#this art dump has been long awaited my god

[amaranthdahlia]

ktdk and kdch ,, thee elder gays and baby gays

[patheticallyinfatuatedwithu]

because it's honey, pham hanni

seeing as you have a sweet tooth and a love for honey, hanni attempts to ask if you would like her too.

you've always had a knack for sweets, having a candy popped in your mouth as you go from class to class, breaks to breaks without a fail. hanni, who's almost always your seat mate at classes you share couldn't help but wonder if you'd ever like a different kind of sweet.

"y/n, aren't you ever tired of the same candy or lollipop you eat everyday?" she asks, leaving to the side with eyes travelling all over your face. you turn to her, the oh-so familiar smile written on your lips. "nope."

her head tilts to the side, eyes glancing at your lips where your tongue met your bottom lip. "how come?" you didn't hesitate to answer, already rolling its way out of your tongue and into hanni's awaiting ear. "because it's honey."

hanni didn't understand why she turned quickly in her seat and the tips of her ears turned red, flushed face and panicking eyes hid from your prodding gaze. "you alright, hanni?" she nodded almost immediately, eyes clamped together as she did.

because it's honey.

for as long as hanni remembers, you've always been her best seat mate, taking notes quick and neatly without having to always chitchat with others. you've always had this sunny radiation oozing out of you like there's no tomorrow and maybe, just maybe, that was what made her fall for you.

or maybe it was the other little things. opening the door for her when the two of you promised to go to the library after an unfinished work has been assigned, or how you pushed some strand off her face while she's busy with her notes, or maybe it was your smile that will always, always manage to gag her, or maybe it was your laugh, or maybe it was... everything.

needless to say, hanni was down bad. as in down bad buried up until the earth's core.

and when she found out that her name in your contacts was "honey🍯❤️", she felt her whole world explode. because you did not just do that to her.

oh dear, hanni.

for as long as it'll take, you'll keep on subtly flirting with hanni. and hopefully, she's taken the hint by now because quite frankly, it is tiring. you can't count how many times you've flirted with her and she's just shrugged it off! but maybe if you've had a bit more courage, you'd have asked her out instead of this pathetic little flirting you're doing.

you sigh, sinking in your seat as you stared at the teacher writing equations on the board. "what's got you down in the dumps?" your seat mate, someone who's surprisingly not hanni asked, eyes going to you then to the teacher.

"it's valentines day and oh my god i'm lonely." you replied, twiddling with the pen between your fingers. she chuckles, "well maybe if you've grown balls, you would've had a valentine."

you slam your head on the table, your teacher stopping and turning around to search for the source of noise, only rolling her eyes to find your head against the wooden table before going back to her equation.

teenagers.

"if only it was that easy, i would've done it." your seat mate halts. "growing balls or asking her out?"

"both. mostly the latter though." she pats your back apologetically, "it's alright. at least i'm not the only one that's single." you grumble, "shucks."

for as long as hanni remembers, she's always backed down to asking you out, but today, things are quite different. she's gotten the balls to as you out and is now making her way to the art block, tote bag slung on her shoulder with fire in her eyes.

you've asked her to spend her and your free period together, brushing on your sketching skills for the upcoming practical. she takes a sharp breath in before turning the knob with a creak, eyes meeting yours that tore itself from your canvas.

"hi."

she exhaled, "hi." you gestured at the seat in front of you that's slightly angled so that you could see her when she's drawing, already placed with her own canvas in front of it and tools on the side. "i've organised it for you so you don't need to waste time, if that's okay with you."

she nods, taking the seat in front of you. "thanks." you smiled in return, "i was hoping we'd sketch each other? seeing as that's the next practical, portraits."

you avoids your eye, pulling a pencil and situating herself. "that's a great idea." you nod, starting to sketch and savouring the moment. the room was quiet, a few muffled talking and screaming on the field filled some of it, but other than that, the silence was comfortable.

after a few more minutes, you stare hanni and then at your painting, adding the last touches before placing the pencil down. you were about to speak when hanni takes the opportunity from you.

"you... like honey, right?" she looks up, your eyes meeting again in an eye contact that looks vague in others' eye, but not for the two of you as it shows how much you two hold each other's hearts. "yes."

"would it be possible that you like... hanni, too?" you blinked, completely taken aback by the question. "yes, i like hanni too. i like you too." you turn your canvas around, the day where you first sat next to her, the moment where you felt yourself fall 10 feet under was greatly sketched, the details almost overwhelming her. "that's what you sketched?"

"because it's hanni."

broken records in honour of valentines tomorrow i wrote this little idea that i though of on the verge of falling asleep so im sorry it it's a little crooked and shitty😭 happy valentines you guys🥹

[dancingazaleas]

jean kirstein | primrose

i love him so much

y’all can’t see it but i am crying

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BEAUTIFUL HIMBO

note: this is unedited

warnings/notes: artist!jean, college au!, gardener!reader, cursing, jean’s in love, nsfw, smut, praise, fingering, soft sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, squirting, flower language.

jean wouldn’t say he was popular by any means.

everyone knew of him, but it’s not like they actively tried to befriend him or get to know him. he only really talked to the people in his friend group, and even then it was quite spread out. meaning, there were friend groups inside the friend group. jean doesn’t necessarily understand, but he’ll take what he can get.

jean mostly stayed alone on campus, none of his friends were artists. sasha was in a florist course—or something, jean never hears her speak about it—marco was majoring in nursing along with psychology, and connie was... well... connie? jean knew that connie had classes, but he didn’t even know what they were along with his major.

this meant that jean had no friends in his art classes. he wasn’t upset about it though, he always preferred to keep in his bubble. it only really got annoying whenever the professors would give them group projects.

jean’s sighing while he checks his phone, a text message from sasha that says she’s at the campus’s greenhouse finishing up an assignment. jean and sasha usually hang out until three together, waiting for connie and marco to get out of their own classes.

he grunts as he sets off to the greenhouse, not looking forward to the humidity that awaits him outside of the building. the professor made them work in the sprinkling rain?

jean pulls out an umbrella whenever he gets outside. shivering at the almost dramatic temperature drop whenever he steps outside. he trudges through the soggy grass, ignoring the squelching of his shoes and the water.

“where are you,” he asks whenever he steps inside of the greenhouse, closing his umbrella and inhaling the different smells.

the greenhouse is empty besides one person, sitting on their knees as they fill a hole with soil gently.

“huh? did you need something,” you ask as you pull your gaze away from the plant, eyebrows furrowed.

jean feels his face flush, “oh! i’m sorry... my friend said she was here but you’re the only one who’s here.”

you blink and stare, which makes jean sweat. you light up with realization, “you’re talking about sasha right? if so, she’s here still, just needed to use the bathroom in the next building over.”

he utters a thanks while you get back to your work, awkwardly loitering by the door as a way to wait for his friend.

“wh-what’s your name,” he stutters to you, cringing at how his voice echoes against the glass of the building.

“i’m (name) (last name). you?”

“j..jean kirstein. nice to meet you,” he nods with a gulp.

“not to be offensive, and even if i say that, it might be, but you don’t exactly look like a horticultural major. what are you majoring in,” you’ve not looked up from the plant you’re caring for.

“i’m an art major,” he spits out.

you pause your movements and look up to the window for a moment, relaxed smile on your face.

“funny,” you shrug and go back to your task, “i don’t think i’ve ever painted before.”

he relaxes his tense shoulders, shock written all over his pretty face, “you’ve never painted?!”

“nope.”

“what about when you were a kid?”

“no, my parents didn’t approve of messes along with anything that wasn’t proven to meet their standards,” your bottom lip juts out from concentration.

“i see,” he hums, but he really doesn’t. his mother’s always been so supportive of him and whatever he’s chose to do with his life, and still he treated her horribly when he was younger.

“what’s this project even about,” he asks, walking closer to observe your craft.

“sasha and i have to try and grow strawberries on their own... it may not seem too difficult, but strawberries are an absolute pain to maintain care for,” you sigh with disappointment, “but i’m not working on that for right now, i’m just planting for now.”

“what are you planting?” jean’s sure that you’re becoming annoyed with him and all of the questions he’s asking.

you smile a bit, “lilac.”

jean can’t see exactly how that makes you happy or flustered, but considering you’re the expert and he isn’t, he’s not gonna ask. he goes to open his mouth once more, but the greenhouse door creaking open interrupts him.

