stays a magical world. Beyond that, in a show full of queers, one of them dies after getting some extraordinarily meaningful happiness, and it's peaceful, and I get to just be sad for the fucker without the gutting of being reminded that if you're gay, better not shoot too high. It feels like a completely different emotion that no other show, for now, would give me, but OFMD. To me, it's yet another thing it's pulled off.

As it's been known to do.

#ofmd #having warm izzy thoughts in this chili's tonight #ofmd meta #my meta

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eemcintyre · 2 years ago

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"The Firm" (1993) review

*Baby's first published movie review

*At least 90s Tom Cruise is the height of pretty.

Right out of the gate, I can tell you that this wasn’t the worst movie I’ve ever seen. It had a few good points for sure that I appreciated- I thought Jeanne did a respectable job as Abby, and girl was serving even at the funeral with that hairbow. Holly was also criminally underused as Tammy, who was my second favorite character in the book to Mitch. I missed queen Tammy. The autumnal aesthetic was also popping off and made me wanna eat some crunchy leaves. The jazzy soundtrack was good as music in itself, but a confusing choice for this movie that did not fit the mood and kept making me think I was watching “When Harry Met Sally.”

And that’s the extent of my praise; time to roast now. This movie is, I think, one of the most significant examples of why book-to-movie adaptations are always cause for some level of alarm. I could feel the filmmakers’ contempt for the source material emanating from the screenplay. The way that they were changing things even as minute and unnecessary as characters’ last names (Hodge/Hodges, Knauss/Krauss) and hair colors (Abby and Tammy are both magically redheads) just for the sake of changing them. And that’s to say nothing of the way the movie versions of the characters are devoid of any sense of nuance, and weirdly, sin? In the book, Mitch was a really interesting and relatable character because he was a person with flaws and inner moral conflict. He cheated on his wife (in a slimier way in the book too, I might add- no white knight scenario where he saves the girl and tends to her injuries) but never ended up confessing it to her, instead choosing to live haunted with the secret. He’s also a lot more demanding about money from the FBI and steals some extra from the firm as well, while in the movie he just gets a half a million and calls it a day. Additionally, he has a thinly veiled hatred for Abby’s parents and the book goes into much more detail about his own estranged family. Finally, his motivation for taking down the firm in the book is mostly about saving himself and the few he cares about, and less about going on some one-dimensional moralistic crusade full of monologuing about justice and the wonders of the legal system. But all of these flaws are what made Mitch human and his story interesting to follow. For me, personally, it’s not at all intriguing to watch a ~good character~ do ~good things~ out of ~good intentions~. Somewhat related but kind of opposite is also what they did to Avery- he was great in the book as the hedonistic loose cannon with no scruples who was slowly spiraling. And then in the movie they thought it was a good idea to throw in some weird redemption arc where he ~shows remorse for his misdeeds~ that felt so forced. Plus, this is me being picky, but Gene Hackman as a womanizing dilf was just not doing it for me.

Then there’s the plot, which had perhaps the most egregious of all the artistic blunders. Who on God’s green earth’s idea was it to water down all of the crimes Mitch had uncovered that the firm and the frickin mafia were accused of to… overbilling? The only thing Mitch gives the FBI proof of is that the firm was overbilling their clients? And then the mafia never gets prosecuted at all?? And this is noble and good for some reason because Mitch heroically refuses to violate attorney-client privilege and be disbarred, which in his state does not include if one’s client is committing illegal acts anyway so he could have literally turned over the mafia and still retained his damn license??? And this is also all on the premise that is trying so hard to be deep and edgy and philosophical: “well who’s really the bad guys, the mafia or the lawyers who protect them, huh?” Bro really thought he had something there but, um… both? It’s both. Oh, and then there’s no consequences for any of the information Mitch has given and the people he’s crossed, unlike in the book where he has to start all over in the middle of nowhere and leave everything behind, on the bad side of both the mafia and the government. In the movie, and I wish I was joking, he and Abby just hop right back into their old dinged-up car from the beginning and move happily to Boston like “Wow, that was a weird few months.” Ummmm... huh???

Overall, speaking of bad guys and their evil doings, the sense of dread, malice, and suspense that pervaded the book is just not there. I was constantly troubled by the feeling that something was Not Right, but didn’t know what, over the first big chunk of the book, and then once you know what’s going on, the stakes are so high and there is such a complex web of characters and their motivations and goals that you can hardly stand the stress and excitement wondering what will happen (which you do not feel sure about until the very last page). Sharing much less sensitive information and being on the bad side of fewer people in the movie, it’s hard to feel very concerned about how things are going to turn out, because the whole situation just doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. Nothing like the life-and-death risks of the constant chase from motel to motel and car to car over the last third of the book while Mitch, Abby, and Ray’s faces are also plastered all over the news.

This is all, of course, if one can even understand what is going on, which if you haven’t read the book, is really freakin hard. They tried to compress a book that’s more than an inch thick into a two-and-a-half-hour movie, which, though ambitious, is not a wise idea, especially when the book is already so convoluted with all its legal jargon and trying to keep track of all the characters and who knows/doesn’t know what. Honestly, the plot would have been much better executed with a “Fatal Vision” type miniseries, even just two parts, but preferably three-to-four. But alas.

The last thing I want to say, before I sign off of this unexpectedly long and hardass review, is: can anyone explain to me what in the fresh hell the random backflip scene was about? Because I can’t figure it out to save my life and it haunts me.

#tom cruise #the firm 1993 #the firm #movie review #john grisham #book adaptation #book to movie

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follower-of-odin · 1 year ago

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Guilt. It's not something I'm supposed to put any real religious stock in, as a Heathen.

On the other hand, Heathenry isn't what I was raised with. I was raised a Mormon, a member of a high-control religious group that uses guilt as a tool of control.

I was raised to believe guilt is necessary for any good person to have. A person without guilt would have no qualms hurting innocent people. A person without guilt would persecute Jesus Christ, himself, as he hung on the cross for all men's sins (sexist wording intentional; Mormons believe women sin, too, but they still roll with the "say 'men' when we mean 'humans/humanity/humankind'" business). Therefore, guilt is necessary to keep me on the straight and narrow; if I ever feel guilty about something, then, it must surely be because I am doing something I already know is wrong. The possibilities that the guilt is simply peer pressure; latent, ingrained social conservatism previously unaddressed; or simply trauma eating at me; any of which three would not mean I am doing something wrong, simply feeling pain even while I might actually be right; are possibilities which are not even entertained, let alone addressed.

Dealing with guilt, consequently, is not my strong suit. 10 years since I stopped believing in that cult, and about 6 since I officially left, I still can't deal well with guilt. Being a Heathen for 10 years hasn't freed me; but, then, I'm not a member of a Heathen community here, because I'm currently jobless and still living in a Mormon, if unorthodox and somewhat tolerant Mormon, household.

You know, that's probably why I have such a hard time with the whole white guilt thing. There's this feeling that I need the guilt to prevent myself from falling into racist, white pride bullshit; which seems twice as bad to my anti-racist-but-raised-Mormon self, because it's at once white supremacist, which is bad for obvious reasons, but also because it is pride, and pride is the enemy of humility, which is essentially another word for beating yourself up with guilt. That's probably what a lot of other exvangelical/ex-Christian/exmo anti-racists with white guilt are dealing with, too, if I were to conjecture; they have to be the opposite of who they once were, or who their former coreligionists/fellow cultists wanted them to be, yet they - we - also feel we have to supersede them, be better Christians than they were. We have to defeat their racist pride with racial humility, we think - racial guilt - but while racist pride is obviously harmful, racist guilt still keeps things all about ourselves, and not the people we think we're helping with our self-flagellation.

I really need to toss this guilt away. It's deep-set, though, but that doesn't mean I don't have to toss it away. It means I have all the more reason to do it.

Once things in this household achieve some semblance of stability again, I'll have to schedule another appointment or so with my counselor to talk about this. Haven't talked since we had a good scare about a month and a half or so ago. Just as well, because we're pretty close to losing everything. Best not spend too much time thinking about colonialism and stuff when I'm about to become homeless. My guilt isn't gonna help anything, especially if I become a beggar on the street.

On to business, then.

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steveezekiel · 6 months ago

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THE PURPOSE OF BEAUTY

"TAKE ME WITH YOU; come, let’s run! THE KING HAS BROUGHT ME INTO HIS BEDROOM. How happy we are for you, O king. WE PRAISE YOUR LOVE EVEN MORE THAN WINE. How right they are to adore you." Song of Solomon 1:4 (NLT)

God has a purpose for all He had made.

God ordained a man and a woman to live together As husband and wife in a marriage union (Genesis 2:18,24,25; Matthew 19:6).

You are to be satisfied with your spouse. God ordained sex to be within the context of marriage union, between a husband and the wife (Proverbs 5:15-20).

Sex has been made cheap and crude, people get involved in it, like that of animals (Ezekiel 16:29; 1 Corinthians 6:13,18).

Do not trade your birthright because of the mundane—the material things: "LEST THERE BE ANY FORNICATOR OR PROFANE [godless] PERSON LIKE ESAU, WHO for one MORSEL of FOOD SOLD HIS BIRTHRIGHT" (Hebrews 12:16 NKJV).

3 GOD'S WILL IS FOR YOU TO BE HOLY, SO STAY AWAY FROM ALL SEXUAL SIN. 4 THEN each of you will CONTROL his own BODY and LIVE in HOLINESS and HONOUR— 5 NOT in LUSTFUL PASSION like the PAGANS who DO NOT KNOW GOD and HIS WAYS." 1 Thessalonians 4:3–5 (NLT)

Some bachelorette go about trading their bodies because of money. They adorned themselves to be attracted to men.

Your body is God's temple that should not be defiled. If you did, you had defiled the temple of the living God, and there are serious consequences for that (1 Corinthians 3:16,17; 6:18-20).

A Curse is on those who adorned themselves for the purpose of trading their bodies, prostitution; because they are defiling the body that should be God's abode (1 Corinthians 3:16,17; 6:29,20).

In the book of Isaiah, God pronounced Judgement on the daughters of Zion, because of pride, outward adornments of their bodies, and prostitution (Isaiah 3:16-24).

Adornment might not be bad outrightly, If it was moderately done and with good intentions or motives: "AND I WANT WOMEN TO BE MODEST IN THEIR APPEARANCE. THEY SHOULD WEAR DECENT and APPROPRIATE CLOTHING and NOT DRAW ATTENTION TO THEMSELVES BY THE WAY THEY FIX THEIR HAIR or BY WEARING GOLD or PEARLS or EXPENSIVE CLOTHES" (1 Timothy 2:9 NLT).

3 DON'T BE CONCERNED about the OUTWARD BEAUTY OF FANCY HAIRSTYLES, EXPENSIVE JEWELRY, or BEAUTIFUL CLOTHES. 4 YOU SHOULD CLOTHES YOURSELVES INSTEAD with the BEAUTY that COMES FROM WITHIN, the UNFADING BEAUTY of a GENTLE and QUIET SPIRIT, WHICH IS SO PRECIOUS TO GOD." 1 Peter 3:3,4 (NLT)

The salvation of your soul is important than whatever, money or the ephemeral, would be gotten through the Acts of prostitution (Mark 8:36).

If you claimed to be born-again, and you engaged in the illicit affairs, casual sex, you are trading your salvation which cost Jesus Christ His life (1 Peter 1:17-19).

It means you are rubbishing what He, Jesus Christ, did for you (Hebrews 10:26,27,29). Remember, you are bought with a price, and redeemed not with corruptible or perishable things, but the precious blood of Christ Jesus (1 Corinthians 6:20; 1 Peter 1:18,19).

If you considered yourself beautiful, shapely figured, and you are being thronged by Men, Does that mean you should be fooling around with Men? And not when you even claimed to be a Believer in Christ Jesus. Should a believer in Christ do what you are doing?

The Book of Song of Songs, or Solomon, describes the love that ought to exist between a husband and the wife.

Sex before a marriage union, or outside a marriage union, is wrong; And it is contrary to God's purpose of establishing the institution of Marriage: "MARRIAGE IS HONOURABLE AMONG ALL, AND THE BED UNDEFILED; BUT FORNICATORS and ADULTERERS GOD WILL JUDGE (Hebrews 13:4 NKJV).

When God's principles are violated, or lived against, by a Believer who is expected to know better; It brings a Curse on the person.

And in a marriage union, If God's order is changed, how He specified things to be done, then problems set in.

God is a match Maker. He is the only one who can bring you in contact with the right person whom you are to settle down with in a marriage union.

Some bachelorettes are just giving their bodies to Men because they are desperate in having a marriage partner. - Some Men, who are not godly, or those who have the form of godliness but denied its power, take an advantage of such ladies, that should be called Christian sisters, because of their desperation and gullibility.

These men use such ladies, who professed to be sisters in Christ, and sleep with them to gratify and satisfy their lusts, and dump them: 5 HAVING A FORM OF GODLINESS BUT DENYING ITS POWER. AND FROM SUCH PEOPLE TURN AWAY! 6 FOR OF THIS SORT ARE THOSE WHO CREEP INTO HOUSEHOLDS and MAKE CAPTIVES OF GULLIBLE WOMEN LOADED DOWN WITH SINS, LED AWAY BY VARIOUS LUSTS" (2 Timothy 3:5,6 NKJV).

Marriage is ordained by God, and He is the only One Who can help you in locating the right person to settle down with, who will stand with you in fulfilling His purpose and plan for your life.

Desperation and anxiety are products of Unbelief or faithlessness. And Unbelief or faithlessness displeases God, only faith and trust in His Word please Him (Hebrews 11:6).

The beauty which God gave to you, which men commended, and attracted them to you; is for the glorification of His name, and not for prostitution.

Thus, let the name of God be glorified through the way you live your life. Let Him not regret or sorry over your life (Genesis 6:5,6).

In some cases, It is almost sisters proposing brothers, even in the church, today; all because of desperation. They use all manner of gimmicks to woo brothers.

Note: God is Great and Greater than the greatest. No one can be compared with Him. He knows who would be the best person, partner, for your life, in your journey on earth, and as par the assignment He has for you.

As a Believer, sisters in particular; Wait on God to lead you, and do not through a gimmick corner a man with your own sensual wisdom: your crafty heart and enticing speeches (Proverbs 7:10,21).

Know that a way that seems right might be a way of death or destruction: "THERE IS A WAY THAT SEEMS RIGHT TO A MAN, BUT ITS END IS THE WAY OF DEATH" (Proverbs 14:12 NKJV) READ: Proverbs 16:25

5 TRUST in the LORD with all YOUR HEART, And LEAN NOT on your OWN UNDERSTANDING; 6 IN all your ways ACKNOWLEDGE HIM, AND HE SHALL DIRECT YOUR PATHS." Proverbs 3:5,6 (NKJV)

You will not regret in Jesus' name.

Should there be any ailment in your body, I declare your healing now in Jesus' name.

Whatever is contrary to your health is rebuked and rooted up in the mighty name of Jesus Christ. Peace!

#christianity #gospel #christian living #christian blog #my writing #faith #devotion #jesus #the bible #prayer

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greenlodgecypher · 1 year ago

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The Devil and Daniel Webster

2/2. Part 1

That’s what this story comes down to: the message that a deal with the Devil is understandable, even good, if the right sort of American benefits from it.