“sorry jean! there was this long line in the girl’s bathroom,” sasha blurts as she shuffles into the room and shakes the rain off of her shoes.

“it’s fine, don’t worry,” he holds up a hand snd shakes his head.

“oh! (name), you’re still here,” she asks whenever she steps closer.

“yea, just felt like gardening,” you place the pot down gently and look up to her from your place on the floor.

“what’re you plantin’?”

“lilac,” jean answers for her and is once again struck by confusion whenever sasha’s cheeks light up as a smile stretches across her face.

he looks back to you to find you glaring at sasha with a secret knowledge.

“what? what’s so weird about it,” he asks, looking between you two.

“nothing nothing, jeanie boy! c’mon, i want a burger,” she giggles as she waves her hand up and down, turning around to go out of the door.

“didn’t niccolo feed you earlier,” he scoffs, following behind.

“yeah! he made me lobster. anyways, bye (name)!” she grins as she opens the door after taking jean’s umbrella.

jean fusses over her lack of care as he snatches his umbrella back from her and puts it over the both of them. briefly, his mind wonders back to you.

————

next time jean sees you, you’re looking quite frustrated and upset as you shovel dirt into a an empty pot. sasha is, once again, going to the bathroom in the building over.

“are you alright,” he’s hesitant.

you jump up, not even noticing him once he’d walked in. you relax while you sigh, eyebrows bunching up in frustration.

“i’m okay,” it seems you’re telling yourself this more than you tell jean, “my parents are just being upsetting.”

jean gets a text from sasha, telling him that she’s going to go to the bathroom in the main building since the line was too long. he doesn’t care for some reason, instead taking a seat beside you on the ground.

“wanna talk about it,” he asks, his body warm next to your’s.

you sigh for the umpteenth time, “we’ve only met once and i’d feel as if i would be dumping this onto you.”

“i don’t mind. if you don’t want to speak about it, i won’t force you,” he shrugs.

“well,” you start with reluctance, “my family’s always been judgmental of how i should be allowed to spend my time. not only that, but careers, interests, and friends.”

“and i assume they’ve said something about your major,” he assumes, slightly sad as you nod.

“bingo. they don’t think it’s sophisticated enough for me, but i’m not too sophisticated myself. i’m barely an adult, i’ve just turned 19. why they won’t let me be a kid is beyond me,” you gently lay the seed into the soil of the pot.

“i’ve never had this issue, so i can’t say that i completely understand or that what i say will help. however, good parents shouldn’t treat their child like that. you’re your own person, they shouldn’t be trying to limit you and your experiences. it’s not fair to you,” he says, “you’re parents are ignorant.”

you stifle a laugh, “thank you, jean. i appreciate it, genuinely.”

his cheeks flush as he nods, telling you that it was just something a friend would do for another.

“what’s your instagram,” you ask, swiftly pulling your phone from your pocket and pulling up the app.

he tells you nervously, three dings emitting from his phone in his pocket. one follow, one like, and one message.

jean finds himself texting you at nine pm.

————

jean finds himself giddy a few months later. he’s talked to you nonstop ever since he’s gotten your instagram, easily falling for you as he learns more about you.

he’s teaching you how to paint today. or, not really teach, but just helping you get started.

he sits on his couch while he waits, opting to watch some k-drama that connie recommend to him. he tells you that you can just walk in since the door’s unlocked, but jean has a feeling you would’ve just walked in anyways.

he hugs you excitedly whenever you walk in, leading you over to one of the easel and canvases he’s set up for you. he looks at your outfit.

“you’re wearing that?” he asks, not really thinking before he speaks.

“yea...? gotta problem with it,” you’re immediately defensive, and it has jean bouncing back with realization.

“oh my god, i meant you’re wearing that to paint? you’re outfit looks good on you! it’s cute! n-not to say that you’re cute or anything! er—i don’t mean that you’re not cute!” jean flushes, “i am... going to stop talking..”

you giggle at him, “it’s okay jean, i know what you mean.”

“o-okay,” he relaxes, “do you need to borrow any clothes? i don’t want your shirt to get dirtied.”

“just a shirt, your pants wouldn’t fit me,” you ask while you untuck your loose white button up from your jeans.

he scurries off to find you a shirt, slapping himself on the forehead in embarrassment. he grabs you a light grey shirt with paint splotches scattered on it, which he’s once painted a mural in.

he turns his back to you whenever he gives you the shirt, instead focusing on the collection of painting supplies he’s set out on his work tray. he’s chosen acrylics for you, claiming that they’re the easiest to do if you’re a beginner. you have a feeling that he’s lying, especially since he’s an art major.

“are we painting anything specific,” you ask and sit down on the stool provided for you.

“actually, i was thinking of letting you choose. maybe some flowers or plants since they help you relax,” he contemplates aloud, hand pressed to his chin.

“let’s paint a sunflower,” you say reluctantly, “they should be easy enough to paint.”

he nods, starting put small spurts of paint onto his pallet. you mimic his actions, carefully stroking the canvas with your paintbrush.

“relax your shoulders,” he suggests, noticing just how stiff you are, “if you’re too stiff then the painting will be too. this is about relaxing.”

“i just don’t want to make any mistakes.”

“hey, like bob ross always says; there are no mistakes, just happy accidents,” jean gives a lazy smile as he continues to paint.

you laugh at him, finally relaxing your body and brushing the brush across the canvas. you both chat absentmindedly as you paint, finding comfort in one another’s voice and movements. you’re both playing 20 questions, if you can call a conversation that.

“the most embarrassing thing... probably walking in on my friends having sex,” he briefly remembers his friend, bertholdt, on top of reiner, “it’s how they came out to me.”

you cackle, “oh my god!! they must’ve been mortified!!”

“they were, i felt so bad for walking in on them. now, it’s a funny joke since they’re both out to everyone,” he snickers, “now, where’s your favorite place on earth that you’ve been to?”

“a amusement park over in marley. snuck off with my first ever boyfriend there,” you stroke your brush once more, “or maybe the swimming pool in my parents house. anywhere that i can feel weightless.”

he hums in acknowledgment, “mine’s out in the forest probably. i like it quiet.”

“quiet is always nice. so, jean, have you ever had a girlfriend,” you laugh at jean’s face scrunch up from a childish question.

“yeah, i’ve had one. it went really well at first but it turns out that she likes girls. it hurt at first, cause i loved her, but i got over it. i’ve got no hard feelings against her, she can’t help liking girls. her and i are just really close friends now,” he has a fond smile on his face as he thinks of mikasa.

“i’m glad the two of you are still friends, and i’m sure that she appreciates your kindness to her,” you reciprocate a smile.

“me too. anyways, since you want to dive into my love life, let’s dive into your’s. have you ever been in love?”

you face heats up while you pause your movements, “y-yeah. not until recently though.”

jean’s eyes widen as his own cheeks flush a bright red, and for once he prays.

he prays that it’s him you’re in love with.

————

a month later and you still have the painting of a sunflower that jean did. it makes you embarrassed every time you look at it, even though jean didn’t know the meaning behind the flower.

you sit on the floor of the greenhouse, ignoring how the rain thumps gently on the glass roof. jean’s sitting beside you, leaning all of his weight on your body, which makes you laugh.

“you never told me what you’re planting,” he points out while adding more of his weight onto you.

you laugh while you shove him off of you, “i can’t with you on me like that.”

“well, now i’m not on you so,” he grins cockily, and you want to smack it off of him.

“okay, okay! i’m planting a primrose,” you say while you gently plant a seed into the soil.

“what’s the occasion?”

“what do you mean,” you raise a questioning eyebrow.

“my dad always got my mom those flowers on valentine’s day or for their anniversary. now, my mom puts them on his grave. it means ‘i can’t live without you’ or symbolizes young love,” he explains, “who’re they for?”

embarrassment hits you like truck. you were planting these for jean. whenever they were blooming, you were going to give them to him. thank god you didn’t.

you laugh nervously, “no one! i just felt like planting them! they’re pretty flowers.”

“whatever you say,” jean shrugs, heart tingling with pain.

whenever the flowers had bloomed, you stood at jean’s doorstep with the pot in your hands. your cheeks were hot as you stared at your feet, hoping to god that jean felt the same way towards you.

when jean opens his door, he doesn’t expect to see you holding the potted plant. you’d told him that it wasn’t for anyone and it wasn’t for him, so why’d you have it. did you want him to take care of it or something?

“for you,” you stumble over your words a bit while you thrust the pot against his chest.

it’s his turn to be embarrassed, these are for him! the flower is so pretty, full bloom and showing itself off towards the sun. jean hurries to place the pot on his living room coffee table, then he pounces.

his arms wrap around you and hold you close, his face is emitting a heat when he pulls away to look at you.

“me too,” you look at him confused, “i love you too.”

you feel like crying, for some reason this means the absolute world to you. you wrap your arms around his neck, not able to hold back the tears forming in your eyes.

“why didn’t you tell me sooner,” he laughs while squeezing you tight.

“i did,” your laughter is muffled until he pulls away.

“when?”

“since we met. granted, i didn’t expect to meet you that day. lilac means the start of a new love. and then i told you again when you painted the sunflower again. sunflowers mean pure love,” you wipe away tears as jean pulls you inside his house by your hand.

“i’m such an idiot,” he smacks a palm to his forehead, “that’s what you and sasha were laughing about when we met, wasn’t it?”

“yea,” you watch him lead you to his bedroom, somewhere that you’ve been to on many occasions.

he crawls into bed beside you, pulling you closer to him—if it were even possible. he’s littering your face with soft kisses that tickle your skin and make you giggle.

“what are you doing?!”

“i’ve been wanting to do this since i’ve met you, give me a break,” he mumbles against your skin, lips finally making contact with your’s.

the kiss is sweet like candy, and you almost can’t take it. you deepen the kiss without hesitation, surprising jean, who obviously reciprocates. you whimper against jean’s mouth whenever you grant him access to explore your own.

he pulls away, a shy look in his eyes that tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

“yes, jean. as long as you’re gentle,” you put a hand on top his cheek, stroking it gently.

he smiles before asking his next question shyly, “could we... do a different position? one that isn’t missionary.”

“jean, i’ve only had sex a few times. all were in missionary and were hookups. as long as it’s with you, i don’t mind what we do,” you reassure, scooting closer to him.

he’s surprised that his face doesn’t burst into flames, at this point.

“okay... could you... turn around,” your face twists into confusion, “you’ll find out.”

it sounds ominous, but since it’s jean, you don’t mind. you turn your back to him, shivering whenever his lips kiss at the nape of your neck. his chest presses against your back and he slips one of his arms under the arm against the bed.

his lips bite on your neck while his hands sliver their way up to your boobs. you sit up for a moment, pulling the loose shirt you were wearing off of your body. you shimmy your pants off while you’re at it, easily flopping back into jean’s arms.

god, he’s so close to fainting just from seeing you without clothes. especially when he realizes that you’re not wearing a bra.

his hands grope at your chest, rolling your nipples through his nimble fingers. you whimper shyly, hand coming up to grab at his own.

“cute,” he smiles whenever you look over your shoulder, the same hand drifting from your tit to the waistline of your panties.

his hand reaches inside your hand plain underwear as you willingly spread your legs open, something you’re secretly embarrassed about, but you decide to ignore it anyways. with hesitance, his fingertip comes in contact with your clit. you flinch at the contact and let out a gasp, once again squeezing at his hand.

“spread your legs wider for me, love,” he murmurs in your ear, nudging his wrist against your thigh.

you oblige silently, hooking your foot around the back of jean’s knee.

“good girl,” he smiles, two fingers gently pressing against your clit after he’s wet them with his spit.

you moan out whenever jean starts rubbing lazy circles into your clit and his other hand gropes at your tit. your hips buck forward on instinct, which has you biting your lip from embarrassment.

“can you try to keep your hips still for me,” he kisses at your earlobe, stubble scratching against your neck.

you nod to him, even if you both know that you won’t uphold that promise.

whenever his fingers move up a speed, so does the volume of your moans.

“jean,” you whimper, “i’m gonna cum.”

“it’s okay, you’ve been so good for me, my pretty girl. go ahead and cum,” he smiles against your skin, once again speeding up his tempo.

your nails are biting into his wrist as your hips start to buck almost uncontrollably. your head is thrown back while you open your mouth in a silent scream and your eyes roll back. jean slows his pace, helping you ride out your orgasm.

his smile stretches wider when he holds his fingers up to the light, admiring how the digits glistened in against the early morning sun peeking through the curtains. he also manages to take off your panties.

he puts the two fingers in your mouth once he’s done admiring them, cooing praises in your ear. a string of salvia is connect to his fingertips whenever he pulls them out of your mouth, making you whine in embarrassment. he chuckles and reaches his warm hand back down to your wet cunt.

you gasp at the coldness of your spit coming into contact with your heated entrance. his fingers enter you slowly and cautiously and it takes your breath away.

“you’re so tight,” still smiling, “when’s the last time you’ve gotten laid, pretty girl?”

“f-fuck... maybe like... six months ago,” you pant like a dog in heat.

“it’s good thing you’ve got me now, huh? gonna take care of you now.”

you’re squeezing your pretty eyes closed while you adjust to the feeling of two fingers inside of you. jean feels himself memorizes the look on your face in his brain whenever he gives a shallow thrust with his fingers. you wiggle your hips a bit, whining out for jean to give you more.

he does exactly that.

he starts to finger you slowly, eventually speeding up the speed as you get more and more used to the feeling. his fingers curl against your sweet spot that has you bucking your hips once again.

“there! there,” you buck again when he continues to brush over it.

angling his fingers just right, he starts to thrust and curl his fingers inside of you at the perfect speed.

“fuck! fuck! fuck!” you gasp whenever your toes start to curl.

“are you gonna cum again? it’s okay. go ahead and cum on my fingers, pretty girl,” he reassures while pecking at your neck lazily.

you come once again after a few seconds pass, legs shaking when jean doesn’t slow down his speed.

“can’t...! i can’t cum again,” you whimper while arching your back against jeans torso.

“i know you can,” he whispers, “gotta prepare you for my cock, remember?”

his filthy words make you mewl as you feel yourself already approaching another orgasm quickly. you scream whenever you orgasm again, hips jerking back and forth wildly as his other hand starts rubbing on your puffy little clit.

you’re crying from the intensity. you’re sure that if you’d be able to take all of this if you had fucked anyone these past six months.

instead of slowing down, jean actually speeds up his movements again. you know that you’re mascara might be smearing, you can’t remember if it’s waterproof, tear proof—what the fuck ever.

your legs convulse when jean manages to work you up to another mind blowing orgasm. but this time, you squirt all over jean’s hand and the insides of your plump thighs.

“there we go,” he praises, “that’s what i needed.”

he’s finally slowing his fingers down, and you wonder if they’re aching at the moment.

“thank you, thank you, thank you,” you babble as your nails scratch at his wrist.

“such a sweet girl, thanking me when i haven’t even trained you.”

your chest is heaving up and down while jean pulls his cock out of his pants, a moment’s rest.

you gulp whenever you see his dick. you didn’t believe sasha’s jokes whenever she said jean not only had a horse face but also a horse cock. how she knew, you didn’t ask, but either way she was right. you’d have to apologize to sasha for not heeding her warnings after this.

“don’t be scared, love. i’ll take care of you,” he comforts you while pulling your leg up a bit.

his fingers squeeze at the soft flesh that’s the back of your thigh, instructing you on how to insert himself in your tight little pussy.

after guiding jean’s cock in you, you sob out from just how much he fills you up already. you don’t take a pause, too eager to feel jean inside of you.

noticing this, jean hooks his arm around your thigh and grabs your hand. the angle has his hitting spots that he hadn’t before, pussy fluttering around his cock in effect.

“be patient,” he demands in a soft tone, his hand guiding your own, “i don’t want to hurt you.”

“don’t care, need you so bad,” you sniffle and wiggle your hips once more, ignoring the slight burn.

sighing, jean carefully thrusts the rest of his cock inside of you. you sob out in both pleasure and pain, hand now going back to scratching at his wrist.

“i told you, sweet girl,” you look at him from over your shoulder, “you gotta listen to me.”

“‘m sorry,” you whimper while jean kisses away a tear.