And this definition is placed in opposition to the harm that America has done– as if all the rest of our “deals with the Devil” were somehow actually bad, yet doing more of the same is just fine, an it makes money. The act of making money is presented as wholly a matter of "deserving what you've worked for"… despite requiring infernal aid. Which is funny. Because the "deals with the devil" in real life do make money, and not because of a man's hard work. They do result in things like those massacres the story mentions as being somehow contrasted to that everyman ideal. They do result in bigotry and slavery and repression, and those things are furthered by those with money. The talk-radio-esque message of this story, then, prosperity alone is what morality is. That if you did well, it's because you earned it, despite whatever you had to do to get it, and that this is fundamentally different from any actual harm our society does. That those aren't connected. That this is what patriotism is. That resorting to whatever you have to do to “make it” in life (even a deal with the devil) is fine, because if you’re Really American, you’re perfectly moral and the people who Really Mean Well (like Mr. Webster) will come bail you out of any consequences. Because you got the money that self-justified you. Except we won’t. Because progressives and reformers, people with statistics and real plans for change, are trying to help those in need. Not the well-off. Reformers are accused of malicious plots for this. Colleges are accused of “brainwashing” because knowledge can broaden minds. The ones lauded are those with legal skill and education who use it to profit (if not outright harm); those who use it to defend the defenseless are accused of blind foolishness or harmful intent. The moral among us have no power to help. The successful don't have a Devil coming for them; it’s the poor, the shunned, the minority who are persecuted. Heaven forfend you try to actually help those in need in our society: you will be tarnished with the curse-label of activist. By working for a better world, you are only slandered by those who want a status quo for their benefit, at the expense of everyone they can ensnare. If you make waves, you'd best look out for the FBI. There is no devil to come collecting for the rich. He is already there among them. And what if you are someone who's worked very, very hard, only to tread water, as one generally must? This story defends you as the American ideal, even as it suggests that you might need to deal with the Devil to get that money you deserve and that it would be okay if you did. Talk about having the streams mixed. I wonder if this author understood exactly how he displays both the reality and the lie of America in this work. It's a good thing to change your situation, to seek freedom and prosperity, his story says; that is not wrong. But then, it says, sins become righteous in our country’s name. And while giving lip service to historical victims, our author ignores the real moral and economic ills of our society, and the real fate of those who work for a more accepting, more inclusive, more prosperous and free society.

#the green lodge cypher #tglc sep 97

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omniscientoranges · 4 years ago

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Tbh I don't think Cas actually fully felt he needed to "atone for his sins" by staying in purgatory. I think that's what he told himself (and there might have been a small part of him that did feel that way) but I think there's a bigger part of him that stayed there because he was depressed and afraid to face the consequences of his actions (insert "I'm afraid I might k*ll myself" hunteri heroici convo here). Like, a lot of the things Cas does, from my understanding, stem from his tendency towards escapism that are often (but not always) wrapped up in doing something "for the greater good".

Like, okay, I have a few big choices of his that I interpret this way.

putting this under a cut for ease of scrolling by

First (chronologically), taking on Sam's lucifer trauma, while selfless, might've also been done because he thought it would allow him to just. peace out? I'm sure while Cas was deciding to do that there was a part of him that knew he probably would either die or wouldn't be in his right mind afterwards and maybe he kind of wanted that? Like he wanted to not have to deal with the majority of the fallout from his s6/godstiel stuff (I say the majority since in doing this he did try (and I think succeed in) doing something to make up for breaking Sam's mental wall, so he does run headfirst into fixing that mistake particularly). So he took on Sam's pain as a way to both do something good and to be able to avoid having to deal with other consequences.

(also to try and up the reading comprehension on the above paragraph I'm talking specifically about his decision making process I'm not saying him being mentally ill for that period was ~avoiding responsibility~. Like I think the choice was made with some of the intention that he wouldn't have to deal afterwards for whatever reason.)

And in s11 where he said yes to lucifer he was trying to help, but he also was really deeply depressed before that (and also still doing some escapism by watching tv 24/7 which, relatable). So saying yes to lucifer was a way for him (in his mind) to both 1) try and do something good for once and 2) kind of not have to sit and deal with his emotions and with the way things were.

Also. 15x18 like yes the confession was ultimately selfless. But also it was very much a risky text and he said all that stuff only when he knew it would save Dean (i.e. do something good) and allow him to avoid anything that would come out of having that conversation (since in Cas' mind there was no outcome of it where he wouldn't get his heartbroken in some way).

(And I'm adding endverse in here as a note just because like, I think he used drugs a lot there to distract himself/escape from the fact that it is the apocalypse and they're well and truly screwed. Like I also think he used them because they're fun lmao, but I do think there was an undercurrent of "I don't want to deal with this so I'll do something that will let me not have to" in there too.)

And all that's not to say the things he did aren't good things! And I'm also not saying he never ever reaps what he sows or deals with stuff (because he Deals With Stuff all the time). Or that the outcomes of the sacrifices he's made are somehow bad or tainted because of the presence of some other motives that aren't purely altruistic. Like, I'm not saying that having escapist tendencies and not wanting and avoiding fully dealing with the consequences of your mistakes or your emotions surrounding them is like, a bad evil horrible thing (because like, vine voice. "I do that"). It's actually a very human thing, because at it's core facing consequences for your choices requires there to have been a choice in the first place - which of course requires acts of free will.

And that's kinda the whole point, because Cas never had to deal with consequences (or mistakes, or emotions) before because he'd never actually made a real choice before we met him (insert 4x18 "you understand why I can't help" first act of free will in the show my beloved). It was always heaven (Naomi, and broadly Chuck) pulling the strings for the angels, so it makes sense that Cas experiencing the feeling of making choices and mistakes wholly his own for the first time would fully freak him out and continue to freak him out for the next like, decade (because comparatively he has not had a lot of time to adjust to having free will that isn't instantly lobotimized out of him).

Idk maybe this is incoherent/worded poorly and also obviously this is just my interpretation of some of Cas' actions but idk, I think that angel is allergic to consequences and uses escapism to cope and it's deeply interesting and I love him for it send post

#cas meta? in my spn tumblr? its more likely than you think #also you dont understand i have really been trying to articulate this post since DECEMBER im not kidding #theres like 2 different versions of it rotting in my notes app that make even less sense #castiel #destiel #(bc 15x18 mention)#spn #spn meta #gina.spn #suicide cw #suicide tw #drugs cw #drugs tw #long post #100+

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hyunyin · 4 years ago

Note

post about chan overstimulating reader 😼

all im saying is that if you read this while listening to AG’s let me love you the consequences are on you not me. as always, feedback is appreciated! love, rosie.

nsfw // oral, soft dom chan, praise (1.2k)

You’d had a stressful day. Not a bad one, just stressful. The one thing that had kept you going throughout the day was the conversation you’d had with your boyfriend over text during your short lunch break, in which he had promised to take good care of you when you got home. He never was the kind to break promises, which perfectly explained the position you found yourself in right now. “What do you need?” he asks, caging you in on the bed between his strong arms. You roll your eyes, slowly getting impatient. “What’s that?” He leans down until his lips are almost touching yours and takes your chin in between his thumb and pointer finger. “Is being a brat your thing now?” You smile against his lips in an attempt to get him to give in and fuck you already instead of continuing his teasing. “It might be if you keep this up.”

Unlucky for you, your boyfriend was the most patient person you had ever come across in your life. He would put up with your shit all night, and you probably should have considered that before you talked back to him. He raises an eyebrow and distances himself from you just the slightest bit before moving himself down to leave kisses on your neck. You can’t help but drag your nails down his back when he does so, the feeling sending shivers down your spine as he continues biting at your skin.

“Why do you act up like this, hm?” His lips graze over the spot on your neck that he was just sucking on. “Why do you like to be a brat,” he flicks his tongue over your nipple before moving back up to meet you face to face, “when you know I’ll give you everything you want?”

As soon as he finishes that sentence, he slams his dick into you, relatively slow but deep and firm. You arch your back up towards him, and he takes the opportunity to wrap his arm around you to keep you there, placing his other hand on top of the headboard of the bed to brace himself. He fucks into you at a steady pace, latching his lips onto your neck. All you can do is lace a hand into his hair and hold onto him for dear life. “Fuck, Chan,” you manage to choke out. He chuckles against your skin, pulling out and slamming himself back into you at a breakneck pace. “You happy now, baby? Feeling better?” You throw your head back as he hits a good spot, moaning out for him. “Yes, oh my god- Chan, fuck!” His warm breath fans over your neck as he speaks. “Good, baby? Am I fucking you good? Tell me, dear.” Oh, what a sinful thing to hear. His sweet tone, talking down to you like his voice is laced with honey and dark sugar, saying lovely words with every filthy intention he can think of behind them in meaning. Your own little piece of heaven. “So good,” you whine, “Chan, I’m close.” As if you’ve given him a command, he lowers you onto the bed and lets go of the headboard. Immediately, his free hand finds its way down to your core and he starts rubbing his thumb on your clit. One, two, three small circles, and you’re coming undone under him, him chasing his own high not long after.

“Come back to me, baby.” You hear him above you and open your eyes, meeting his gaze. He grins when he sees the fucked out look in your eyes. “Tired?” You laugh softly when he runs his hand over your cheek and nod. “Yeah.” He places a gentle kiss on your lips. “Good.”

He moves away from your face, and you think he’s on his way to lay down next to you when you feel his lips on your collarbone without warning, making your body jolt under his touch.

“But you’re a good girl, right? You can take more, right?” He’s making his way down your figure dangerously quickly, pressing his lips to every piece of exposed skin he can find. “Yes,” you moan out between your deep breaths. “Please, Chan. I can take more.” He smirks against your inner thigh, and draws a heart on your stomach with his hands, ever so sweet. “There we go. My sweet girl is back.” He presses a kiss to your wet folds and immediately has you melting into his hands. “So sensitive, baby, is it too much?” His voice is nothing if not mocking. He knows very well what he’s doing, and that, yes, it’s too much, but in a good way. A very sinful way, at that. You pull at his hair in response, knowing he’s mocking you, and he abruptly pulls away. “Ah-ah, there we go with that attitude again. Take it easy, darling.” He takes both of your wrists into one of his hands and rests them on your stomach, pressing his face to its spot in between your legs again while he rests his other hand on your thigh to brace himself. “Just relax, baby. Let me love you.”

A single flick of his tongue has you keening into him, holding onto his wrist with one of your hands. He knows exactly how to work you best, expertly moving his mouth to the sound of your moans.

When he feels you relaxing under his touch he lets go of your wrists, using his now free hand to push his fingers into you as he licks at your clit, eliciting a loud moan from you. “That’s a good girl,” he whispers into you. His breath fanning over your heat is making the knot in your stomach tighten much quicker than you’d like to admit, but you do it anyway. “Chan, ‘m close.” He latches his lips back onto your most sensitive spot, this time sucking at it before replying to you. “I know, baby girl. Come for me.”

You don’t need much more than that. His words send a shiver down your spine, and before you know it you’re coming undone, your vision blurring into white while he laps up your juices from between your thighs. He sits back and wipes his chin with the back of his hand before coming up to lay next to you. He takes his time to settle in, resting on his side and pulling a blanket over you. “You alright, baby?” He gently peels some stray strands of hair off your sweaty forehead and pushes them behind your ear, caressing your cheek with his hand as he moves it to the back of your neck. “Yes. That was perfect.” Your voice comes out airy and light, your head still halfway up into the clouds from Chan’s ministrations. He snakes his arm around your waist, pulling you close against his chest.

“Wanna take a bath together?” He smiles softly down at you, drinking in the sight of your fucked out state leaning into his touch. “Yes. But stay with me here for a while first.”

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beardrabbles · 4 years ago

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rock solid bonds. pt. one

characters: zhongli, female reader, gimel ( geo hypostasis )

warnings: none

word count: 3,858 ( it’s LONG, y’all, sorry )

notes: first thing tossed into the genshin fandom is zhongli because i’m weak. so very weak. i know this idea is strange, but i’m running with it. this will have many parts, just not sure how many. anywho! :D hey. how’s it going? nice to meet’cha. oh!! also. i don’t have a beta reader, so there may be typos i’ve missed. oof.

You had made this trip several times before, and you assumed that this trip would be no different. You skirted around small packs of curious hilichurl, scooped up seashells from the many beaches you followed and swam through the clear, blue waters of Guyun Stone Forest until — finally — you reached the island you had been visiting over the course of several months.

The moment your water-logged feet touched solid ground rather than loose sand, you felt it — the faint traces of a low, constant vibration. It was a steady buzzing, except where the intensity would pulse every now and again, like a living heartbeat.

‘ It’s here, ’ you thought, ‘ good. ’

You hurried to rest against the crumbling wall of the ruins where the hypostasis often lingered, allowing yourself a moment to dry off and rummage through your supplies. No matter how routine this was, you knew you couldn’t become complacent. You could handle the stubborn bundle of geo, no problem, but you knew it never hurt to be prepared.

From your bag, you pulled out a wrapped bundle of fried fish and a single, elegant vial of a bright yellow liquid. You sloshed the liquid around, recalling the last time you’d been overconfident and forgone making the geo dampening potion. You had returned home that day with several more bruises the usual, and so you had firmly reminded yourself at you would prepare some, even if it had meant several days worth of butterfly chasing.

“You got lucky last time. Saw you learned a new move, but I’m smart. I learned.” You lifted the stopper out of the vial and knocked back the contents. The effects were immediate. You didn’t look it, but you felt thicker, sturdier, more centered. You hoped that was the effect of the potion, anyway. Nothing would sour your mood more than to realize the person you’d hired to make the potion had fouled it up.

Shrugging, you placed the empty vial into your pack, gulped down several bites of fried fish, then left your pack tucked up against the wall and behind a mess of tangled roots. Your hands moved next to the handle of your weapon, which peeked out from over your shoulder. With a heave, you brought out the claymore you so adored. It was nicked in places and scuffed in others, yet you found you were too attached. It had gotten you through too many battles, and it felt wrong to abandon it.

“Alright, we’ve got this. Just a few more months of this, and we can——!” Your self-given peptalk was cut short when you glanced around the wall and found that the hypostasis wasn’t alone. Choking on your own words, you quickly ducked back into the hiding. “Dammit! Someone’s already here.”

You set your claymore aside and pressed your hands to the wall, using it to lean around and peek.

“Huh. . .” Strange. Nearly every time you found the raw elemental, it had its defenses up. Even as it seemingly napped in place, it surrounded itself in solid, almost unbreakable basalt. Now, in front of this tall stranger, it was nothing more than its small, brightly glowing core. It bobbed and spun, giving off the sunshine-bright disposition of a puppy.

It was almost cute.

Interesting as the hypostasis was in this form, you found yourself drawn to the stranger interacting with it. Slender but strong, standing tall and straight, with a single hand that wove through the air around the exposed core. From where you stood, you couldn’t quite tell who he was, but something about him felt familiar.

‘ I’ve seen him before. ’ The earthen tones of his clothes and hair, the elegance and the poise. You were certain you had seen someone similar making their way through the streets of the harbor before. And, in his wake, came dreamy sighs and low purrs of admiration from all manner of people. The name eluded you, mostly because you didn’t care. He was a stranger, and you had no reason to acknowledge him until now.

“Why does it look like he’s playing with it?” You huffed through your nose, feeling thoroughly irritated that your chance to mine precious gems from the hypostasis had been squandered.

Without meaning to, you let out a groan of frustration.

The elemental core gave a sudden jolt, it’s small form jerking away from the man. In an instant, it wrapped itself in its armor, dark basalt etched with shimmering lines of gold appearing in large, even chunks. You gasped and ducked back for a second time, your heart rapidly beating against your chest. It didn’t know you were there. It couldn’t! You weren’t that loud, were you?

“Moron!” You scolded yourself and made to snatch your pack up when a voice, smooth and deep, reached you.

“I know you’re there.”

You stopped and stood still, as if that would render you completely untraceable. Breath held, but heart still hammering, you waited.

“It would benefit you greatly to come out of hiding.” The voice continued, calm and even.

Something about the voice made you reluctant to run. Shuddering and setting aside your things, you willingly stepped out from behind the crumbling ruins. Hands up and empty, you first revealed that you were unarmed. Harmless. Totally harmless.

“Ah, there you are.” There was a hint of satisfaction in the man’s tone, but you hardly paid attention. Your focus was intent on the sensation soaking through the soles of your boots. The vibration from earlier wasn’t as calm as it had been, the heartbeat-like thrum from earlier replaced with an anxious tattoo that traveled through your legs and up into your chest. You found yourself catching your breath, a horrible feeling welling inside your ribcage.