“t’s okay, now just wait until your comfortable,” he advises, unhooking his arm from your thigh and holding it with his hand.

it takes a minute or two, but jean is nothing but attentive during this. thumb stroking your thigh, lips kissing your neck and cheek, whispering quietly in your ear that you’re doing so well.

when you’re ready, he thrusts into you softly. he doesn’t want to hurt you, even when his dick hurts from not cumming. after seeing you’re alright with it, he thrusts more vigorously. with your skin slapping against one another’s tenderly and tits bouncing jean is groaning in your ear.

the hand not holding your thigh holds onto your boob, pinching your nipple and then rolling it in between his fingers again. the kisses he’s pressing against your shoulder feels so hot and sweet against your sweaty skin.

your whines and moans are so cute, begging for jean to cum at the same time you do and for him to come inside.

“you want my cum in you,” he pants, “anything you want since you’ve asked so nicely.”

he speeds his hips up just a bit, guttural groans coming from his throat as your pussy grips him like a vise.

“gonna cum, gonna cum,” you’re mewling almost makes jean black out.

“i’m right behind you, go ahead, love,” his eyebrows bunch together as he nears his orgasm.

after two more thrusts, the both of you are coming. jean’s groans are surprisingly starting to turn into soft moans, which is something you’ll try to get out of him another time.

after you both come down from your high, jean’s pulling his softening dick out of you. he lays on his backside, pulling your weak body on top of his chest with ease.

“love you,” he smiles and gives you a kiss.

“primrose love,” you smile goofily at him.

“primrose love.”

[destieltropecollection]

Destiel Trope Collection 2021 | Day 22: Meet Cute

Trick Or Oh No, Please Don't Cry | @deansmultitudes

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 1,360 Main Tags/Warnings: Modern AU, Dad!Castiel, Halloween, Fluff Summary: Dean expected the Halloween night, spent on giving out candy, to be rather uneventful. And it was, at least, until the tiny disaster happened.

Losing A Few Teeth | @vampamber

Rating: General Word Count: 1,481 Main Tags/Warnings: dentist office, high on nitrous oxide Dean, drunken marriage proposal, first meetings Summary: Dean probably should’ve had his wisdom teeth removed ages ago, but he's never been fond of doctors of any sort, and that included dentists as far as he's concerned. But when he wakes up from getting them removed, the nitrous oxide makes him a bit drunker than expected. Proposing marriage to the hot nurse with the ungodly amazing blue eyes level drunk, apparently.

irresistible | @kitmistry

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 1,529 Main Tags/Warnings: Top Castiel, Bottom Dean, Porn with Plot, Strangers to Lovers, Celebrity Castiel Summary: Well, hello there, Mr. Dark-and-Handsome. Dean can spy what is surely a demi-god, talking with a few ladies across the room. The ladies all coo, and blush, and cling to him with adoration written into every curve of their shapely bodies. The demi-god, though, is cool and aloof. He smiles politely at them, but doesn’t single any of them out. Doesn’t even really look like he’s paying that much attention to them, actually. His strikingly blue eyes scan the room every now and then, without focusing on any person or art piece in particular. The demi-god turns his face so he’s looking somewhere to Dean’s left, and holy. fucking. shit. That’s Castiel Novak! The movie star!

My Honey Bee | @vampamber

Rating: General Word Count: 1,774 Main Tags/Warnings: ABO, alpha Dean, omega Cas, true mates, scenting, first meetings Summary: Rolling his eyes as Sam excitedly made his way to a booth selling what looked like weeds as far as the alpha was concerned, Dean started wandering in the opposite direction. Wrinkling his nose in horror at an older lady selling hideous crafts made out of freaking corn husks (do people even buy crap like that?), he was suddenly hit by the most delicious scent ever. He knew he recognized it from somewhere, but he just couldn’t place it. It was sweet and thick, and even had him drooling a little from how good it smelled.

To All The Places I've Never Been | @vampamber

Rating: General Word Count: 2,814 Main Tags/Warnings: first meetings, barista Cas, pilot Dean, referenced Sam/Eileen Summary: Castiel has always wished that he could travel the world and see all the beauty and adventure awaiting him. Working at Starbucks for minimum wage, though, usually makes travel like that way too expensive and impossible. And working at said Starbucks in an airport only adds insult to injury. Maybe the cute green-eyed pilot that just ordered some coffee can sweep him away from here?

The Fortune Teller | @expectingtofly

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 3,038 Main Tags/Warnings: Fortune Teller!Cas, Eileen/Sam, Normal Life AU, Beach Vacation, Fluff, Inspired by the song "Fortune Teller" by Robert Plant and Allison Krauss Summary: Dean doesn't trust any of this hippy bullshit—as he likes to call it. But he's at the beach on vacation with Sam and Eileen and they've dragged him to a fortune teller, so he reluctantly follows. Cue an attractive, charming fortune teller and a palm reading Dean wants to dismiss, but can't seem to shake.

Winchester's Haunted House | @deansmultitudes & @kitmistry

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 3,417 Main Tags/Warnings: Modern AU, Past Character Death, Ghost!Cas, Halloween, Haunted House Summary: For the Halloween evening, Dean turns his new home into a haunted house for neighboring kids. But once all the guests are gone, is when the real haunting begins.

Heat powered by you | @Mistofstars

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 4,177 Main Tags/Warnings: Destiel, cold winter night, holding hands for warmth, first encounter, Fluffy, Romance, duracell campaign Summary: Just two strangers in a cold winter night, who have both missed the last bus home. Luckily, there is a bus shelter that provides warmth – as long as you hold hands to close the electric circuit. Too bad that Castiel appears pretty infuriating to Dean. Or is it something else? P Inspired by the Duracell campaign "Moments of Warmth".

The Christmas Market | @gii-heylittleangel

Rating: General Word Count: 4,377 Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fic, First Meet, Meet Cute Summary: Being alone in a country he didn't know was never Dean's plan. Still, he tried to make the best out of it and, in the end, he thinks he really did.

Muse | @twisted-pride

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 4,605 Main Tags/Warnings: temporary character death, implied/referenced character death Summary: His life is but flashes Castiel has remembered from dreams, recreated in monochrome, if only so that Cas could prove this man wasn’t made up. After all, he’s certain he’s alive, that he’s someone out there that Cas just can’t get out of his head: he’s stuck with Cas too long to be fictional. And yet -- and it sounds silly in Cas’ head -- he’s never met the man. Someone he has drawn and painted for at least a decade, one that’s haunted his dreams even longer, and he didn’t even know his name. --- Ever since he was young, Cas has been haunted by this phantom of a man, both in his dreams and in the real world. No matter what Cas does, where he goes, the man is there too. In every mirror, every reflection, in puddles and car windows and the faintest reflection of Cas in the metal pitcher at restaurants. He's certain the man isn't the result of an overactive imagination or a ghost with unfinished business, but if he really is experiencing someone else's dreams, why is it only this stranger that Cas sees in his dreams and no one else? [Prophet AU]

This Charming Man | @expectingtofly

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 4,993 Main Tags/Warnings: College AU, Fluff, First Kiss, Inspired by the song "This Charming Man" by The Smiths Summary: Castiel is not having a good night. He was on a bike ride, until some asshole nearly hit him with his car, sending Cas veering onto the shoulder. Now he has a flat tire and has to walk his bike back to his college dorm. And, it looks like it's about to rain. Then said asshole returns, apologizing and offering to give Cas a drive. Sure, he's attractive and Cas' own age, but he could also be a serial killer for all Cas knows. Either this night is looking up or it's gonna get a whole lot worse.

Splash | @notfunnydean

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 5,132 Main Tags/Warnings: Dean wears a bikini, Genderfluid Dean Winchester, Feminization, HHomophobic Language, genderphobia, lifeguard!cas, First Time, First Kiss, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting Summary: Dean is an idiot. Since it’s hot outside and Sammy wants a break from his studies, they decide to check out the local pool. Feeling brave Dean decides to finally be himself for once. Will he regret that?

A New Perspective | @kingdumbass

Rating: Mature Word Count: 5,471 Main Tags/Warnings: First Date, Meet Cute, Blind Date, Artist Cas, Language Summary: A recently dumped Dean is begrudgingly dragged off of his couch by his brother Sam to attend an art show. As it turns out, getting off the couch can be a good thing sometimes.