“Am I causing that?” Your own voice was soft and feeble and sincere. The man approached at a slow but steady clip, until he stood a mere foot away. His arms were folded behind him, making him appear even more refined up close.

“I wasn’t expecting you to realize your mistake so quickly. Good. I wasn’t looking forward to explaining it.” He arched a single brow. “Might I ask your name?”

“Uh. . .” You shook yourself from your mounting guilt and lowered your hands. He was polite, but you could tell from the sharp look in his amber eyes that he didn’t approve of your presence, and rightfully so. Still, you didn’t want to deny him your name when he had yet to force you off the island. You muttered your name, and he let out a thoughtful hum before repeating it.

Never had you heard your own name on a voice that alluring. It balanced on a fine line between heavenly and sinful, and you wished deeply that he would never, ever say it again. It sounded too good, and your heart already had its share of problems to deal with at the moment, shame being one of them.

“Seen you around the harbor before, but I can’t remember your name.” You gently prompted him to give his own name in return, hoping it wouldn’t be seen as rude. The corner of his lips turned up a fraction, but that hint of a smile didn’t last long.

“I am Zhongli. Under different circumstances, I would say it was a pleasure to meet you.” Still scolding, still disapproving. You shrank under his gaze, but still found it in you to speak in turn.

“I’ve never seen it out of its armor for that long before.” You observed.

“I wonder why that is. . .” Zhongli turned to face the elemental, his broad shoulders rising and lowering with a heavy sigh. Guilt punched you in the gut again.

“I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong!” You didn’t mean to raise your voice, but you had never once been convinced that your mining had been detrimental to the hypostasis.

“It cannot speak for itself, so you were lead to believe that your harvesting was harmless.” Zhongli mused as he ventured towards the elemental again. “That is understandable. But now that you are aware, now that you feel the effect your presence has on it, are you willing to change?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but were stopped but a sudden thought.

For the sake of a voiceless, sentient being, were you willing to change? Yes. Were you able? No.

You hurried to follow Zhongli and weren’t the least bit surprised when the hypostasis kept its distance, basalt armor quaking with fear. You stopped your advance, keeping well behind Zhongli.

“I can’t.”

“Oh?” He didn’t turn his attention to you, but kept it intent on the elemental. He lifted a gloved hand, the palm resting carefully along the surface of one cube of armor. “That is a shame. I was hoping you’d be agreeable.”

“No, it’s — it’s not that I don’t want to. I want to! I didn’t know it was. . .”

“Capable of feelings?”

You nodded despite knowing he couldn’t see you.

“All things feel, all things remember. The lack of a voice does not make one unworthy of thoughts or memories, good or bad.” Zhongli smoothed his hand over the armor of the hypostasis. “It remembers. You are quite brutal.”

“I’m sorry.” You directed this to the hypostasis rather than him. “I didn’t know.”

“And yet you blatantly refuse to change your behavior?” Zhongli’s sharp gaze landed on you again.

“I have an obligation! I’m bound to my word.” Your hackles rose for a moment, but were lowered again soon after. “I have a contract.”

At this, Zhongli came to face you. “A contract?”

“I don’t know why I should tell you.” Your stubbornness reared its ugly head in that moment. Arms crossed, you waited for him to coldly dismiss you. Instead, he folded his arms behind his back and cooly stared you down.

“Contracts are, for better or worse, binding. I understand that, when broken, there can be dire consequences. Is this an official contract?” He wondered. You wanted to hold firm to your refusal to speak of it, but the man’s calm nature made it difficult.

Shifting uneasily, you gave another nod.

“Yes.”

“Are you barred from discussing the terms of the contract with people unrelated to the contract itself?” Each question was asked quickly and sharply, as if practiced. You frowned, moreso out of thought than offense.

“I don’t think so. No one’s ever told me I’m not allowed.”

“Then, please, indulge me. What about this contract requires you to mine as often as you do?”

“You want the long version or the short version?” You reached up to rub at the space between your eyebrows, mounting stress threatening to bring forward a headache.

“Whichever you’re more comfortable with.”

“If you say so. My family’s in a tight spot, yeah? We owe some people a lot of money, but most of the people involved are too old, too frail or too inexperienced to go out and earn the mora we need. The people that are hounding us thought, hey, let’s get the daughter to go out and find these precious materials. No one can pass up on free labor, right? I work for them, I slowly whittle away at the debt my family’s worked up for the last few years.” You shrugged casually to hide the fact that the contract was draining you of your free time and, apparently, your morals.

Zhongli frowned, a wrinkle knitting his brows together.

“What are the exact terms on your contract?” He asked, ignoring a nudge against his shoulder from the hypostasis.

“There are quite a few, but the one causing me the most trouble right now is the fact that I need to come here every day and pick out the prithiva from your friend there.” You didn’t miss the shudder in the rocks or the way the hypostasis fled yet again, putting space between you and itself. Zhongli motioned for the hypostasis to calm, but the trembling remained.

“I need the terms as they were worded the day the contract was made.” Zhongli requested firmly this time.

“Three prithiva gems, whole and unblemished, every day for a year. Even if it means getting the slivers and asking someone to do their alchemy-thing on it, I gotta get those gems.”

Zhongli’s stern gaze softened as he motioned for the hypostasis to come nearer.

“That’s all?”

“When it comes to this fella, yeah. I just need the gems.” This time, you were the one to step away from the coming hypostasis. It was clear you had scarred the creature, and you weren’t about to disrespect it in front of this man, who so clearly cherished the living geo.

“You aren’t required to fight and take it?” He continued.

“They never said I did, but it was the only way I could think to fulfill the terms.” You slumped in place and let out a little whine. “Don’t tell me I could have just asked for it.”

“Did you consider the possibility?” Zhongli quipped.

“No! I didn’t think it could understand people!” You stressed with a growl. Zhongli chuckled, the sound taking you aback.

“It doesn’t understand language, but it understands intent. Come here.” The command was subtle, but you felt compelled to obey. Cautiously, you took to Zhongli’s side. His taller frame shadowed yours, and you swore you caught the scent of sun-warmed stones and hints of glaze lilies as an errant ocean breeze whorled past. “Put your hand out, like me.”

You hesitated, and he took note of this.

“Be calm. If you’re afraid, it will know.” He coaxed you, sounding far gentler than he had since calling you out of your hiding spot.

“I’m not afraid,” you corrected, “I feel bad.”

“As deserving as the feeling is, you can make it right if it is your intent to.” Zhongli pointed out. You sucked in a breath, nodded once, then held your hand out. The hypostasis shuddered again and bobbed backwards. Zhongli frowned like a disapproving father and clicked his tongue. “I understand that she’s been cruel, but I believe her when she says she was unaware of how sentient you are. If we are to make amends, the effort needs to be mutual on both parts. As long as I am here, neither of you will come to harm.”

The hypostasis twitched and the armor around it lowered for a moment, but it was fleeting. In a small fit of hope, you drew closer and placed your hand against the glimmering armor. The protective chunks of rock snapped back into place around its dim core, spun rapidly in the air, then sunk down into the ground where all that remained were spider-web cracks that glowed as warm and bright as the sun.

You stood there, hand out and mouth agape.

“It ran away!”

Zhongli lowered his head for a moment. “This was not the result I imagined, but it is progress.”

You lowered your hand and rolled your eyes.

“How is that progress?” You snapped. Zhongli didn’t so much as flinch at your aggression, but sported a knowing smile that irritated your further.

“Gimel let you near without attacking out of instinct. I would say that counts as progress, small step as it is.” He spoke assuredly, and you supposed he had a point.

“Gimel?”

“It has a name. It may work in your favor to remember it.” Zhongli added.

“Yeah, well — what am I supposed to do now? I can’t go back empty-handed.” You grumbled and turned away, stalking back to the spot where you had stashed your bag. The effects of the potion you had drank earlier had begun to ware off, leaving you feeling oddly light and slightly off-balance. That, coupled with your plummeting mood, made you want to leave behind the island and hope that your contract wasn’t seen as broken.

Behind you, you heard the steady click of boots as Zhongli followed behind you.

“I have an offer.” He stopped when you did, and he didn’t miss the flicker of confusion and wariness in your eyes when you spun around.

“What kind of offer?” You were like a cornered animal, and you wondered if he had sensed your growing worry since Gimel had disappeared. You weren’t desperate yet, but that may have been because you had yet to fail in completing your end of the contract. The consequences were unknown, but you were sure you would regret returning to Liyue Harbor without the gems you were asked to retrieve. Still, you were concerned, and you knew it was hard to hide when you fidgeted the way you did.

“A contract.”

“No.”

“One that won’t break the conditions of the contract you’re currently bound to.” He continued in spite of your quick refusal. You crossed your arms and wrinkled your nose, but it only caused him to smile again. “Don’t be stubborn, girl.”

You scowled and felt a rare flare of anger rise, but he interrupted you with a shake of his head and a raise of his closed hand. Long, slender fingers unfurled, revealing a small handful of pristine prithiva topaz gemstones. It wasn’t out of greed that you lunged forward, but a deep desire to protect yourself and your family. You didn’t grab the gems, of course. It wouldn’t do to anger this man after he had shown you patience, but you wouldn’t deny that it was a tempting sight to see him holding the gems out for you to take.

You whetted your lips with a quick swipe of your tongue and spoke past the sandpaper feeling in your throat.

“What are your terms?” You croaked.

“You return to this place every day, unarmed and alone, to spend time with Gimel. In return, you will be rewarded with the gems required of you. As it’s clear they didn’t specify how you acquire them, it will not interfere with the terms of your current contract.” He raised both brows this time and held the gems out further. Your fingers twitched as you reached, but you didn’t take them.

“That’s all you want out of me?”

“We are merely acquaintances, but I hardly find it worthwhile to trick you into a dishonest contract. My terms are as simple as they sound. You cease hostilities against Gimel and attempt to right your wrongs, and you will have your gems. I only ask for a few hours spent here, nothing more. I can’t expect you to wrap your entire life around this one task.” He reached out to take one of your hands, turning the palm up. His touch was gentle and didn’t contest with your own freewill, but you let him do as he pleased.

His thumb uncurled your your fingers, followed the deep lines in your palm and smoothed over your wrist. Your cheeks burned, but you blamed the glaring sun overhead. He was only being kind, you told yourself.

“If I accept these, does that mean I accept the contract?”

“I’m afraid so.” He stepped closer, head and voice low. His dark hair framed his stoic expression, yet his hand on yours remained kind. “Your answer?”

You swallowed hard, weighed your options, then peered up into those vivid, autumn-tinted eyes. “Will you be here too?”

You weren’t sure what prompted such a question, but it seemed to catch him as off-guard as well. He blinked and pulled back for a moment. “Is this an amendment?”

“No,” you shook your head and dared to laugh, “just a request. I don’t think Gimel will trust me on my own, not at first.”

“Its trust will be be earned by your own merits, not because I am here.” Zhongli informed you stiffly.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just think — maybe it would help if I observed you for a little while, maybe a few days. I can see how better to approach, then you can leave us be.” You tilted your head. “Is that unreasonable?”

“I. . . suppose it’s not. You are willing to learn, at least, and I cannot fault you for that. Very well. Starting tomorrow, I will accompany you for three days. After that, you are expected to use what you’ve learned on your own.” He closed his fingers around the gemstones and twisted his wrist, readying himself to drop them into your waiting hand. “Has your answer changed?”

You shook your head. “No, I planned to accept before.”

“Then we’re in agreement? You are aware of what will happen if you break the contract?” He warned. You nodded.

“I’m aware, trust me.” You wiggled your fingers impatiently. Zhongli placed the gems into your hand one at time, being sure not to chip or scratch them.

“Then it is done. I won’t be truly satisfied until you’ve signed a physical contract and we’ve made it official, but I will hold onto your word for the time being.” He helped your hand close around the gems, both of his own hands wrapped tightly around your clenched digits. “Find me at the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor later tonight, and we can document our arrangement.”

“Sure thing, boss.” You pulled your hand away, the sensation of the gems in your grasp bringing you far more ease than you were happy with. To be so dependent on them made you nauseous, but Zhongli’s willingness to help made it a little less so. Although, you couldn’t help but to wonder why he was so quick to help. “Why are you doing this for me?”

“Is it not human nature to want to help?”

“I guess, but. . . there aren’t many that are as open and willing as you are. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. It’s just unexpected. I didn’t think today would end the way it would.” You squirreled away the gems in your satchel, slung it over your shoulders, then affixed your claymore onto your back.

“Are you disappointed?” Zhongli calmly watched you pack up, head tilted slightly.

“Not at all.” You spared him a smile, a weight gradually lifting off your heart and shoulders. “I was annoyed at first, but I’m glad we got to meet, Mr. Zhongli.”

Another peel of soft laughter left the man, but it was hidden behind the side of his hand. “Then I will readily admit that I wasn’t expecting you to say that. I’m relieved you were so willing to cooperate, and. . . I am glad we had the chance to meet as well.”

You bounced once on the tips of your feet and gave him a mock salute. “Guess that means I’ll be seein’ you later! I’m going to pass these gems on, then I’ll pop by your place to sign my life away!”

You didn’t address the crinkle in his face at your jest, but you did snicker as you fled the island. Only when you were well out of sight did Gimel return, its core open to the air and nudging against Zhongli’s elbow.

The archon reached back to give the hypostasis a gentle stroke, but his eyes remained in the direction you had wandered off in.

“I have a feeling that our time with her will be very interesting.”

#zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #s: rock solid bonds #yes i made the hypostasis a character #i was fighting it and i couldn't help but to wonder if zhongli goes and visits it to see if it's recovering well enough #end me #dipping my toes in a new fandom WHEEZES

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lightning-and-lavender-fire · 2 years ago

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There are a number of Hebrew words used in the Torah that get translated to sin. They have varying degrees of severity, and none of them really imply the sort of thing that "sin" does now to most English speakers enculturated in a predominantly Christian society. One refers more to the legality of an action, others more to specific traits or wrongdoings. The word most commonly cited as the "Hebrew word for sin" is chatah, which is also an archery term. It might be better translated as "missing the mark." There is an assumption that people, whatever our more wicked impulses may be, also have a yetzer hatov, an instinct that drives us to want to be good. To help others. To do what is right. Chatah is not some indelible and unforgivable mark upon the soul that makes us unworthy or in need, it is a simple consequence of being human. Sometimes we will want to do what is right, and we will fail. Sometimes we will set our target somewhere it shouldn't be, so even when we land our arrow dead center it's still ultimately a miss. And sometimes we will set our target in the most righteous place and we will still miss it, regardless of our intentions. We stray, and we course correct, we miss, and we fire again, we do wrong by others, and we do our best to repair it. It's human: both the failure and the will to try again.

For Neville Goddard to take the word chatah as support for his claim that sin means not having what you want is sickening.

For Neville Goddard to claim that sin means not having what you want is sickening.

Does no one see the consequences of this?

Do the LOA girlies on Tumblr not understand that if someone doesn't have everything they want calling them a sinner for it is maybe not the right move??

I don't even care if you believe in manifestation. I don't care if you believe that this "sin" is forgivable and rewritable. I don't care if you think the harm a person is doing to themselves by not having what they want is just as bad as (and let's be honest, for the LOA folk, probably worse than) the harm they might do to others.

The claim that not having what you want constitutes sin will invariably hurt someone.

Either someone who doesn't believe what you do and is now spiraling over the thought that they're a sinner for not having had perfect thoughts and feelings, and uh-oh that spiraling feeling means they must be sinning even more...

...or someone caught in the crossfire of another person with crueler desires, who stopped at nothing to get the harmful things they wanted so they could rid themselves of sin.