The Samhain Feast | @deansmultitudes & @kitmistry

Rating: Teen & Up Word Count: 5,840 Main Tags/Warnings: Magic AU,Wich!Dean/Familiar!Cas, Animal Sacrifice Summary: The end of the harvest. The one day the veil between our world and the otherworld is thinnest. The day when a witch coming of age can try summoning and binding a familiar. The Samhain Feast is a tradition so ancient, no one remembers how it started. Dean has attended every single one of them since he was old enough to walk, watching witches meeting their familiars and bonding with them. This year, it's his turn to make an offering. And hope one of the familiars chooses him.

Dear Santa | @imbiowaresbitch

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 5,854 Main Tags/Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Top Castiel/bottom Dean Winchester, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Rimming, Anal Sex, Happy Ending, kinda a christmas fic Summary: Castiel takes his 8-year-old son Jack to the mall, where Jack decides he HAS to speak to Santa. Cas is glad he did.

[xjoonchildx]

airplane, pt. 2 | jjk x reader chapter four: los angeles

pairing: jungkook/reader

word count: 2.2K rating: 18+

genre: smut | silly smut | nonsensical smut

warnings:  criminal!jungkook, koreanamerican!jungkook, reality has left the chat, plausibility has left the chat

A/N: i’m not a huge blog and don’t have a lot of readers -- but i’m so, so, so grateful to every single one of you who’s reached out to me on AP2. hearing what you think about this story makes my day every time. from the bottom of my heart, thank you so much. hope you enjoy this chapter. the story wraps up in the next one!

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06

artwork by the shmexy @ppersonna​ who’s smut is even better than her art

***********************

“You see, as messes go -- there are levels.” 

Seokjin takes a big sip of his draft beer then sets it down to free his hands.

“On the bottom are your run-of-the-mill problems,” he says, putting one hand out flat.  

His other hand comes out to hover over the first.

“Then your regular-level shitshows, then your high-level shitshows and then there’s disasters,” he says, stacking his hands in the air to demonstrate the escalation.  

You smother the urge to roll your eyes.  Like most lawyers, Seokjin loves to hear himself talk.

He’s also an old friend, someone you trust and someone who’s help you desperately need -- so you’re going to have to suck it up and let him have some fun at your expense. 

It’s only fair.

“Then somewhere way up here -- ” he stretches his upper body for effect, “ -- way past disasters is the shit you just told me.  Somewhere way off the charts. Are you with me?”

You nod, taking a sip of your own beer.

“Yup.”

“So what the fuck?” 

You laugh.  You know it’s bad form to call up a buddy you haven’t seen in months, tell him you want to buy him a beer and then dump the world’s most complicated case at his feet.  

It’s just that you haven’t been able to come up with another solution.

You’ve turned this problem over in your mind hundreds of times by this point -- envisioned dozens of ways this could end.  No other scenario makes sense in the long run.  This is the only way to put a stop to this madness without Jungkook behind bars for the rest of his natural life.  

Or worse.

That’s why you’re prepared to pull out all the stops with Seokjin.  You’re not going to let him get away with letting you down easy. 

He hasn’t laughed you out of this bar yet so you’re taking that as a good sign.

“Jin, there isn’t anyone else who could pull this off,” you say, meaning every word.  “I know you can fix this.”

He snorts.

“This guy gave agents the slip in two different countries and ghosted from a federal courthouse,” he takes another sip of his beer.  There’s limits to what even I can do. Not that I don’t appreciate the ego stroke though, you know I do.”

You gnaw at the corner of one fingernail, thinking.

“So who is he?” 

“I already told you, he --”

“Cut the bullshit,” Jin interrupts. “You know what I’m asking.  Who is he to you?”

Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question?

“It’s complicated,” you sigh, and even that is somehow oversimplifying this entire fucked-up situation. “Not sure I know how to explain that.”

“Oh, I’m willing to bet there is quite a story there,” he smirks.  “Some day you’re going to have to fill me in on all the dirty details.”

You glance away for a moment to avoid his knowing look.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” you say. “I’ve seen guys way worse than this get deals that kept them out of prison entirely.”

“Well you of all people know how this works, so don’t act brand new,” Jin retorts. “You want the government to play ball with this guy then he’s got to give them something they want.  If they don’t have any use for him, they have no reason to show mercy.”

“I know that,” you admit.  “Still trying to figure that part out.”

“So figure it out,” Jin pushes back. “‘Cause I’m an attorney, not a genie. I’m not in the wish-granting business.  Bring me something I can use and we’ll go from there.”

We’ll go from there. A careful hope stirs in your chest when Seokjin says that.

You promise yourself you’re going to bring him an angle that works.  

Now you’ve just got to find it.

*****************************

“Who is this guy to you?”

Jin’s question echoes in your head the entire way home.

It’s so much easier to focus on the what -- Jungkook on the run and all the problems that come with it -- than it is to focus on the why.  

The why scares you too much to confront head-on. It’s not like you love this man, right? 

He could be a terrible person. He could be as rotten in real life as he is on paper. 

He could be playing you.  It’s certainly not the first time the thought has crossed your mind.

But every time you start to entertain the doubts, something pulls you back. You can’t shake the feeling that Jungkook is none of those things.  You can’t forget the way he looked at you in Puerto Rico.  His face that night is forever burned into your mind.

So he’s either completely real or the world’s most convincing fake.

You pour a glass of water and unlock the burner phone.   The message you’d tried to send back to the number he contacted you from bounced back.  There hasn’t been a single new message since then.  

You take a drink and consider what step to take next.  

There is no way you’re going to push Jin to fight on Jungkook’s behalf until you know without a doubt this is something Jungkook wants for himself.  For all you know, he’s happy with riding this out until the end.  He could be totally at peace with the idea of never being at peace.

You stare at the screen for a moment before making up your mind to dial the number you’d found online.

The voice on the other end answers in Korean.

“Yoongi?” you ask.

The line is completely silent for a few seconds.

“I distinctly remember you promising me I’d never hear from you again,” comes the curt reply. You smile to yourself imagining the scowl he’s probably wearing right now.

“I did,” you admit.  “Thing is --” you pause and choose your next words carefully, “ -- circumstances have changed. So I’m asking for your help one more time.”

Yoongi makes an aggravated noise, something between a growl and a grunt.

“Fine.  What do you want?”

“I might have a way to help him.  Nothing is ironed out and there are no guarantees, but it’s something.  It’s just that -- I haven’t been able to reach him.”

“Yeah well, neither have I.”

Shit.  You hope the situation hasn’t gone completely upside-down in Nicaragua already. Getting him there was supposed to buy you some time.

“Okay, “ you exhale, pacing your kitchen floor.  You tell yourself there could be a million reasons why he hasn't reached out to anyone.  You tell yourself not to panic. You certainly don’t want to panic Yoongi, either.

“I need you to take down this number.  If you reach Jungkook, you need to give it to him.  Tell him if he wants to end this it’s the only way.”

Yoongi blows out a heavy breath.

“Yeah, alright.  Go ahead.”

*****************************

 God, you are really starting to hate this place.

The voice in your head that’s been telling you how deeply unsatisfied you are in this job has slowly gotten louder over these past few months.  Now it’s all you can think about every morning as you swipe your badge and walk into the polished lobby.

This isn’t some labor of love for you.  

It’s something you trained to do, started doing, kept on doing and you’re still doing now.  

On and on and on in an endless string of days.

You’d started this job with the kind of starry-eyed enthusiasm that always annoyed the veterans around here.  Now you can understand why.  It doesn’t take long in this line of work to realize that justice is a concept that’s bought and sold.  He who has the most cash makes the rules.

You grab a cup of coffee and log onto your computer to start in on the mountain of paperwork that awaits.  It’s laborious and annoying and total bullshit but at least it’s a distraction.  At least it keeps you from obsessing over the Jungkook situation non-stop.

So you throw yourself into the work just to make the hours tick by.

Your boss stops by before lunch, asks if you want to join him and some of the others at a local deli.  You cry off, complaining about paperwork and deadlines and he smiles sympathetically as they head out.  It’s a relief when their laughing voices fade away and this part of the office falls silent.