Shifting tiktok/tumblr/amino/youtube is very easy to poke fun at when it's all about going to the harry potter universe or becoming the 8th member of bts or whatever, but there's this weirder space there that's more evident amongst all the people with non-fandom drs, and it's much harder to walk away from looking at it and just laugh? People scripting paler skin and smaller noses and a prettier cry. Scripting a bigger house and a nicer credit card and nicer parents. Scripting no more racism, no more global warming, almost no more abuse. Scripting that the version of themselves they leave behind will be a better student and a better friend. Scripting that they'll never be able to go back. Casual attempts to reprogram the subconscious and induce dissociative states. Shame-filled rhetoric passed around as encouragement, concerns shot down as weakness. Hunting down the secrets to enlightenment and spending them on a newer iPhone and the ability to blush on command. Finding a sense of belonging with people who tell you that you don't belong here. Promises that won't be met. Designer friends. Respawning. Hoping to be forgotten. Saying "get the fuck away from here" as a compliment. Everything in reality being your responsibility, your choice, your bitch, your fault.

#hi welcome to my post where i write all my anger at the law of assumption and reality shifting #it's a good time over here we've got cookies

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obeyme-kaidii-writes · 4 years ago

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Greed - Angelic Demons (2/2)

Mammon x gn!MC

Words - 2596

Content warnings - angst, lots of comfort

Prompt/Inspiration - Angelic Demons Event

Summary - Following the events in the “Angelic Demons” event where all the brothers are turned into angels and forced to wear magical bangles that correct their behavior.

You go to check on Mammon to see how he is doing now that he’s reverted back to his demonic self and no longer under the effects of the angelic magic.

AO3 | Part One - Envy

It had been a few days now since the magic from the cursed (because that’s what they were to you) bangles had worn off. Diavolo had also finally removed the outfits so everyone was more or less back to normal. At least, that’s how it appeared at first glance. In reality, Satan was probably the only one you saw much of as everyone else had made themselves scarce, recovering from the stress of being forced to remember their time as angels.

Two demons in particular seemed to have gone even more silent than the rest and you were starting to grow concerned so you had decided to check on them.

“GO AWAY!”

You blinked a few times, processing Mammon’s response to you knocking on his door. You hadn’t expected him to sound so angry. But given the circumstances, you understood why he would be. He may not have been angry with you - but since he was hiding out in his room, yelling at you was probably the only outlet he had.

“Mammon, I need to talk to you. I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

There was no response from Mammon, so you tried the door knob. Much to your surprise it was unlocked, so you let yourself inside. And the sight that greeted you took your breath away.

Now, Mammon’s room had always been sort of a mess. He was impulsive, and easily distracted, so things often got left right where he set them when he went off to do something else. He still managed to maintain a minimal level of cleanliness though. You could always see the floor. There had always been seats on his sofa. The top of his pool table would be visible.

But going into his room now? It looked like something off that TV show Hoarders you used to watch in the human realm. And it wasn’t just things on his floor either (though make no mistake, there were a lot of those). There was trash too - empty noodle cups, soda cans, wine bottles, shipping boxes. You couldn’t understand how someone could acquire so much garbage in so little time.

“Mammon, what the hell happened in here?” your eyes scanned the room, taking in as much as you could of what was before you, “Mammon?” You called out to him again when he didn’t respond. You would have thought he’d have been trying to chase you out, but it seemed that now that you were here and he was instead going to attempt to hide and hope you just went away.

As you looked around for Mammon, you heard the sound of a plastic noodle cup fall to the floor. You turned in the direction of the noise, and there was Mammon, sitting in his bed, bundled up under his blankets, looking intently at his DDD.

“Hey,” you said as you walked towards him, clearing off a space on the bed next to him.

He didn’t acknowledge you, and just kept scrolling through some app on his DDD. You scooted a bit closer to him, so that you were almost touching and your back was against the wall, before leaning over and taking a look at his screen. He was on Akuzon.

Now everything made sense to you. He must have been buying things online and having them delivered straight to his room. Since everyone else had been distracted with their own things, no one had noticed the influx of deliveries. And it had all happened so quickly, you doubt Lucifer had even received the bill yet.

“What are you doing?”

“Shopping.”

“Looking for something in particular?”

“Nope.”

You knew that shopping was a bit of a therapeutic thing for Mammon, just like gambling could be. That rush of finding something new, of feeling like you won. But this was excessive, even for him. Usually he’d have some sort of goal in mind - new clothes maybe, a new video game he wanted to try, or something nice for you. You hadn’t seen him just mindlessly buying things before. He hardly looked like he was even paying attention to what exactly he was putting in his cart.

“How have you been feeling?”

“Great.”

“Oh...that’s good. I’ve been worried about you.”

Mammon scoffed. Worried about him? Why would anyone be worried about him? He was the scummy second born, after all. And surely after this past week you knew exactly how scummy he was since you were able to see what he could be like if he wasn’t. So what was the point in even trying anymore? He was a demon wasn’t he? Shouldn’t he just indulge his sin? It’s not like it mattered. It’s not like it would change anything.

That’s what he thought, at least. Or rather, tried to convince himself of. But with each purchase he made and each delivery he accepted, he felt the emptiness inside him grow. It had gotten to the point he wasn’t even opening the packages anymore. Just letting them pile up wherever they fell when he sat them down.

“Mammon?”

“Nuthin’. It’s fine.”

“Oh ok.” You studied his profile for a moment while you thought about how exactly you were going to handle this. He wasn’t giving you a lot to work with here, and you were running out of questions you could ask. But maybe you didn’t need to say anything right now? Maybe for right now you could just sit with him.

You scooched over a little more, looping your arm through Mammon’s and resting your head on his shoulder. You felt him stiffen under you briefly, before relaxing again and resuming his scrolling.

“Whattya doin’?”

“I just thought I’d sit with you for a little bit. I’ve missed you.”

“Oh.”

Mammon didn’t really have anything to say to that, so he continued with his shopping. Unconsciously though, he slowly rested his own head on top of yours and it made you smile, feeling more confident in your choice to just stay with him.

As he scrolled, you started pointing out things that looked interesting to you, hoping to engage him in conversation. He was surprised to hear you apparently helping him shop, and not scolding him. Though he supposed that was more Lucifer’s territory than yours. You never really got on to him when he messed up. At first, he had thought it was because you might be a bit dim and didn’t realize all the trouble he’d get himself into. But as he got to know you, he realized you saw a lot more than you let on, and you were actively choosing to let those things go, supporting and encouraging him instead.

Not seeing any reason not to, Mammon began replying to your questions and pointing out things to you as well. It wasn’t long before he was laughing along with you too, as you both found progressively more ridiculous things for sale, shopping now completely forgotten. He should have known better than to think he could ignore you and that you’d just leave. You had this ability to just worm your way into his heart, no matter how many defenses he thought he had in place. He was just no match for you.

And well, he was kinda thankful for that right now. He had missed you. A lot. More than he’d care to admit. But he had been so ashamed of himself, he didn’t know what else to do besides lock himself away. The stupid bracelet made him painfully aware of just how much of a screw up he was.

Before, he had always imagined that he was able to make you proud of him. He liked showing off for you, if for no other reason than to see you smile. He pushed himself to work harder, to be more open with you, even to cause less trouble for Lucifer. But then the bangle happened...and he saw just how short he fell.

The gulf between his “angelic persona” and his “demonic persona” was just felt so vast. Too vast. He was never going to be someone worthy of you.

So he just gave up.

Sensing that Mammon had become a bit lost in his thoughts, you sat up. As soon as your head started to leave his shoulder, he realized that he had been resting his against yours. He jerked his head up immediately, blushing heavily. You let out a soft chuckle when you saw how flustered he was, satisfied that he seemed to be a bit more relaxed and like his old self than when you had first found him.

“You alright?” you asked.

“Umm yeah, fine.”

“Ok,” you paused briefly, taking a breath before continuing, “Do you think we could talk now?”

“‘bout what?”

“Umm, well…” you hesitated, hoping you weren’t overstepping your bounds and about to send him back into his shell, “...about all this, actually,” you said, gesturing around the room.

“Oh.” Mammon’s blush only deepened as he took a quick glance around the room. He hadn’t noticed how bad things had gotten until then. It was like he had tunnel vision, and had only been able to see the path directly between his bed and the door, and nothing else.

“Just felt like doing a little shoppin’ is all.”

“Oh? Well, I’ve just never seen you buy so much stuff before…”

“Well, ya don’t know everything about me,” he replied. He wasn’t sure why, but he was feeling on edge now. Things had been nice when you had been just sitting with him, not talking about anything of consequence. But now you were trying to meddle. He didn’t want the proof of his failure pointed out, and he didn’t want to know you knew either.

“Mammon...I’m just trying to understand...” you pulled back a little to get a better look at him.

“I’m just being who I’m supposed to be. You don’t need to understand.”

“Mammon…!” your thoughts were racing now. What had gotten into him? Everything had switched so quickly from the fun, happy moment you had been sharing - to unconcealed anger. You hadn’t been trying to make him feel bad, you just wanted to know why he was acting how he was, and what you could do to help. But your line of questioning had apparently set him off.

“This is who I am, ok?!” he snapped, instantly regretting it, “It’s all I’m good for! Just stop...please…” his voice sounded so weak now, cracking as it trailed off.

Slowly, you reached out to cup his cheek and turn his head back towards you. You had expected him to resist, but he didn’t. And when your eyes met his, you could see exactly how much pain he was in. He looked even more confused than you felt. You started to stroke his cheek with your thumb, and he closed his eyes, partly to avoid looking at you any longer, and partly so he could enjoy the sensation of your hand on his cheek.

Not knowing what else to do, you wrapped both arms around his neck, pulling him toward you and hugging him. Again, he didn’t resist, he just let you have your way. You were a bit saddened when you realized he wasn't hugging you back, but you noticed he hadn’t pushed you away yet either, so you continued to hold him and nuzzle into his neck.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” you begged.

There was no response from Mammon, but you felt his arms begin to loop around your waist, soon pulling you into his lap, with your legs perpendicular to his. He mimicked your hold, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You were so warm. And you smelt so good. He had missed being this close to you.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to say now. A minute ago he had lashed out at you, angry and defensive, and now he was holding you and trying not to cry. His emotions were a jumbled, chaotic mess, and he just felt so...helpless.

“...I don’t...know…” he mumbled.

“That’s ok. It’s ok,” you soothed, as you started combing your fingers through his hair. Nothing was said for a while, the two of you simply holding each other; you hoping to convey how much you cared for him, and Mammon hoping you could tell how lost he felt.

“I’m Greed ain’t I…? This is what Greed does. It’s what it is…” he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper, tightening his grip on your waist.

“What are you talking about...?”

“It's reckless, and impulsive, and selfish.”

Why was he saying these things? He called himself impulsive, and sure, you couldn’t really argue with that. But selfish? He didn’t look that way to you. Not to say he never did anything in his own self interest, but he had this way of looking out for his brothers and you. Especially you.

“You’re not selfish, Mammon. Why would you think that?” You kept your voice low and calm, as you continued stroking his head and running your fingers through his hair.

“...because I am...aren’t I…? Takin’ things from my brothers...wastin’ all your time…”

“Hey, you never waste my time, ok? I like spending time with you.”

“...I dunno why…”

“Because you’re The Great Mammon, why wouldn’t I want to spend time with you?” you replied, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Mammon didn’t answer, but you saw the blush start creeping across his cheeks, before resting your head on top of his.

“Look, you might be Greedy, but that’s not always a bad thing, you know?”

“...it’s not?”

“No, it’s not. I never felt that way when I spent time with you. You always made me feel loved, and happy, and safe.”

“...”

“If you were as awful and selfish as you seem to think you are, you wouldn’t have been able to do that.”

“...”

“And what about that little girl, huh? The one you told me about before. The one you take care of. You weren’t an angel when you did that.”

Oh. How had he forgotten about her? Or that he had told you?

“Just because you are a demon doesn’t mean you don’t have good qualities, you know? And it doesn’t mean the bad ones get to overshadow all the good things about you either.”

“Do ya mean that? That I have good qualities?”

“Yeah, Mammon, I do.”

“...even though Imma demon?”

“Even though you’re a demon,” you answered, kissing the top of his head, “You are more than just your Greed. You get to make your own choices.”

Mammon listened carefully to what you had to say, each word making his heart feel a little lighter and his outlook a bit brighter. Maybe...maybe things weren’t as hopeless as they seemed.

“Besides, I like Greedy Mammon. The Mammon that wants to spend all his time with me and never leave my side. I’d be awfully lonely without him around.”

Hearing you say that warmed his heart, thawing the last bits of ice that had settled there. You were right. Just because he had bad moments, didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed good ones too. He was an Avatar after all - he commanded Greed, it didn’t control him. He wasn’t just some mindless, lower tier demon that was helpless against their sin. He got to decide when and how he would act. And if he had to be Greedy for anything, it would be your attention. It didn’t have to be material things (well, at least not all the time).

“...yeah...I guess ya’d be pretty bored without me too,” he said, lifting his head to look at you.

“Oh definitely. Very bored,” you replied, with a smile.

“Err...do ya think you can help me with something?”

“Sure.”

“Returning all that before Lucifer gets the bill,” he said, gesturing to the piles of junk behind you, “or well, most of it.”

“Of course,” you replied, kissing him on the cheek, “We will need to take the trash out too.”

“Sure we can’t just get Beel to eat it?” he asked, with a cheeky grin

“Mammon!”

“What?!”

#gn!mc #poly mc #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me mammon #obey me fanfic #mammon fanfic #mammon x mc #mammon x poly mc #obey me angst #obey me comfort #mammon angst #mammon comfort

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prettyricky187 · 4 years ago

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Devil Incarnate

Request: No- I was just feeling some type of way

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read, liked, reblogged, and commented on Reid To Me? It is very much appreciated. I hope you like this one as well. Requests are open.

Couple: Spencer/Fem!Reader Category: Smut, just straight smut Content Warnings: public sex, oral (male receiving), porn without plot Word Count: 2.2K

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I swear I was in love with the devil incarnate. She got her entertainment from teasing me and making me flustered at the most inopportune moments. Even now, as we waited for our takeaway to be ready, she was standing in front of me, scrolling on her phone while casually circling her hips against my steadily growing erection.

“Stop moving.” I grunted quietly.

“Why? Is it bothering you?” She grinned up at me. I looked at her with a look that she knew all too well. It was the look that said I knew what she was up to, but refused to partake. She always took it as a challenge.

“Stop,” was all I said but it was only met with a giggle as my name was called.

We had almost made it to the car when she dragged me into the nearby alleyway. She backed me against the wall, pressing herself flush against me. Her lips were like a fucking drug, drawing me in despite the risks involved. The euphoria derived from her kisses was worth whatever consequences would follow. My hands framed her face as I kept her close to me. I could never get enough of her. My whole body felt like it was on fire.

There were always butterflies in my stomach whenever she touched me, but feeling her fingers drag across the skin above my pants sent them into a flurry that would’ve knocked me off my feet had I not been leaning against the wall.

She dropped the bag and made quick work of my belt. She silenced my protests with a harsh kiss when I felt my pants being opened. The sound of the buckle moving around rung out in the quiet air, making it obvious what was happening; as if my pants being mid-thigh wasn’t obvious enough.

“What are you doing? We can’t do this!” I whispered, looking around at all the different ways this poorly thought out plan could go wrong. This was a bad idea.

“Come on Spencer, live a little.” She giggled as she brought her hand to palm at my bulge.

“There are plenty of ways to live that don’t involve us getting arrested for indecent exposure or lewd acts in public!” I couldn’t help the rise in pitch of my voice as the nerves set in.

“The longer you argue with me, the longer you’re out here in your underwear.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.” I mumbled against her lips. I felt her grin when I bucked my hips into her hand, desperate for more friction. I hissed at the way she trailed a finger along the outline of my erection through my underwear.

“What a way to go, am I right?” She teased, dipping her finger under the band. She giggled as my cock bounced out once she pulled my briefs down.

“You’re already so hard. Is that for me?” She asked innocently, like she hadn’t been torturing me for the past 15 minutes and 46 seconds; grinding on my erection in the restaurant then giggling to herself whenever I shifted to try and hide it.

“You already know it is.” I growled, watching her closely. She smiled and began slowly lowering herself to her knees. Any protests I had died on my lips as her intentions became clearer.

“What…what are you doing?”

Logically, I knew where her actions would lead, but I couldn’t believe she would really try this in public. Anyone could walk by at any point and we would be in so much trouble.

“And you say you’re a genius.” She smirked without stopping. Goosebumps rose when her hot breath met the already flushed skin of my hips. “Keep an eye out. I’d hate for us to be interrupted.”

Once she was eye level with my dick, she placed a pert kiss on the tip.

“Oh fuck.” I moaned at the sensation. The sight of her on her knees before me was always something to marvel at. Although it seemed as though I was the one in control, the man towering over the woman, we both knew she held the power in this situation. I would always do anything she asked of me.

“That’s better.” She smirked up at me as she gently placed strategic kisses against my skin. I kept waiting for her to actually dosomething, but she kept avoiding the place where I needed her the most. Each kiss sent shockwaves throughout my body, building the anticipation to unbearable levels.

“Don’t tease me.”

She grinned, continuing to press kisses along the sides, purposely ignoring my aching tip. She was a fucking tease and I loved it, but I also really hated it. She was truly the devil.

“I would never.” The look that accompanied her lie was sinful. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she relished in it; knowing that she could get me so wound up to the point that I snapped at her. It was a game to her, and I’d dare say it was one of her favorites.

“Then put your fucking mouth on me.” I ordered, pressing my hand on the back of her head. We didn’t have much time; the alley would only be empty for so long. As hot as this was, I really wasn’t keen on actually getting caught.

“So impatient.”

The initial warmth that spread through me as she wrapped her lips around me was always pure bliss. I let out a loud moan as my head hit the brick wall behind me, so distracted that I couldn’t even care about who might walk by and hear us. Her mouth tightened around me and I stifled a low groan, the little that remained of the logical part of my brain desperately trying not to draw any further attention to us.

Fuck she was way too good at this; she always knew how to turn me into putty for her.

“Lick it.”

I watched with rapt attention as she maintained eye contact, sticking her tongue out and sloppily licking at the tip before gliding her mouth along the underside of my dick.

“Fuck,” I hissed, “lick the tip.”

My instruction spurred her on. My abdomen clenched as she took more of me in before swirling her tongue around my tip like it was her favorite flavor ice cream cone. The heat from her tongue followed by the immediate cold from the night air was a conflicting sensation that felt beyond words.

“Please,” I begged, “I need more.” I bucked my hips as I spoke, needing more of her mouth on me. I couldn’t help it; I wanted my dick down her throat. Every time I tried to push further into her mouth, she would pull away with that damned smirk.

After a moment of the cat and mouse game, I finally put my hands on her head to keep her steady as I buried myself inside her mouth. I decidedly ignored her mumbled comment about how bossy I was as I lolled my head back, just losing myself in the sensations of the wet warmth surrounding my cock.

“Oh, sweet Jesus. Fucking…take it!” I bucked my hips forward and down her throat. As ordered, she took each thrust in stride before pulling off of me to breathe. The sight of the string of saliva that connected my tip to her lips was downright filthy, and I brought my thumb down to trace the side of her mouth. I was usually fairly thankful for my eidetic memory, but never more so than now, because it meant that I would never forget how she looked in that moment.

“You taste so good, Spencer.” She moaned, moving her hand up and down my dick. “I missed your cock, especially in my mouth. Been too long since I’ve gotten to suck you off.”

I couldn’t help the moan that escaped me at her words. I always loved her telling me how much she wanted me. Knowing that she wanted me was enough to make me feel proud as a peacock.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Cases took me away from home far too often, but thankfully she understood and never held it against me. I loved her immensely for it. She shook her head and took me back in her mouth, bobbing at a steady pace. It wasn’t until she could feel my thighs tense before she pulled off once again.

“You gonna cum for me Spencer?” She asked, using her hand to jack me off in the absence of her mouth. “You want to cum on my face?”

Oh fuck; my heart stopped as I recalled an image of her face painted in my cum. That seemed like an incredibly appealing option. However, since I didn’t want to make a mess without a way to clean it up, that would have to wait for another day.

“You better put me back in your mouth. You’re not wasting this.”

The noise she made was halfway between a moan and a squeak, but she complied and wrapped her lips around me again. I watched in awe as she sloppily sucked on me. I’m sure some of the noises she made weren’t necessary, but fuck if they weren’t music to my ears. The combination of slurps and moans was enough to bring me even closer to the edge. She knew how to hit on each one of my senses to make it an all-consuming event every time.

“So fucking good. Always make me feel so good.” I knew she picked up on the tension in my voice. “Always look so pretty with my cock in your mouth.”

She let out a pleased moan and bobbed her head faster. My toes curled in my shoes as sparks shot up my spine as I neared my end.

“Stop.” I put my hands on the sides of head and held her still. “I want to fuck your face.”

The grin she returned told me she'd known exactly what I was going to say before I had even said it. I slowly began thrusting into her mouth, moaning as she kept swirling her tongue around me. I couldn’t help but moan at how slick everything felt as I slid past her lips. I sheathed myself particularly deep and held still for a moment, grunting at the feeling of her contracting around me before pulling back out. I felt my abdomen clench as I realized how wet my balls were, not doubt the spit that dribbled out as I fucked her face.

I stared at her face, unshed tears in her eyes and her wet lips, while I used my hand on myself. She practically whimpered, trying to lean forward to take me back in her mouth, but I held her back with my other hand.

“Don’t be greedy.” I chided, shaking my head.

“This was my idea.” Her eyes didn’t leave my hand and I could see the desire to be in its place. “Please.”

Oh, that breathy plea always did something to me; I could never say no to it.

Without saying anything, I let go of my cock and brought her head back down.

“You really do love my dick, don’t you?” I grunted. She moaned and nodded, swirling her tongue around as she sucked. Fuck, I loved her tongue.

“Suck it.” I moved my hips faster. I could almost imagine I was fucking her. “So good.” Everything was so warm, wet, and tight that I couldn’t take it any longer.

My jaw dropped as my orgasm hit me like freight truck, but I could hardly muster a sound. It felt like every muscle in my body tensed as I tried to get as deep in her throat as I could possibly go; it never felt like enough. My fingers threaded through her hair and pulled her flush against me as I shot my load down her throat. She made no noises of complaint as my hips rutted against her face with the aftershocks. The reality of what we’d just done crashed into me as I looked at the garbage dump mere feet from her.

“You are…evil.” I breathed out, drunkenly eying her in my post-orgasmic haze while she stood up with a salacious grin. “You’re the actual devil.”

“You love me.”

I nodded in agreement because she wasn’t wrong. I watched as she fixed my pants before pressing a gentle kiss to my lips. Such a loving action after such a filthy moment, that I couldn’t help but laugh at the juxtaposition.

“What?” Her smile was so sweet and lovely.

“I can’t believe you just sucked me off in an alleyway.”

I didn’t even want to think about how many risks we had taken just then. The fact that anyone could’ve walked by and seen us, never mind the amount of trouble that I could’ve gotten in, was something that we would never mention again.

“I can’t believe you let me.” She countered almost immediately. We both knew I was powerless to stop her, nor did I want to. “Don’t lie though, I know you enjoyed yourself.”

Well she wasn’t wrong there.

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #Criminal Minds #criminal minds imagine #spencer x reader

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lilred8220 · 4 years ago

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Ok ok ok ok ok ok.....so hear me out.....Lilith Head cannon

So like....Lilith has never made an in-game appearance right? So like, I imagine, based on how everyone describes how sweet, lovely and pure she is and how the time you DO talk to her, it's a white screen, that she would look something like this.

Might draw her in the future but idk we'll see

And NOOOOO, it's not my OC, similar but, no. She looks like this.

That aside, I imagine her to be a very pure and innocent being. So pure and innocent that she rivals heaven's light. She would be called on occasion, "Little Sun" Or, "Sun's light" To further show how her soul glowed unbelievably bright and beautiful.

I can see how this would cause her to give the man she loved the forbidden food to save him, not truly understanding the consequences of her actions.

I imagine that she did it because, she truly believe that her love for him was just and pure. That when her father seen where she was coming from, her pure intentions, that he would understand and forgive her.

She was wrong. So wrong in the worst way possible.

Finding out how wrong she was shocked her. She couldn't understand why her father was angry, so angry in fact that he would have her wiped from existence.

She felt betrayed and hurt. When her brothers fought for her, she was glad but, also felt extremely guilty. She never meant for any of this to happen. She never wanted her brothers and father to fight because of her and she never wanted her brothers to fall for her, even though all of them would always tell her that they would regret nothing and they would fight for her till the bitter end.

After the war and she was reborn, she looked like this.

Her appearance somewhat changed but, there are still similarities. Diavolo can only do so much, having her reborn as a human was already a lot.

Though she still looks somewhat the same, Diavolo did his best to hide the fact that she was Lilith reborn. But, hey, it worked. She was never discovered and lived a long and happy life.

She wasn't as innocent in her previous life but, people who knew her said that her sweet nature and pure soul rivals that of an angels. That many looked to her for her wisdom.

She wouldn't remember her past life till death however, she'd have very odd and vivid dreams of people she wouldn't recognize but, always had a feeling that she knew them somehow.

She kept a dream journal, writing down all her odd dreams that she would have but, never deciding to look into it. She believed that they were nothing more than that, dreams. Very odd dreams.

I also thought what she would look like as a demon if she survived the war annnnnnd

She DEFINITELY would have changed after the war. Her bright, innocent, pure heart would've been shattered. She definitely would've blamed herself for a very VERY long time for causing herself and her brothers to fall.

She would take the longest to get used to the devildom and being a demon. I imagine she, given time, would be as powerful, if not stronger than Lucifer, seeing as she was technically the first one to fall when the war ended. She would be the embodiment of all the sins, she would be the one who could tempt any human to give their soul away the easiest.

Despite this, however, she would hate it....at first. The longer she stays in the devildom, the more her good nature would fade away, becoming closed off and more on edge. She would become somewhat of a bratty child or a teenager who is DEFINITELY not going through a phase and you could never understand, Lucifer!

Would be part of the Anti-Lucifer League for a while. Would pull many pranks on him. Would always get in trouble. Everytime.

Deep down, however, she still loves Lucifer and all her brothers to death and would never want anything bad to happen to them. Never again.

Thank you for coming to my Ted talk 🤍🤍🤍

#obey me #obey me lilith #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me diavolo

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demonologist-in-denim · 3 years ago

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Review of Falling Skies by VivatRex

The first Crowley redemption fanfic I ever came across was Falling Skies by VivatRex. This was shortly after 8x23 aired, and at the time, there wasn’t much fic out there involving Crowley that portrayed him as anything other than a villain. (There still isn’t, to be fair.) And there definitely wasn’t much out there in which Crowley actively sought redemption, much less worked alongside and eventually earned himself a place among the Winchester extended family. So the fact that Falling Skies was a slow burn Mooseley fic was just something I was willing to accept in order to read what I was desperately looking for in a Crowley fic.

I was inspired by this post to go back and reread Falling Skies for the first time since it was completed in 2015. All 328,000+ words of it. It’s certainly the longest fanfic I’ve ever read. And I’ve read fanfics that more closely align to what I’m looking for – but because this was my first Crowley redemption fanfic, I’ve never forgotten it. There are parts of it - scenes, even single lines - that I vividly recall. There are scenes and dynamics and plot points in this fic that were significant influences on my own writing, and are so deeply entrenched in my understanding of post-cure Crowley that rereading this fic felt like some tantalizingly familiar part of myself echoing back to me after a long absence. This is the longest review I have ever written, but then, it is a very long fic.

To quickly summarize the fic, Falling Skies begins after 8x23, with the angels falling to earth and Sam having collapsed from attempting to abort the demon trials. The overarching plot follows Dean, Sam, humanized Cas and resentfully cured Crowley as they attempt to deal with the fallout of Abaddon’s return and the shuttering of the Gates of Heaven. Along the way, a new villainous angel makes a play to rule both Heaven and Hell, angels and demons battle out their differences on Earth in a massive slaughter, and the Man Tablet is discovered, which reveals that the ultimate apocalypse involves merging all the known planes of existence into a hellish nightmare. Throughout all of this, Crowley struggles with a blood-born conscience that begins to form itself into a soul, a mental and emotional link that now connects him and Sam due to the incomplete cure, and rival selves: the cunning, successful King of Hell and a man haunted by his past, longing to make amends. It’s equal parts Mooseley, Destiel, and a season’s worth of near-world ending scenario.

Scenes from this fic that I’ll never forget:

The opening scene is Crowley in the church at the end of 8x23, beset by guilt and shame as he can feel for the first time in hundreds of years the depth of pain and suffering he’s caused.

His reaction shortly after the aborted cure to remembering he killed Meg. “Crowley’s stomach twisted in a painful knot at the thought of Meg…The unspeakable acts that hadn’t seemed unspeakable at all at the time…He promptly rolled down the Impala’s window. He leaned out, vomiting onto the road.”

The scene in which Crowley admits to Sam that he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself after the cure, “if you’d cured me, I would’ve hung myself the minute I found a long enough rope.”

The scene in which Crowley faces the demon who tortured him on the rack, and sees himself in comparison to that demon, hears his own awful words to Kevin, “What you people fail to under is that you are nothing” and “it makes him sick to what little remained of his soul to think that his mindset had been similar to this…only a few months prior. That he hadn’t been much better than this, once.”

Fergus’ death scene was particularly memorable. Driven by fear of his own impending death and going to Hell, he accidently kills someone he loves, and takes his own life by hanging. It’s not ever the backstory I would have imagined for him, but it was written with real heart behind it.

Having chosen to complete the cure, that Crowley receives complete forgiveness. Whatever substitutes for divine authority in this fic restores his soul fully, forgives him for all his past sins, and frees Crowley from the ruinous effects of damnation. “He’d been forgiven. Crowley sobbed into his hands.” It’s not the story I would have written for Crowley, but at a time when Crowley redemption fic was almost nonexistent, this was powerful.

In a rare moment in which Cas is being a self-righteous asshole, Dean remarks that “you’re really reminding me of someone…a douche bag I met back in ’08 who threatened to throw me back into Hell if I didn’t show him the respect he deserved.” Later, after he’s had time to calm down and begins to feel guilt, Cas asks “The ‘douche bag’ who raised you from Hell. Did you hate him?”

This fic offered a lot of the emotional struggles and scenes, the waypoints, I wanted to see along Crowley’s road of redemption.

His struggle with embracing more human emotions and perspective. His subconscious and then intentional rejection of the monster he used to be.

Being offered a choice between more power and more humanity, and after a long internal struggle, choosing humanity.

Ultimately choosing the Winchesters and (Crowley’s own conception of) the greater good over demonic self-interests. Choosing “one tiny forever [with people he cared about over] a never-ending existence” without them.

Crowley grasping – and openly admitting to valuing – humanity for its own sake. And that while in becoming less demon and more human, in becoming family with the Winchesters, he may lose his powers and influence, his immortality and near-invincibility, that he gained everything else. “Love, friendship, family, redemption…It’s all worth it!”

Crowley in this fic is written as having that change of heart and perspective because of and for Sam’s sake, and I very much write all of that happening for Crowley’s own sake and born of something innate to him, but seeing all of this in a fic assured me that I wasn’t the only one who thought that redemption was possible for Crowley. It meant a lot to me at the time. I guess, considering I was willing to reread this whole fic again all these year later, it still does.

Crowley admitting – to himself and to others – or directly referencing feelings of guilt, remorse and shame for his actions. It wasn’t explained away as just the effects of the cure. Something deep inside him had been changed, restored.

The very first scene resoundingly validated my own understanding of 8x23 – Crowley caught up in the flood of emotions brought on by the cure, seeing his actions for the first time as truly monstrous, hearing the cries of his victims. Holy mother of sin, the things I’ve done.

The admittance to himself that time alone in the bunker’s dungeon, in the dark, was too much time left to self-reflection and memories – the nagging of his conscience when he’d rather suppress it entirely.

The rawness of his emotions, his unfamiliarity with how to process them, “it had been a constant struggle not to start sobbing like a bloody child since Sam had almost cured him.”