You are half-way through customizing your burrito order online when a shiver of realization walks up your spine.

***********************

“Seokjin Kim.”

He sounds so formal, answering his phone for a number he doesn’t recognize.  

“Hey, it’s me,” you say, tossing your keys onto your kitchen counter.  

“Oh, I didn’t realize -- wait, wait, wait.  Are you calling me from a burner?” Jin asks incredulously.  “Wow, it’s like we’re on The Wire or some shit.”

“Shut up,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “I’m calling because I think I might have come up with the angle.”

Jin whistles.

“Hope it’s a good one.”

“Yeah me too,” you mutter under your breath.  “I just -- I can’t be involved in any way.  I’m not even going to be able to talk to you until this plays out. No texts, no calls to my cell.  I’m already way out on a limb here.”

“Yeah, I get it,” he says.  “But hey, just for the record? A favor is something like, ‘Hey Jin, can you drop me at the airport on Tuesday? Hey Jin, would you mind picking up my dry cleaning?’ You know, for future reference.”

You laugh. Points were made.

*************************

You tell yourself -- this is long overdue.

That with or without Jungkook -- with or without the madness on that flight or the night in San Juan -- this was going to happen anyway.  

And for the first time in weeks, you actually smile at the security guards who check bags at the entrance.  You smile at the barista who talks too much at the Starbucks in the lobby.  You smile at the creep from Cybercrimes on the elevator, even though he’s standing too close. He always stands too close.

You feel lighter than you have in ages and that’s fucking bizarre, because this could all still blow up in your face at any moment.  Despite all you’ve done, Jungkook could be arrested at any time -- hauled away, locked away in prison for life.  Hell, you could be joining him at some point, disgraced and discredited and detained.  

But you woke up this morning and had a moment of clarity that knocked the wind out of you.  Today, you’re going to walk out of this building on your own terms.  

Every decision you’ve made along the way -- good or bad -- has been yours.  

If they show up at your door with a warrant, then you’ll handle it.  If they haul you off, then you’ll handle it.  If Jungkook decides he wants Jin’s help and the agency never sniffs out a thing, then you’ll handle it.  

You’ve done everything you can -- so either this works, or it doesn’t.  But there’s a big fucking difference between being cautious and being scared. 

You’ve decided you’re not going to be scared.

You read over the letter you’d typed, printed and signed before walking into your boss’s office. 

His mouth gapes in surprise when you hand him your resignation.

Effective immediately.

************************

It’s been three weeks without a word from anyone.  

Yes, you did specifically tell Jin not to reach out, you remind yourself.

The last time you two had spoken, you’d explained that you didn’t give a shit about losing the job, but that you were certain were entirely too prissy to make it in prison, and he’d agreed and you’d both shared a laugh about that.  

But now it’s been over three weeks and he still hasn’t reached out.  

You’ve had no word from him, no word from Jungkook and now you have no job.  

The silence is deafening.

If there’s an upside at this point, at least your house is immaculate.  You’ve gotten your daily run up to three miles.

Tonight the air is unnaturally cool for this time of year, more than welcome when you lace up your running shoes.  You set a good pace, make good time, and drown out the outside world with your earbuds.  

But at the end of your run -- just as you’re getting closer to home -- you notice something odd. 

Your porch light is out.  

Which is weird because you definitely remember replacing that bulb not too long ago.  You cut the music and walk quietly up to your door. 

Your entire body is on high alert as you approach slowly, keys in hand on the off chance you’re going to have to wield them like a weapon. 

But when you step up to the porch you find -- nothing. 

No creep waiting to jump out of the shadows to ambush you.  You shake your head at your own overactive imagination, take a deep breath and tell yourself to relax.

You slide your key in the lock.

The sunlight that had waned at the start of your run is entirely gone at this point, and you open the door into darkness.  You flip on the light, toss your keys on the small table you keep in the entryway.

“Don’t freak out, okay?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the voice that comes from your living room.  From your couch.  

From inside your goddamned home.

Oh my god.

**************************

[gumnut-logic]

Escapee (Part Two and End)

From here.

This has been on my WIP list far too long for a tiny short, so I’ve finished it off and am now dumping it here and running. Quality is questionable. 2267 words.

I’ve posted this piece of art with it because screenshots lack hugs. I need to draw more hugs :D

I hope you enjoy it ::hugs you all::

-o-o-o-

Virgil woke with a headache and a foul taste in his mouth.

The obvious smells of the infirmary alerted him to where he was, and even this deep in the mountain, he could hear the storm still raging outside.

He groaned. Damned cyclone. Two was going to need a full overhaul after that landing.

Landing.

Memory tracked him approaching Tracy Island, desperate to get home before the cyclone hit, but sure that Two could handle the conditions. After all, she had tackled much worse on many an occasion.

But there was a blank. He didn’t remember landing and all his memory could supply was a jumbled mess of terror.

“Scott!” He sat straight up in bed, his heart suddenly racing, thudding in his chest, absolutely terrified. What had happened to his brothers?

Hands grabbed him and, for a split second, that fear multiplied as he realised his own hands were tied down and he couldn’t free them.

“Virgil! You’re safe. You’re home. You’re safe.” Scott’s voice, panicked and desperate. A pair of worried blue eyes and Virgil latched onto them. A moment of stillness, recognition. He was in the infirmary. Scott had him. He was okay.

God, his head hurt.

“Scott?”

A tentative hopeful smile. “You with me, Virg?”

“Uh, yeah.” He pulled at his arms, looking down to find his wrists strapped with medical restraints. His left arm was swathed in bandages and was complaining. A frown. “What happened?”

Scott stepped back a little, but his hands didn’t leave Virgil’s shoulders. “You had a bit of a rough landing. Two did her best, but you got a bit shook up.”

Landing.

He searched his memory. Still nothing. No specifics, just a haze. But this wasn’t the first time he had hit his head...because he had obviously hit his head because he couldn’t remember the incident. “What’s the damage?”

“You have some electrical burns and bruising.”

“Not me, Thunderbird Two!”

His brother’s shoulders dropped and he sat back, rolling his eyes just a little. His brother radiated such a sense of relief. “Virg...” But there was a hitch in Scott’s voice. “Two is fine. A bit of strain to her superstructure, one wheel had to be replaced. Brains was concerned about her electrical systems, but he said it was mostly a replace and patch up job. He’s already repaired the dash.”

“The dash?!” What the hell happened?

“Hey, relax. She’s good. As far as we can tell it was a freak accident. A combination of lightning and a shielding failure. You hit the runway hard and an electrical arc took out you and half the dash.”

Virgil stared at his brother. “Are you sure she’s okay?”

Scott frowned at him, all humour gone. “Virgil, I don’t care about Two. I only care about you. It was...close. You scared us.”

Virgil blinked, the terror making a sudden return, swirling in the back of his mind. “What happened?”

Scott sighed. “You’re okay, just as much as your ‘bird. Grandma knows what she is doing.”

Another blink. “Grandma? Where is she?” He looked around the room as if expecting her to suddenly pop out of the shadows.

“She’s resting.”

Another thought hit him. “Gordon! Where’s Gordon?”

Scott frowned at him. “Gordon’s fine.”

“But the Landing...” He trailed off. His memory refused to supply the information he needed. There was something about Gordon. Gordon getting hurt.

“He wasn’t on Two. You were alone. You were coming back from Beijing. You were delayed with another rescue in the Phillipines and it messed up your flight plan proper. Gordon was fishing a boat full of whale watchers out of the drink in Tonga.”

Virgil just stared at him.

Scott’s frown deepened. “Gordon, travelled back under the edges of the cyclone. Made it back a couple of hours before you.” The hands on his shoulders squeezed gently. “Virg, what is it?”

“Why am I strapped down?” The fear was becoming a physical thing. His memory was blank, but something had happened. His neurons may not have recorded the information, but his body was on edge. Something other than falling out of the sky.

It hit him like a slap to the face as the facts all came together. The strain on Scott’s face, the fear in his own heart, the restraints, the memory loss... Quiet words echoing the terror welling inside. “What did I do?”

Scott’s stiffening gave it all away. The flicker of fear in his brother’s eyes that echoed Virgil’s own.

“Scott, what did I do?!”

“You were medicated. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Scott!” Why the hell didn’t he just tell him?