His increasing hatred of other demons, not because of their disloyalty or incompetence, but because of what they symbolize: their delight in suffering, the misery they cause, that he was anything like them and might still be – or worse, might regress and become again.

In canon, Crowley asks Sam where to begin looking for forgiveness. He references wanting to make amends again in 10x17 when he tells Sam he thought making changes to Hell “might matter.” But after the cure, Crowley in canon never really expresses one way or another whether he thinks he’s capable of or can earn redemption. We’re left with subtext that suggests Crowley thinks he’s too far gone for that – or has been convinced that that’s the case by the attitude of the Winchesters and Cas. Fanfiction, this fic, offered up what canon couldn’t:

Crowley admitting to hating what he was and wanting to be better. Saying things like “I’ve been past the point of forgiveness for a very long time” and “There’s no forgiveness, not for a thing like me” and hating that.

Feeling beyond ashamed to have so thoroughly damned himself beyond any hope of redemption. “Even now, he would never forgive himself for all he’d done – and truthfully, he didn’t believe he deserved forgiveness.” Crowley feeling that way both kills me – because it’s not true, dammit – and fulfills a perverse need to see the character suffer through all the necessary growth to actually become that better self that is worthy of that redemption.

Crowley admits his own efforts are “not enough!...It’ll never be enough” compared with his sins. In canon, Crowley never says as much, but plenty of other characters, particularly the Winchesters, are more than happy to come to that conclusion for him.

Again, I am amazed – looking back at this fic – of how much of Crowley’s road to redemption that this fic established for me. One of the waypoints was Crowley coming to a point where he recognizes and then internalizes that being a demon is bad. That seems obvious, but Crowley had so much to gain from being a demon. Did gain so much, compared to his human life. But in becoming a demon, souls lose something, something of immense and irreplaceable value.

After the aborted cure, Crowley “had all the souls of the damned behind him, and he’d never felt weaker.”

And then there was the matter of watching what other demons did, the harm they caused – seeing the consequences and aftermath of the pain and suffer he had caused, how that effected the people around him, the people Crowley now cared about.

There’s coming to grips with the understanding that possessing a meatsuit is a horrible, violating experience for that person.

And that being this broken, corrupted thing is something Crowley wants to get away from, forget about, suppress. And as he increasingly becomes one of the boys, it’s something he tries – without success – to put behind him. “Would you believe that I’d almost forgotten?...Forgot what I was.”

Crowley’s road to redemption, his “transformation” in this fic, is slow. As appealing as the plot point of the demon cure was in canon, I couldn’t imagine the reforming of a soul of the demonic smoke to be anything other than slow, painful, and complicated. It had to be that way, it had to be something of value, to be a redemption that was actually earned.

Crowley’s humanity shines through a little at a time. In most of fanfiction, we go straight to the heart of the matter. That’s what we’re here for. But it’s so much more impactful when the glimpses of Crowley’s feelings and humanity are rare, and veiled behind snark, dismissal, and misdirection.

Crowley has moments of both begrudged self-reflection and open admission. He surprises himself in moments with the sincerity of his own remarks.

Grapples with longing for humanity and the good aspects that come with that, as much as he hates human weakness.

He often considers himself not human enough, and is hard on himself for that.

He learns to ask for help, and the scene in which he asks for help in completing the cure is something I longed to see play out in canon.

There is a scene where a character can see Crowley’s true form – what an angel sees when looking at humans, demons and other beings – and can see that it’s healing from the corrosive effects of damnation and being on Hell’s rack. This is something that I’ve never explored in my own work, but have often thought about and wondered how to visualize for the reader. Visualize Crowley “regaining pieces of his soul,” as Eliot in Leverage recently put it.

There are moments in the fic in which Crowley’s demonic instincts and humanity align, have the same goal, which is something I love and would have wanted to see explored in canon.

At one particular vulnerable moment, Crowley admits to the cure having saved him – “You saved me” – from the damage done to a soul corrupted into a demon. Saved him from himself, stopping him from doing more evil in the future.

The tragedy of that, of course, is that the Winchesters didn’t save Crowley intentionally, didn’t do it for Crowley’s sake, and because of that, Crowley in canon could only begrudge having been transformed from an “icy, unfeeling, ruthless, perfect” demon into a “messy, emotional” shadow of himself.

Even as Crowley laments “not being human enough” in this fic, he is also conflicted about not being demon enough.

The part of Crowley that still revels in depravity and violent strength, in ultimate power, can’t stand the idea of being weakened by human nature. He can’t believe he’s starting to feel all those rainbow, feel-good emotions that make such fools of the Winchesters and their kind.

Equally, not being demon enough undermines Crowley’s legitimacy as King of Hell. If he isn’t the most ruthless, sadistic, uncaring monster out there, he isn’t fit to rule Hell. And not being the king, who is he? And from where does he obtain his power, his means of security and self-preservation? It is as much an existential crisis as it is a matter of wanting to hold onto ill-gotten power and authority.

Giving into his more human side, “would he even be able to rule Hell,” or would he be reduced back to the nothing that he was before bashing his way through the ranks?

And if he gives up humanity for being King? For power? At least then “I’ll have power. I’ll have respect. I’ll have the best a demon can have. The best I can have…It’s all I can do.”

Even in admitting letting go of humanity secures him power, Crowley admits that he chooses that because it’s all he thinks he’s worthy of, a sad consolation prize. Crowley never admits as much in canon, but I absolutely read all this as the reason for his inability to let go of Hell and move to join the Winchesters sooner.

Crowley’s perspective on being king in this fic and how that perspective changes over the course of the slow burn is perhaps the greatest strength of the fic.

Throughout much of the fic, Crowley legitimately loves being king. He loves the authority, he loves the power. The fic leans heavily on his cunning and strategic mind, something that canon failed to capitalize on after Crowley became a second-tier member of Team Free Will. While reading, I honestly believed that the author was writing a Crowley that loved the crown and would begrudge giving it up.

But slowly, what he loves about being a king cannot outweigh everything he hates about Hell, demonkind, and what being king costs him.

Very much in line with canon, Crowley gets to a point where he is forced to admit to himself that despite all the perks and benefits, he actually hates being the King of Hell.

He believes he has to keep being king to keep Hell in line and less of a threat – just like in canon. And uses that as a justification, along with love of power, to remain trapped in his own personal hell.

A few aspects of being King of Hell that the fic explores that canon doesn’t include:

The brilliant idea that “Hell chooses who leads it.” Demonic loyalty shifts from an unsuitable leader to a powerful alternative, and when that loyalty shifts, the power of Hell shifts from to that particular demon or Knight of Hell. That’s what gives the king (or queen) of Hell their immense power and legitimizes their authority. Love that idea – it almost makes it like a…demonocracy.

Crowley feels responsible towards the overall protection of demonkind. This is somewhat suggested in canon, such as when Crowley refers to Bobby Singer as being a surge to “his kind.” But it doesn’t have quite the paternalistic quality to it, compared to in the fic when Crowley gets angry that Abaddon is using “his subjects” as cannon fodder against angels. “Yes, they were traitorous, weak-minded prats, but they were still his.”

But the most significant aspect of Hell and demons this fic explores – in my opinion – is how Hell turns souls into demons. Falling Skies delves into Crowley’s own torture on the rack, “he kept seeing flashes – brief, vivid visions, memories” of “blood and laughter and screaming ad begging and pain.”

Souls are strapped to the rack and torn apart, “destroyed brick by brick…violated and torn down” and then, made into a demon, “pieced back together into something else…something evil. Something poisonous and wrong.” This unmaking so as to create from the ruins departs from the idea that a soul caves or gives into to evil in Hell, and instead invests in the idea that it is something done to them, that it is a perversion of everything that they are, which in my opinion is a much more compelling take on demons.

Hell doesn’t only take a soul’s humanity, it takes their memories as well. Crowley references how “his torture in Hell had been enough to erase almost every part of his human life. He honestly only knew the barest details of the man that was Fergus.”

What he does remember is primarily the bad memories, as if Hell intentionally allowed him to hold onto those memories to either fuel his damnation or to discourage him from being nostalgic for his human life.

Much of what Crowley actually feels, even as a demon, is suppressed, “drowned in smoke”, numbing him to his actions and clouding his own thoughts and emotions in Hell’s influence. “He’d never realized how much he’d lost, how much he’d blocked out, how much he hadn’t even thought was worth remembering.”

All of this significantly influenced my own ideas about what it meant to be a demon – to be a semi-cured demon – and Crowley’s existential struggle.

Some smaller, more personal characteristics of Crowley that this fic influenced in my own writing include:

Crowley being a cook, and rolling his eyes at the boys fearing he’s going to poison them

Crowley referring to or thinking of the Winchesters as “his humans” rather than him being “their demon”

Crowley stating in fanfiction long before that final scene in 12x23 that he “always wins”

pointing out how even before the cure, he has carried his own weight in the saving-the-world department. “Who helped you stop the apocalypse? Me. Who helped you take out Castiel when he tried to pay god? Me. Who helped you stop Dick and his cronies? Me! ARE YOU NOTICING A TREND HERE?”

In this fic, Crowley takes a younger meatsuit – the son of his canon meatsuit. Which made me very uncomfortable and felt hypocritical, because by this point, Crowley is very much one of the good guys and should have had qualms about that. But then angelic powers make it possible for Crowley to take that meatsuit and the person is snapped back into existence, whole and unaware, and Crowley is visibly relieved by that. Vessels and meatsuits has always been something that the canon never properly addressed or explored. And while Crowley taking just a younger version of his vessel felt like ageism here, at least the author addressed the moral complications of his choice.

Crowley’s central, guiding concept of redemption and what it means to do the right thing was also established for me in this fic.

He has the chance to murder the demon that tortured him, that led him on his path to damnation. The demon attempts to play the mortality card, telling Crowley to “kill again and blacken your heart even more.” And Crowley, in perfect character, replies “in for a penny, in for a pound.”

Crowley truly believes himself to be beyond redemption, but that he can use his damnation as another resource in the larger fight for what is right. If he’s already damned, no reason to hold back – he can do the ugly, messy things the others can’t, what might even need to be done to secure the win for Team Free Will.

He reflects on his changing perspective of morality, how he thought good and evil were just human concepts that got in way, that people mistakenly draw line between good and evil when really it’s a spectrum that people move up and down all the time.

What he comes to believe in, with his semi-restored humanity, is choices. “That night that Sam had injected him with human blood, that night he’d come close to being saved (or doomed?), he had seen the darkness inside of himself, and he had hated it…there was good and evil within everyone, or at least the potential for it. What mattered was what side you chose, or at least which you chose the most often, which you kept trying to fight your way back to…For the time being, Crowley was not evil. And really, he rather liked that.”

That idea of Crowley fighting his way back to a better version of himself, to his morality and humanity being defined by his choices – that is central to me in Crowley’s character and road to redemption.

Much of Crowley’s relationship with the boys post-cure for me was based on this fic as well.

With the cure coursing through him, seeing Dean as an actual person for the first time.

His professional respect for them morphing into admiration, into protectiveness, because “they tried. And that should count for something, damn it.”

His understanding that the boys’ don’t just use people up – they do so by giving them something to believe in, something to fight for, and letting the cause use them up.

Dean making a deal with the angels to kill the King of Hell, and being unable to go through with it, then choosing to stand between Crowley and the angels.

Crowley recognizing his and Cas’ similarities, discussing with him the benefits and difficulties of being human or semi-human.

He and Cas getting a drink together and sharing their woes.

Cas admitting that his old angelic biases being in the way of seeing before how alike they are.

Crowley and Cas joking that in their team-up, Crowley is Dean and Cas is Sam.

Idea explored in this fic that I loved and want to flesh out in a fic:

Closing the Gates of Hell means all the demons, including Crowley, will be trapped down there forever. And a) Crowley considers or b) the Winchesters consider without telling Crowley - turning him human so that he won’t be trapped down there with demonkind.

A third or even second attempt at the cure might not be possible, or not take full effect.

Turning a soul into a demon takes proper time, that “hurrying the torture, letting out the souls before they’re fully cooked…churning out demons with bits of human still left in them. You’d think it would make them less dangerous, but it just makes them a hell of a lot worse. They’re out of their minds and out of control.”

And I very much appreciated that it referenced the reality that in killing a possessed meatsuit, the boys were killing a victim, a possessed person. That is something that sort of fell away and became an acceptable collateral damage, and never sat very well with me.

Falling Skies also introduced a loyal lackey for Crowley by the name of Laharl who I loved as a character. Crowley very much needed that someone in later seasons.

Castiel attempting to heal Crowley, and him suffering an instinctual fear that the angel intends to smite him.

The boys – and Crowley – struggling with the unwelcome knowledge that if Crowley chooses to become king again, there will come a time when their interests don’t align, and they will have to be enemies again. How much Crowley doesn’t want that, can’t bear the thought he might hurt them again.

I know this is a really long review. And I honestly don’t expect anyone to read it all the way through. I wrote it more for myself than anything. Because, even though there is plenty about the way that I write Crowley that differs from the way this author did, there is also so much here that influenced my understanding of him and his road to redemption. When there was no other fanfiction about Crowley fighting his way out of the dark, about choosing the Winchesters and to be better, there was Falling Skies. And I will always be immensely grateful for that.

Read the fic on AO3

#spn #spn fanfic #crowley #fic rec #happy sulphur saturday

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homebody-nobody · 4 years ago

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you wanna play with fire (stick and poke tattoo)

Jax did you actually write a whole nother fic?? Why yes, dear reader, I did. This is porn, blame @hvitstark and @aarchiess and the rest of the jiara gc for filling up the Sin Bin with inspiration every day. PLEASE interact with this post I work really hard on these fics and seeing them get like ~30 notes and then dying drains my soul. ------------------------ ao3 -------------------------

‘Come home on time or don’t bother coming home at all!’

Her mother’s words echo in her ears as Kiara stomps away from the house in the late-summer heat. Tears well and sting in her eyes and she wipes them away, refusing to let them fall. She doesn’t understand why her parents don’t get it. Her dad grew up in the Cut. Her mom fell in love there, had Kie there, got married there. She belongs there, so much more than on Figure Eight or anywhere else in kooklandia. There’s an honesty to the Cut that evaporates the closer you get to the country clubs and McMansions on the other side of the island. Her heart feels open there, loved and loving. What happened, to make her parents forget all that? Is money really that important, that corrupting and all-consuming, that they would forget what loyalty feels like? What family is?

JJ’s sitting on the porch when she gets to the Chateau, a paperback folded in half in his left hand and a soda dangling from his right. He stands up when he sees her. “Hey,” he says. He’s wearing one of his absurd cutoffs, cargo shorts slung low and no shoes. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear and his hair is a ruffled mess, like he’s had his hands in it, thinking too hard. He looks like some ridiculous parody of a vagabond, every bad boy the after-school specials always warned her about.

Taking a deep breath, she nods to the book in his hand. “I didn’t know you could read,” she says. It’s easier to make fun then show the way her heart opens and bleeds at the sight of him.

He smiles, lopsided and quiet. “Good to see you, too.”

She mounts the stairs to the porch without asking, even though with every step she takes closer to him, she’s less sure of how to act. They haven’t talked since the night John B died, since the last time she was here. They had sex, the night the Phantom went down. It was fast and messy and a little awkward, because she was still Kie and he was still JJ, and fucking your best friend for the first time is never easy, now matter how long you’ve been waiting to do it.

It’s barely been a week, but it feels like longer, and since she got home that next morning, her parents have been tiptoeing around her, waiting for something to break. It was the simplest thing, really, Kie wondering aloud about JJ, about how he was doing and how she might help him pay off his restitution. (Now that Plan A has spiraled down to Plan L and that failed, besides.) It was her mother and her thinly-veiled scoff, the way it tugged at Kie like calloused skin on fresh sheets. It was Kie mentioning dipping into her college fund to help him, and her parents promptly flying off the handle.