The door slipped open and a strawberry blond head poked through. “Virg! You’re awake!” Gordon bounded into the room, a grinning Alan following him in.

The aquanaut thumbed his comms. “John, he’s awake.”

The FAB at the other end of the line was curt, but a moment later his tall and lanky brother slipped in behind them.

Virgil stared, his aching head not quite able to keep up with the sudden change in audience.

Alan had his left arm in a sling. When had that happened? Again, his memory refused to supply the requested information. He resisted the urge to swear.

“Will someone please tell me what happened?” He was almost embarrassed by the desperate plea in his voice...almost.

All four brothers froze, three of them turning to Scott as if awaiting direction. Virgil looked from one to the other and back again. “Guys?!” He rattled the restraints like that guy out of Dicken’s ‘A Christmas Carol’ rattled his chains.

And immediately regretted it when Alan’s eyes latched onto them. The expression on his littlest brother’s face flashed worry.

“Allie?”

Alan startled and Virgil’s already thudding heart upped its pace another notch as clues began to slot together.

“Allie, how did you break your arm?” No, please, no.

“Virgil-“

“Scott!” He glared at his brother before turning back to Alan. “Are you okay?”

The worry on Alan’s face vanished and he shrugged as if the sling was nothing. “I’m cool. You’re the one we’re worried about.” He strode up to the end of Virgil’s bed and dumped himself on it. “Are you feeling better?”

There was so much hope in those blue eyes.

Virgil blinked. He really wished his head would stop hurting.

Enunciated very clearly. “Can someone please tell me what happened?” An unsteady breath as his eyes latched onto Alan again. “Did I hurt you?”

The restraints bit at his wrists as he clenched his fists.

Alan’s eyes darted to Virgil’s hands in echo of that earlier flash of emotion before his little brother threw up the same cheerful façade he did during rescues.

Virgil’s heart broke.

Alan reached out, a soft smile on his face as his fingers landed on Virgil’s leg, the bed covers relaying his little brother’s touch. “I’m good, Virg. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I hurt you.” The words scraped past his larynx as Virgil’s eyes latched onto the sling holding his little brother’s arm safe.

Alan waved it away. “Eh, you just proved a point. I need to spend some more time with Kayo.” He smiled just a little. “You know how to kick ass when you want to. Note taken. Don’t get in your way when you’re determined.” An impish grin. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I-“ He knew Alan meant well, but every word… he struggled against his restraints. He desperately wanted to reach out and hold his brother, reassure himself, provide comfort, but…his chains rattled.

It was Gordon who acted. “Hey, Virg, it’s okay.” A hand on his shoulder for just a moment before his aquanaut brother was fiddling with the strap holding down Virgil’s arm. “I can see that hug machine grinding gears.”

Scott was fiddling with the fastenings on Virgil’s other wrist.

“No, not the hug machine!” It was comical on Alan’s part as he flailed dramatically at the end of the bed, but it was in such contrast to the distress in Virgil’s heart…

Then his hands were free and he was reaching for his little brother. “Allie!”

Perhaps he feared rejection in Alan’s eyes, but as the young astronaut flew into his arms without hesitation, Virgil was overwhelmed with a mixture of gratitude and love.

“It’s okay, Virg. I promise.” It was muffled into his shoulder.

Virgil only squeezed tighter, his left arm pulling at whatever he had done to it. Blond strands fluttered as he breathed into his brother’s hair.

“Sorry.” Hoarse.

“Is okay.” One thin arm tightened around him even tighter and it squeezed moisture out of his eyes.

He clung to his little brother for a long moment, but questions still needed answers.

As Alan eventually pulled away, blue eyes looked up at him and smiled. As far as Alan was concerned, he was obviously forgiven.

But Virgil didn’t think he could ever forgive himself.

And he still didn’t know what had happened. His eyes skipped to Scott, then Gordon and finally John.

John.

Virgil’s eyes narrowed as they focussed on his space brother. “Tell me.”

“Virg-“ Scott placed a hand on his arm again.

Virgil shook it off and kept his eyes on John. “Tell me!”

Aquamarine gauged him, flickered to Scott and back. “You had an adverse reaction to medication. Grandma tried a new combination as you weren’t responding well to your usual dose. It worked. However, an unforeseen side effect was paranoia. You fled the infirmary in what appears to be an escape attempt from the Island and headed down to Thunderbird Two.” John’s eyes were kind. “Alan got in your way. He claims you picked him up with one hand and threw him across the room. Hence the broken arm.”

Virgil turned to stare at his little brother who shrugged. “You were right. You can pick me up with one hand.”

Fingers tightened on Virgil’s arm, but he was beyond identifying who they belonged to as he turned back to John. Quietly. “There’s more.” It wasn’t a question.

John tilted his head a little. “Then Scott got in your way. You were determined that he was an enemy. Either the Chaos Crew or the Hood himself, because you blamed him for Gordon’s injuries earlier in the year.”

“John.” Scott’s tone was sharp.

The space monitor turned to the commander. “He needs to know.”

Virgil couldn’t take his eyes off his tall, red-headed brother. Those aquamarine eyes turned back to him. “You attacked Scott. Gordon took you out with a tranquilliser gun.”

Virgil stared. A lump in his throat welled up. “Thank you, John.”

His brother’s lips curled up into the faintest of smiles and he nodded once, but didn’t say anything further.

Virgil turned to Scott. “Are you okay?”

Eyes were rolled at him for his efforts. “As if you could take me your best day, Virg. Are you kidding me?” All smirking confidence.

Virgil raked his brother with his gaze, almost wishing he could medically scan him with his eyeballs.

He turned back to John. “Is he okay?”

A disgusted sound from Scott almost obliterated John’s smiling words. “He’s fine. Maybe a few bruises. That’s all.”

“John!”

John turned to Scott. “You want to try and hide medical issues from Virgil? He’ll worry himself sick and then find out anyway. Best to be upfront. For everyone’s health.”

Scott grunted and glared. “I’ll remind you of that next time you complain I’ve set Virgil on you for not sleeping.”

“That’s different.”

“Different how? Eos claimed it was a good thirty-six hours last time and you were hallucinating coffee.”

“I am old enough to make my own decisions.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“You can’t talk. You hid that bruised rib from him when you came back from San Fran two weeks ago.”

“John!”

“You’re lucky he punched you on the other side today.”

“John! For goodness sake!”

Virgil stared at both of them in shock as the ‘discussion’ blew up into a full-on argument over the bed. John stood with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed while Scott pointed fingers at him in punctuation.

Alan stared at the both of them, wide-eyed beside Virgil.

A nudge at Virgil’s other side snapped him out it.

“Both idiots, if you ask me.” Gordon was quietly grinning. He sat on the edge of the bed beside Virgil and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Can’t hide anything from you, anyway.”

A blink. The hug was weird and voluntary, but Virgil wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

However…

“You shot me.”

“Yep.” The grinning continued, but Gordon didn’t look at him, his eyes tracking the entertainment of space monitor versus commander as they bickered.

“Thank you.”

That did draw those amber brown eyes in his direction. “You’re welcome. Any time.”

Virgil’s left arm hurt and was stiff as hell, but he lifted it awkwardly and pulled his fish brother in as best he could. There was that odd compliance again as Gordon let him do it with no protest at all.

Gordon’s hair always smelled of chlorine. It was familiar and reassuring.

“You okay?”

That earned him a snort. “My only regret is I didn’t shoot you in the butt.”

“Gordon.”

His brother sobered a little. “Honest, Virg. I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me and...” Those eyes, so like his own, fixed him where he sat. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Virgil didn’t have an answer to that so just pulled him in closer.

“Do it again and it’s the butt. I’m taking pictures.”

Virgil closed his eyes and just held on tight.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

[insomniousluci]

Power Trip

-Asmo shows his new toys to MC (f) and they decide to give them a try together-

Art by @ Beelstan101 on Twitter!

I sighed as I walked down the long hall of the dorms. Class seemed to drag on extra long today, and I knew I still had a busy day ahead of me. Luckily I had a few free hours before I was supposed to meet up with Lucifer. He liked to have me come by every couple of weeks to update him on my stay in the Devildom so that he could report back to Diavolo. I decided I’d use what little time I had to take a nap.