And then, the threat of boarding school, of taking her away from everything she knows and everything she loves, shutting her up in the mountains like some hysterical family member in a victorian asylum, sending her to some institution claiming to be a high school but is basically a finishing school prepping spoiled debutantes for husband-hunting at the ivies. She won’t be one of those girls.

JJ greets her with the usual handshake, and when he goes to sit back down, she grabs at his fingers before she loses the courage, because she doesn’t want to think about any of it anymore, not John B or Sarah, not boarding school, not the tenuous future her parents are planning for her and how little she wants it. He stops, frozen, and every one of her senses is trained on the minimal brush of skin, the tension in his back. She wants her hands on him, her nails dragging down his arms, the taste of his sweat and the burn of his gaze. She wants to be lost in him, because touching JJ switches everything else off. He’s like a magnet for her attention, everything blurring until it’s just his mouth and his hands and his --

“Kie,” he says, a warning in his usually jovial voice. His gaze is locked on her hand, her slender fingers tangled in his, gentle things, held between strength and violence. “You said --”

“I know --” she says, pausing for half a second, surprised by her tone and the immediacy of her response. How quickly she wants to forget the lies she told herself about being able to stay away from him, after knowing what his tongue feels like on her clit and the way he fits perfectly inside her, like they were meant to come together. “What I said.” She’s looking at their linked hands as well, but she’s imagining his between her legs, wants to pull him forward and put it there, just to stop feeling so fucking human, because he makes her feel celestial, instead.

“So?” he asks, licking his lips, his breath picking up like he can read her mind, see her the way she wants to be, naked and underneath him.

“So maybe,” she says, her heartbeat rising in her own throat, taking half a step toward him, tucking her bottom lip between her teeth. His eyes betray him, flicking up to her face and following the motion. She looks up at him, and the second her brown eyes land on his, he’s done resisting, done even considering it. He melts, when she looks at him like that, so grateful for it, after waiting so many years convinced it wouldn’t ever happen. “I changed my mind.”

The air hangs heavy and charged as JJ’s rational side, weak to begin with and driven deep with years of half-thought-out decisions and anticipated-yet-ignored consequences, scrambles to pull him out of her orbit, to get him to let go and stop her from burning up in the periphery of his constant firestorm. But her eyes are on his, and she’s touching him, and she’s asking, and the moon could fall without him noticing, right now.

She pulls, and he follows, and they’re crashing into each other, a kiss that starves before it is even born. Paint flakes and dust fill the air when she slams back against the side of the house, her arms looped around JJ’s neck, one of his tight around her waist, the other braced on the siding, fist clenched, forearm taught. The second he touches her, the world stops spinning, or maybe just they do, because she’s dizzy and soaring under his mouth, chest to chest and sharing breath between teeth and lips and tongues. Victory rises in her chest, pride and anticipation simmering just below the beautiful, vacant hunger that comes from JJ kissing her like this, and it’s that pride that bruises, just a little, when he pulls away.

“You can’t just jump me when you’re upset,” he says, but it’s into her neck, practically a growl as his hand flexes against the small of her back, gathering up her shirt, his fingernails just grazing her skin.

“Can’t I?” she answers, canting her hips up a fraction, pushing against him, demanding his return to ravishing her indecently.

“Fuck, Kie --” he says, and he’s nipping at her neck in bursts, like he knows they should be talking about this, but he can’t help but touch her, overwhelmed with the need to taste her skin and leave her wanting.

“Fine,” she says, sliding her forearm against his shoulder until her hand buries itself in his hair, pulling him back up and kissing him fiercely. “We’ll talk about it,” she sighs, before diving back in for another hard, demanding kiss. And then, “After.”

“Yeah, okay,” JJ relents, pushing off the side of the house and dragging her toward the front door. It’s not a choice but a capitulation, a giving in to the unstoppable force that is Kiara tugging at his soul. Because he’d do anything for her, anything to her that she asks, no matter what he tells himself. He slides his teeth over her bottom lip and pulls away, panting. “After.” They slam through the screen door, stumbling over a broken ankle tether and the trash JJ had been meaning to take out, not even bothering with the farce of trying to make it to the bedroom. Her calves slam into the pullout and she topples backwards, taking her with him.

Kissing JJ is a little like waiting out a hurricane and finally hitting the eye. Thrilling and terrifying, surrounded by power and strength, destruction and damage, but finding peace and respite, and a promise, a hint of the sun. Once he has her underneath him, he slows down, settling his weight between her legs, keeping himself propped on his elbows while he kisses her, solid and hard in his intent. It’s torture, him dancing above her, licking into her mouth only to back off and press kisses across her face, her jaw, and down her neck, sucking damning, claiming marks before scraping his teeth over her ear with the slightest pressure, teasing her, pulling obscene noises from her throat and driving her insane. She pushes her hips up again, and he responds with a deep, heavy roll of his, and she can feel his cock, hot and already half-hard, through the layers of fabric between them.

She wants to feel it, in her hand, her mouth, pressing torturously, deliciously inside her, and he’s still fully clothed and taking way too much damn time. Surging up against him, she flips the two of them over, dangerously close to the edge, and straddles his hips, dragging her hands down his chest. Tossing her hair out of her face and pulling it all to one side, she risks glancing down at him, afraid of the vulnerable drop of her stomach every time she meets his eyes. JJ’s an eclipse in totality, pupils blown wide, shining underneath her, beaming in her shadow. His lips are slightly parted, red and wet, hair disheveled, hands coming down to slide up her thighs, and the image is so hot, so perfect, her chest aches as her cunt throbs for him, a dangerous, terrifying combination. She takes off her shirt.

The sigh he lets out is entirely involuntary, reveling in the warmth and the weight of her, in awe of the smooth plains of exposed skin and the soft curves of her body. She leans down to kiss it out of his mouth, his hand coming up to cup the back of her head, the other sliding around the back of her arm as she holds face. It’s too gentle, too kind and slow, so she sinks her teeth into his lower lip until he groans and tightens her fist in his hair, pulling her with him as she straightens. His hands frame her hips as she grinds down on him, and he ducks his head to lay kisses across her collarbones, his hands sliding up her sides, electric on her bare skin. Letting her head fall back, she takes in the feeling of his lips on her chest, his thumbs tucking under the band of her bra. One stays to brush back and forth over the side of her breast while the other reaches around and pinches apart the clasp in an expert move. Her stomach drops at the thought of JJ doing this with other girls.

Taking her hands from his hair to cup his jaw, she redirects his attention back to her lips as her bra slides down her arms and her nipples pebble in the cool air. She holds on just a little too long, presses into him closed-mouth and soft, and he melts under her touch, his hands framing her ribs, her hair falling around them in a peach-scented curtain. When he initiates moments like this, she runs from them, too scared of what she might feel if she falls in like she’s falling now, heart pounding, her thumbs skating over his cheekbones. He leans up into her touch, one of his arms dropping to her waist and pulling her in closer to him, holding her tight. She pulls away from the kiss, keeping her forehead pressed to his.

“Kie,” he sighs. Her breath hitches at the sound of her name from his mouth, like it almost always does, except he’s never close enough to notice. The silence that follows holds too much for the small space it occupies, and while she has no idea what he’s scared of saying, it almost falls from his lips anyway. Before he can make too much of an idiot out of himself, she pulls her arms back out of the straps of her bra, reaching between them to toss it to the side. As she does, she keeps his eyes on his, the smallest pockets of relief opening as his gaze drops to her tits, and then the heat in her stomach picking up again as he licks his lips. He ducks his head again, taking one of her nipples into his mouth like a sacrament, like she’s holy, closing his eyes and moaning, deep and satisfied at the taste of her skin. It goes straight to her cunt, and she feels wetness gathering there, even more than before.

This, they’ve already done. There’s still fading bruises across her chest from the first night they spent together, when he ate her out til she screamed and then fucked her senseless, and while that seems to be the course of action he’s aiming for here, she has other ideas. She slides her hands back into JJ’s hair -- God, she could spend hours playing with JJ’s hair -- and tightens her grip, her blunt nails scraping gently over his scalp. In return, he teases his teeth over her nipple, and when she arches and gasps at the motion, tries to flip himself back on top.

But Kiara has a goal, and she tightens her thighs around his hips, flattening her hands on his chest and pushing back, shaking her head playfully. He raises his eyebrows and flashes her half a smile, as if to say ‘oh, really?’, but settles his hands on her hips and lets her take charge. Her first order of business is getting him just as naked as she is; he holds up his arms obediently as she tugs his shirt off of him, and this is different now, than when it started. They’re taking their time with each other, grateful to drop the guise of desperation and explore every secret spot and inch of forbidden skin. It should scare the shit out of her, and it sort of does, but it’s also… kinda fun. JJ makes this shy vulnerability so easy to sink into, knowing that any teasing has no real heat behind it, that he’ll be gentle and kind and listen to what she wants and what she likes. Yes, the bar is on the floor, but this boy is her best friend for a reason, this loving, crazy dumbass, that would set himself on fire to keep her warm. And that trust, those years of rapport and familiarity, make moments like these so much more comfortable, easier with a net underneath the thrill of flying high, trading touch for pleasure and knowing that he’ll be there to catch her on the comedown.

She leans down and kisses him, soft at first and then deeper, licking into his mouth and rolling her hips down onto him, stretching her arms above his head and dragging her tits up his bare torso, smiling against his lips at the sound he makes. Ducking her head against his neck, she leaves her own trail of marks and then shifts her weight off of him to the side so she can reach down and pop the fly of his shorts open with one hand. He hisses in a sharp inhale when she reaches her hand between the layers of clothing and palms him over his underwear, giving him a second of satisfying contact before backing off, teasing him with her fingertips. He rolls onto his side, angling himself over her, kissing her hungrily.

“Fucking hell, Kie,” he says, tucking his face into the side of her neck. “You got no fucking right to feel that good.” He’s warm and solid against her chest, hot and hard under her fingers, and something opens in her chest as he kisses her again, slow and sensual but not rushing, not pushing for things to go further or asking for anything she’s not willing to give. She pushes his underwear down as best she can, and he shudders as bare skin meets. The feeling of his cock in her hand sets her skin alight as he muffles moans in her neck, and she twists her hand over the head of it, spreading the wetness she finds there over the shaft.

JJ surrenders to her, relaxing against her side as she works her hand over him, leaning into her, muttering half-formed praise into her skin like a prayer. She bites down a smile at the words, trying to hide how much she enjoys having him so vulnerable under her touch, how hot she gets listening to him react, feeling the soft skin over hard muscle. Kissing him firmly, she pushes him onto his back, leaning over him as she strokes his cock, one of his arms coming up to hold her, the other hand pushing into her hair. She hadn’t had time to do this the first night they were together, too focused on her own desperate need to get lost in him, so she takes her time working her way down his bare torso, sinking her teeth into his chest, leaving red and purple marks in her wake.

He stutters on an inhale when he realizes what she’s doing, and when she curls her hands in the waistband of both shorts and boxers, concern fills his dear, blue eyes. “You don’t have to --” he breathes, caught between concern for her and the deep, furious want pulsing in his blood. “Just because I --”

Kiara licks her lips, and JJ watches the movement, powerless not to. “I want to,” she says, realizing the truth of it as she says it, and the resulting look on JJ’s face puts butterflies in her stomach. (Which, like, she really doesn’t have time to think about right now.) So, in answer, she pulls his pants and underwear down and off, tossing them to the side and settling herself between his legs. It’s a little intimidating, JJ spread out naked before her, his cock eagerly awaiting her attention. She knew it was big, of course. After last time, the rumors had been confirmed true; JJ Maybank was excellently skilled with both hands and mouth, in addition to being ridiculously well-hung. It isn’t fair, really. But it’s one thing when he’s fucking her, and another when she’s face to face with it.

He senses her hesitation and reaches down, brushing his fingers over her face in gentle reverence, and the touch shocks something inside her she’s not ready to confront. Instinctively, she pulls away, and, when concern colors his storm-sky eyes, she smiles, and ties up her hair. JJ’s breath catches in his chest as the sight, and it bolsters her confidence. She leans forward to kiss him one more time, twisting her hand over the head of his cock, solid and determined, and before he can recover, she ducks her head and takes him into her mouth.

He grasps at the sheets as she swirls her tongue curiously around the tip, letting spit and precum drip down the shaft, spreading it towards the base with her hand. “Fuck, yes,” he sighs, his eyes falling closed, his head dropping to the pillow. It’s satisfying, and triumphant, and hot, to see him so at her mercy, helpless and prone in the oldest kind of worship. After a while of torturous teasing, she takes as much of him as she can into her mouth, pressing her thumb into her palm to push down her gag reflex -- a trick Sarah told her about that she’s never needed til him. He keens, and the noise has her pushing her hips against the mattress, rocking into the seam of her shorts. Bobbing her head, experimenting with pace and angle, she flicks her tongue smartly against the underside of the tip of his cock, and the moan that follows that move is very interesting indeed. She tries it a few more times until he’s gasping out a warning, and she draws back until her lips just wrap around the head, swallowing neatly as he chokes out her name.

She comes up smiling, and he half sits up, reaching for her, sated and grasping. He kisses her soundly, pulling her back down next to him, one hand in her hair, one arm around her waist, his favorite way to hold her, it seems. Settling her on her back, his tongue meets hers and he groans at the taste of himself. “You,” he says, pulling back to press kisses down her neck. She can’t keep in the happy, smug giggle that works its way out of her chest. “Are so fucking hot.”

“Not too bad yourself,” she laughs as he tucks his face between her tits, the last word followed by a sharp gasp as he wraps his lips around a nipple, like he can’t help but have his mouth on her, can’t help but taste her skin and send her heart racing.

“I knew you were looking,” he says, propping his chin on her sternum and looking up at her with a shit-eating grin, mischief and post-orgasm glow sparkling in his stupid, stupid blue eyes. He’s been paying attention to her, thinking about this. The thought flips something over in her chest, and she shoves his head playfully.

“Shut up,” she says, trying to keep her voice light. She picks her hips up, trying to keep him focused on the event at hand. Yeah, JJ’s easily distracted, but she’s half-naked in front of him, She kinda hoped that would avoid unnecessary conversation. “And get back to work.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, half-kidding -- but his eyes darken just a shade too far to be all tease. (Which, she thinks to herself, is certainly something to be investigated.) He devotes his full attention back to her chest, licking and sucking and biting at her nipples, loving the soft, small noises she makes under his touch. Her tits aren’t usually so sensitive, but JJ knows what the fuck he’s doing, and it’s unfair how much he’s able to work her up with her pants still on. Blowing him was already incredibly hot, and, when his hand finally slides into her underwear, he curses at the wetness he finds between her legs. “Holy hell, Kie,” he sighs.

“Maybe a little more hell,” she says, gripping his arm as his finger drags slowly up her slit, “and a little less holy?” She bites her lip as he teases her, dipping in and out of her folds, tracing his fingers over the lips of her cunt, because he wants her to keep making those godforsaken sounds. Because he can.

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a smart mouth?” he asks, raising his head to suck a mark directly under her ear, smiling against her skin at the resulting gasp.

“Maybe, ah --” she cries, when his careful fingers find her clit and his calloused fingertips explore the sensitive area, “once or twice.”

This is… way more talking than last time. Last time was desperate and grief-stricken and needy, a request for heedless escape in the wake of the unthinkable. Now -- it’s still a distraction, but there were other courses of action available when she showed up at the Chateau as the sun started to sit low in the afternoon sky. She didn’t have to jump him. He didn’t have to let her. JJ kisses her, deep and filthy, putting himself back in charge, angling his body over hers as she presses back into the thin mattress, arcing into his touch, one hand braced on his (very nice) bicep, the other tangled in his messy, golden hair.

He focuses on her clit, spreading the wetness up from her entrance and toying with different pressure and motions, paying attention to what she likes, and she directs him with the sounds she makes, every small moan a ‘yes, please, more of that.’ He’s the most responsive partner she’s ever had, focused on her and her only, his main purpose to make her feel good, not work her up just to fuck or speed past foreplay to move to something more. It makes it better, and when he finally slides a finger into her, he gasps, too, because it’s a privilege for him to feel her, hot and wet and waiting.

“Oh, god,” she whines, as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of her, his thumb on her clit.

“God’s a little formal,” he says, lifting his head to look at her, his expression teasing even as kindness and something else big and unwanted settles in his eyes. “You can stick with JJ.” She tries to smack his arm for that, but ends up sinking her nails into his skin as he slides another finger inside of her a little too easily. He goes slowly, curling his fingers up into her g-spot with every stroke, kissing her lazily and alternating to her neck when she can’t help but gasp at his touch.

It’s torture, the way he takes his time, and after a while she’s begging. “Fuck me, JJ,” she pleads. “God, fuck me, please,” and his spent cock twitches against her leg because fuck if that isn’t something he’s been waiting to hear. His hand speeds up as he decides his next move. When he takes his hands out of her pants she lets out a sound she’d rather he didn’t remember, but based on the way that he smiles against her skin, he won’t be doing that any time soon. He doesn’t even have time to pause at her waistband as he kisses down her body, because she’s very enthusiastically supporting what’s about to happen next, shoving both shorts and underwear down.

He chuckles and tugs them off, tossing them somewhere that’s future Kie’s problem, and heat rises in him again as she spreads her legs for him. Settling on his stomach, he hooks his arms under her thighs, miles of bare skin pressing together with a quiet whisper of faith. She runs her fingers through his hair as he kisses up her legs, taking his time, reveling in the sight and the smell of her. Foolish smiles meet in shy glances and chuckles that are half breath and half disbelief. JJ radiates warmth from his bare skin, broad and powerful below her, and she hooks a leg over his shoulder, sliding her foot up his back and biting her lip as he raises his eyebrows in response, drawing closer to her hot, aching center.

He starts lightly, dragging the tip of his tongue up her slit, just to taste the wetness there, to make her squirm and curse and ask for more. It’s hard to resist the way she begs for him, and he sets in with a purpose, flicking his tongue over her clit and fitting two fingers inside of her, mouth and hands working with a skilled harmony. She clutches at his hair, not afraid to drag her fingernails over his scalp, vocal and unapologetic in how much she’s enjoying this, how much she wants him. When he finds a combination of hooking his fingers against her g-spot and brushing the tip of his tongue over her clit, her legs clamp around his head as she begins to climb, a deep pull starting low in her stomach.

“Don’t stop,” she pleads, “fucking hell, JJ -- God, just like that, don’t fucking stop. Please don’t fucking stop.” He doesn’t, and the sound that comes out of her as she crashes over the edge is loud and guttural and possibly the hottest thing that’s ever fucking happened to him. She cums against his mouth furiously, her stomach flexing and her legs shaking, and he’s a little proud of himself, honestly, as he brings her down gently, sliding his fingers out of her, soothing her with long strokes of his tongue. When her breathing finally slows, he presses kisses over her thighs and then her stomach as he rises back up to meet her.

She kisses him, awestruck and grateful, not minding her own taste as she pulls him down against her, wanting as much bare skin to be touching as possible. She tucks his hair behind his ears and strokes her thumb over his jaw before he falls on his side next to her, staring, tracing his hand up her side in veneration and wonder. It’s hard, the weight of his gaze, so she closes her eyes, drops her forehead against his. “Literally how,” she sighs, and laughs, one arm tucked under his neck and hooked around his shoulders, the other draped over his trim waist.

“It’s not hard,” he promises (falsely), cheshire grin in full force. “Just paying attention.” He kisses her before she has a chance to respond, mostly gentle but with a sense he’s holding back a little, inviting her to take the next step forward. She deliberates for a moment as she sucks on his lower lip, scraping her teeth gently, cataloguing every noise he makes and what move precedes it, learning him. She could go home, now. She’s been sufficiently distracted. She feels a little better, like maybe she can talk to her parents without screaming her head off or bursting into tears. But the pull of the boy next to her is strong and tempting, miles of tan skin with rippling muscle shifting underneath.

The secret is, she always wants to touch JJ. Something about him is magnetic, like a gravitational field she can’t resist. Whenever they’re in the van or on the Pogue or even just chilling on the couch, she finds herself shifting closer. She’s always stepping just behind his shoulder, would prop her chin there -- if she didn’t know that he would freeze up and question the physical contact. Sometimes, she feels jealousy ache in her stomach at his casual physicality with Pope and John B, always slinging his arm around their shoulders or play-fighting or latching onto them, just to be annoying. He’s still physical with her -- she doesn’t think he knows how not to be -- but it’s different, restrained, and sometimes she sees him half-move, reaching out instinctually, only to second guess himself and let his hands fall.

She shifts into him, pressing herself as close as she can, appreciating the gasp he lets out at the press of her bare chest against his, her leg sliding against his dick, already half-hard again. They kiss for a while, and it would be lazy and slow, if they could let themselves relax; but JJ’s still biting something down, and Kie starts to get frustrated trying to draw it out. Finally, tired of waiting, she licks into his mouth with a sudden push, and he’s not surprised, but annoyingly expectant, glad his baiting has finally worked. There’s a moment of tension and pushing as they silently argue who’s going to be on top, and Kie wins when she reaches down and wraps her hand around his cock.

He falls back, and she climbs on top of him, biting down a wide grin of her own. She sits back on her heels, sticking out her chest a little, stroking him slowly, reveling in the way he fights to control his expression. He starts at her tits, palming them with work-roughened hands, before sliding his palms down her body, lingering on the curve of her waist, brushing over her ass, running down her thighs and back up. She lets her head fall back, drinking in his touch, closing her eyes so she doesn’t have to meet his. She can feel him staring, though, unrelenting and hungry, merciless in the way he worships her. She can’t look at him, can’t take the kind of want and lust seething in his eyes, so settles herself over his cock, sliding her cunt up and down his shaft, her hands braced on his chest, his hands gripping her hips, fingertips sinking into her skin.

Part of her wants him to leave bruises, even though she knows he’s not holding her roughly enough for that. He’s being so kind, so soft and respectful, everything she never thought he would be in a situation like this. She loves the tease, the slow build, but she wants him now, viscerally so, rocking her hips over him, hearing him shudder and moan, feeling him clutch at her. She wants him to beg for her, keen her name like she did his. Leaning down to kiss him, she pushes herself all the way up his cock, the tip just brushing her entrance, and he moans, long and filthy. “God,” he gasps, barely coherent. “Fuck, Kiara, please.”

She smiles at that, sitting up, standing on her knees and taking him in her hand. They’d talked about being clean, about her IUD, the first night, and while she’s grateful she doesn’t have to have the same conversation again, it sets an unnerving precedent. The first time was supposed to be the last time. And now there’s today, and she’s not certain she wants to give him up, yet. She doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t know what he’s feeling or what anything between them would look like in a world so tempest-tossed and half-destroyed. But this -- this part will always be easy.

Taking him inside her feels like a prayer. She goes slowly, sinking down, giving herself time to adjust to his size, his hands flexing on her hips. He fills her perfectly, and she’s never believed the bullshit about soulmates or needing someone else to be complete, but with JJ’s cock inside her, his hips, narrow and strong between her legs, she feels a hell of a lot closer to whole. She starts to move, slow and deep, squeezing him on the way up, bottoming out on the way down. He curses and clenches his teeth, wound so tight she can see it, and she wants him to snap, to flip them in a single move and fuck her into the mattress.

He watches her, lets her set the rhythm, thrusting up as she pushes down, but the movement is still tight and controlled. She knows this boy inside and out, knows that he’s holding back for her, afraid of hurting her, of losing her trust or making her feel objectified or powerless. She knows he wants to be careful, to not fuck this up -- because this is a this, now, neither of them have any say in that anymore -- but she also wants his raw power, his strength and abandon, and maybe that’s what drives the next words to fall from her mouth. “Come on, JJ,” she groans impatiently, raking her fingernails down his chest. “Aren’t you gonna take what’s yours?” He’s confused for exactly half a second before she shifts her weight pointedly to the empty space to their left, and before she even registers that he’s moving, she’s on her back, her hands pinned above her head, JJ’s hips slamming obscenely into her own. It’s intense and desperate and fast, and she tugs one of her hands free, bringing it down to her clit to rub hard circles there in pace with his wild hips, knowing he won’t last long like this and chasing that cherished high, just behind him.

He comes before she does on a sharp, animalistic cry, tensing above her and filling her with warmth. She doesn’t have time to be disappointed, because he swears, pulls out, and replaces his cock immediately with his fingers. His cum makes it easy to fit three fingers inside her at once, dextrous and skilled, focused on making her orgasm just as good as his. It doesn’t take long until she’s grabbing at his shoulder, panting and moaning and almost crying, he feels so good, and when he bats aside the hand on her clit in favor of ducking between her legs and replacing it with his mouth, she screams, riding his face and his hand as wave upon wave crashes over her, feet pushing her hips off the pullout, legs quivering and stomach tense. He stays with her, merciless, flicking his tongue across her clit over and over again, until she has to shove his head away with trembling hands, collapsing into the bed in holy, sated exhaustion.

It takes her a second to open her eyes, and when she does, he’s back up next to her, pushing the three fingers into his mouth to suck them clean. “You’re disgusting,” she says, but she’s still panting, out of breath while her chest heaves, and it carries little heat.

He brushes gentle fingers over her temple, tucking away a stray curl. “But we taste so good together,” he teases, his breath fanning across her face as he leans down to kiss her. Their mouths move in lazy harmony, finally at ease, and, of course, he’s right. “C’mon,” he says, tucking his face against her neck, his floppy blond hair falling into her eyes. “Shower?”

“Mmmm,” she hums, thinking she might be anchored to the bed at the base of her spine. “Maybe in a sec.” Honestly, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to stand, but she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing that. He chuckles, knowing exactly what he’s done, and shoves himself up as she curses his never-ending, boundless energy. He brings her water and some paper towels to clean herself up, and, when he sees her sitting up, searching for her underwear, digs in the duffel on the armchair and tosses her a pair of boxers.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “What?” he protests, tugging underwear and a pair of basketball shorts up over his ass. (Which she’s a little disappointed to see disappear beneath layers of fabric once more). “They’re clean.” She puts them on without standing up before rolling over to her stomach and stretching her arms out, tucking them underneath her head. Sweat cools on heated skin as golden hour stretches across the Chateau’s living room, and she wants to live in this moment forever.

JJ lowers himself onto her back, scattering kisses across her shoulders, and she giggles and turns underneath him until they’re pressed chest-to-chest, his weight braced on his elbows on either side of her head. She looks at him, now, her hair a mess and eyes shining, skin still heated from his touch. He leans down to kiss her, and she lets him, even though this is dangerous territory, blurring hazy lines between friends and friends-with-benefits and lovers and ‘together’ and all the other things they could call themselves. The kiss is slow and sweet, and when he pulls back it’s to kiss her cheeks, her closed eyes, her nose. It’s silly and soft and so incorrect to the image of JJ she’s always had in her mind, that she laughs under his attention.

“What?” he asks, laughing with her, dive-bombing her with kisses to her face and neck, her arms coming up around his neck, her fingers in his hair.

“You’re so dumb,” she says, still laughing as she shoves him off. He doesn’t go far, just crashes down next to her, their legs still tangled, one arm tucked back under his head, the other resting on the curve of her waist. Her hands trace his arms, shoulders, chest, mapping them like territory she intends to settle.

“Yeah, but --” he says, and then stops, because the rest of that sentence carries a different weight now. The ‘you still love me’ hangs in the air anyway, and it means something else than it did the last time he tossed it out -- after leaving her stranded on the marsh with Sarah Cameron, a day that feels like years ago.

She curls her hands into fists on his chest before spreading them out again, breaking eye contact and biting her bottom lip. “Yeah,” she sighs. Because she does, even if she can’t define how anymore.

“So you gonna tell me why you came here?” he asks, when the moment stretches on into too many seconds and the weight of it threatens to crush them both.

Kie sighs, heavy and tired, as the memory of earlier that day comes crashing back down, chasing out the golden afternoon and pulling her back to all of the guilt and anger and frustration she’d asked JJ to distract her from. “Do I have to?” she asks, still avoiding his eyes, too tired to dodge it any more carefully than that.

“C’mon, Kie,” he urges, “you said you’d talk about it.” She hates him for a second, because isn’t this JJ’s whole thing? ‘Dank nugs and the stickiest of ickies,’ right? ‘Deny, deny, deny’? There are a million things he’s said, just over this summer, that she could pull out on him right now. But also, she’s not him, and she likes to talk things out, has to, or else whatever it is that’s bothering her consumes every waking thought. Maybe he knows that. Maybe he’s just being a really good friend at a really bad time.

So she tells him, because she’s avoiding Pope and John B’s fucking dead or lost at sea or whatever the fuck he is, and so is Sarah. And even though Kiara would never have considered going to her before -- everything -- maybe she would now, if she had the chance. “My parents want to send me to boarding school,” she says, dropping it whole on his chest and hoping he can breathe under it.

“Oh,” he sighs, like this admission has shoved the word out of him. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t say anything else, so she keeps going. “So I freaked out, and I left.” She keeps flexing her hands on his chest, keeping her eyes there even as they threaten to fill with tears. “And my mom --” she chokes, and he pulls her close, putting his lips on her forehead. “My mom said that if I didn’t --” she swallows, trying to keep it together, “that if I didn’t come home on time, not to --” she takes a controlled breath, willing the tears away. “Not to bother coming home at all.” It sounds silly, saying it to him, when she knows, now, what he’s been through. What his dad does to him and why he’s here, instead of his own house. It sounds petty and inconsequential and she’s never felt more like an ignorant kook in her life, so she sniffs, and takes her hands off him.

JJ chews on the information she’s given him, tracing his fingers down her arm, over the curve of her elbow and back up to her shoulder. “You’re still gonna go home, right?” He asks, uncertainty and maybe longing in his voice. She realizes, then, that of course she is. Her parents love her, even if they don’t know how to show it, don't understand what the Cut and its inhabitants (and one in particular) mean to her. Of course, she’s going to go home. Because JJ doesn’t get to. Because she still can.

If she’d had this conversation with anyone else, there would be stomping and cursing and yelling, indignant demands as to why her parents can’t understand her, why they can’t see how they suffocate her, and hold her down. But this is JJ, who doesn’t get to have problems like this, who doesn’t get to have parents that love him or watch him too closely. At least if Luke Maybank threatened to send JJ to boarding school, it would mean that he cared about JJ’s future. It would mean that he’d looked at his son, spoken to him, seen the anger and hurt and desperation to be seen. It would mean, at least, that he was paying attention.

“Yeah,” she says. She’s still scared, of being powerless to control what they want her to do with her life, of being seventeen and helpless. But she’s not going to say that out loud, not when JJ knows what that feels like on a level she can’t even comprehend. He feels like he should say more, and part of her wants him to, but JJ’s always been shit at comforting. This, his presence, is enough. His light touches, his lips pressed to her hairline -- it’s all he has to do. When she starts to nod off, she asks him to hand her her phone, and stumbles out to the porch to dig in her bag for it. She curls on her side, sends a text to her mom about being sorry and that she’ll be home in a few hours, and then sets an alarm for thirty minutes before curfew.

She’ll go home, but she’s going to spend as much time with him as she can. She still doesn’t think he should be alone, and she doesn’t want to be either. He fits himself in behind her, his chest pressed to her back, one arm under her neck, the other tight around her waist. They don’t talk. She doesn’t want to and he doesn’t know what he’d say. She’s exhausted and warm and JJ’s arms around her feel a little bit like armor, like when he’s holding her, the rest of the world can’t get in. Just before she falls asleep, he squeezes her tight, tucking his face into her neck.

“You aren’t going to boarding school,” he whispers. “I promise.” She feels his lips press against her skin. She wants to turn in his arms, kiss him slow and sweet and kind, the way he deserves to be loved. But sleep tugs at her, unrelenting. Just before she slips under the waves, she hears him whisper one more thing.

“I won’t let them take you away from me.”

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