As I made my way down the hall, the door to my bedroom came into view, and I picked up the pace, ready to sit down after a long day of walking around RAD. Suddenly I heard a door behind me swing open and before I could turn around, someone grabbed me by the wrist and jerked me backwards.

“Hey! What the—“

“Come here!” Said a sweet, sing-songy voice. It was Asmodeus. He pulled me into his bedroom and closed the door behind me.

“Asmo! You can’t just grab people like that.” I scolded him, rubbing my wrist. “At least you don’t have to be so damn rough.”

“I have something to show you!” He chirped, totally ignoring what I’d said. He walked over to his bed and picked up a pink shopping bag, turning it over to dump out the contents. All kinds of things fell out onto the mattress, and by things, I mean sex toys.

“Wow. Where’d you get all that?” I asked. I may have been surprised had someone like Levi or Beel shown me this collection of items, but this was Asmo, so I really wasn’t shocked.

“I found a cute little shop downtown! There were so many fun things I wanted to buy, but I have to save some of my money for clothes, you know. So I just got the stuff I thought you’d like the most!”

“Me?!” Now I was surprised. I couldn’t tell if I was blushing but judging by the heat I felt on my face I’m sure I had turned some kind of strange color.

“Yes! Wasn’t that sweet of me?” Asmo turned around, beaming from ear to ear. He held up a very large dildo and waved it around proudly.

“Put that thing down you maniac!” I took it from him and tossed it back onto the bed. It bounced a few times and I couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of it. “God, what made you think I’d want a thing like that?”

“What? You don’t like it? I thought for sure you’d love it, if not just for the sheer size of it, I mean look—“

“Yes I get it it’s big!” I looked down at the floor in embarrassment. “I guess I hadn’t given much thought to something like that...you know...I guess I’m fine with just having the real thing...”

“Oooh! You naughty girl!” Asmo giggled. I laughed too, to keep from melting into a puddle of shame. “I think I have something you’ll actually like, though. Here, have a seat and close your eyes.”

“Asmo I—“

“Ah ah ah! Come on don’t be a prude!” He wagged a finger at me. I sighed and followed his orders, hopping onto his soft bed and closing my eyes. I heard him rustling some packaging around, followed by a loud buzzing sound.

“Asmo!” I shouted. Although I was yelling at him, I still had my eyes closed. The thought of testing out some of these toys with him was a little arousing, even if I’d never admit it out loud. He stepped toward me and the noise grew louder. I felt his warm hand on my thigh as he pushed my legs apart. Suddenly I felt the rapid vibrations over my panties. “I picked a hell of a day to wear a dress...” I thought to myself as I began to shiver from the feeling of the toy against my crotch.

“Oh it looks like you do enjoy it! Good.” The first part of the sentence was said in Asmo’s normal, cutesy voice, but the last word was spoken with much more devilish intentions. He began to move the vibrator around in circles and my legs involuntarily snapped shut. I bit down on my lip hard to contain my moans. I wasn’t going to give him what he wanted that easy. He pulled my panties down and pushed me onto my back. I finally opened my eyes and saw him climbing on top of me. He placed the vibrator directly on my clit and I tensed up again, breathing in sharply and exhaling with a whimper. I tried not to squirm too much, but the pleasure was so intense I felt it throughout my whole body.

“If you like that, you’re going to absolutely love this!” He stuck his tongue out at me. “I bet you didn’t know I had my tongue pierced!” He pointed to his tongue. Not only was it pierced, but he wasn’t wearing any ordinary jewelry. He was wearing something I had only ever heard rumors about— a vibrating tongue ring. Before I could protest he pushed my legs up toward my chest and began licking me, first around the outside before teasing my sensitive clit. He flicked his tongue against it and I let out a loud groan. The intense vibration mixed with the warm and wet sensation of his tongue felt like heaven. I grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled it, and that only got him more excited. He pressed the toy firmly into my clit and held it there. I moaned and arched my back, trying not to orgasm right then and there. But Asmo was determined. He slipped a finger inside me and began rubbing me deep inside, moving his tongue in slow circles on my clit.

“Oh...! Asmo! Ahh I—“ I couldn’t even finish my thought before I began to orgasm, my toes curling up as I felt the wave of ecstasy overtake every inch of me. Asmo smiled up at me as I caught my breath.

“Oh you’re so perfect! I’m so glad you had fun!” He kissed my thigh and rubbed it gently. I tossled his hair and smiled. Crawling back up beside me, he placed a hand on my cheek and rubbed my face with his thumb. “Since you were so good, I’ll let you pick whatever you want to play with next!”

“Asmo I don’t—“

He looked at me angrily, a scowl overtaking his handsome face. He really was such a brat.

“Ugh, fine.” I looked at the array of different toys strewn across the bed. Handcuffs? Boring. Ball gag? Nah, I liked dirty talk too much. Some of the stuff was so foreign looking I couldn’t even begin to imagine what is was meant to be used for. But then it caught my eye, the perfect way to punish Asmo for his bad attitude. I reached out and grabbed it, a large strap on. Holding it in my hands, I turned back to Asmo, awaiting his reaction.

To my surprise, his cheeks became a little pink. But he also had the most joyful grin on his face.

“Oh wow! I knew you were a bad girl but I didn’t think you’d go for that. But I’m so happy! The one thing I haven’t tried before!” He giggled and took the toy from my hands, holding it up to study it.

“What? The Avatar of Lust has never been pegged?” I laughed at the absurdity of it all. I snatched the thing back from him and grabbed his wrist, overcome with the desire to make him squirm the same way he’d done to me. His eyes widened in surprise as I pulled him by the wrist onto his back and got on top of him, holding him down with my knee on his chest. He gave me a devilish smirk and reached up to touch me, but I pushed his hand away. I pulled my dress over my head and then went to work undressing him, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling off his pants quickly, my excitement growing every second. I fiddled with the strap until it was on correctly and I made sure it was on nice and tight. Overcome with power, I spread Asmo’s legs and started grinding against him over his underwear. His cheeks were fully flushed now, but his eyes were glazed over with lust.

“What are you going to do to me?” He asked, biting his lip. His hands ran down his own body. He was so eager to be touching or feeling something, whether it be me or himself.

“I’m going to fuck you, Asmo. I’m going to punish you for being such a naughty boy.” My own words ignited a fire in my chest and I couldn’t wait any longer. I pulled his underwear off and pushed his legs upward, so turned on by the view. I spread his legs until I could see everything, his perfect cock, and his tight asshole. I went down and licked his cock all over, taking a moment to circle my tongue around the head and suck on it lightly. But I quickly moved on to my next destination, pressing my tongue against his adorable little asshole and licking all around it. Asmo gasped and let out a small but seductive moan as I teased his hole with my tongue. I looked up at him as I pushed my tongue against it, just barely managing to slip it inside. I moved it around in circles, exploring his warm and wet insides. He moaned louder, struggling to lay still as he became more and more excited.

I came back up again and looked around until I found a bottle of lube that Asmo had purchased a long with the rest of his haul. I squirted a generous amount onto my hand and started to stroke my new cock. Just the sight of it made me feel more powerful. I squirted out a little more lube onto my fingers and slowly pushed two of them inside Asmo, making sure to get him ready to take me. He squeaked a little as my fingers went in, and as I removed them I began to press the tip of the strap on against his hole. He looked at me with a depraved and desperate expression.

“Are you going to fuck me hard?” He asked, his voice was so sweet it almost made his words seem less sinful.

“Oh yes...I’m going to fuck you until you’re screaming for me.” I replied, starting to slide the head of the cock into him. He was already giving me soft moans before I was even all the way in. I gave a slow but firm thrust and the cock went deeper, causing a much louder groan from Asmo. I began to move my hips in and out, watching as I inched deeper inside with each motion.

“Faster...” Asmo pleaded between heavy breaths. I fulfilled his wish, picking up the speed with my thrusts. Asmo’s mouth was open, as he was moaning and panting. It looked like the perfect place for my fingers. I pushed two of them into his mouth and he immediately started sucking, looking into my eyes as he did.

“Fuck...so hot...” I said under my breath, shoving into him harder and harder.

“Mmm..!” Was the only sound Asmo could make as he sucked on my fingers and took the pounding I was giving him. I took my fingers out of his mouth then, hungry for more of his sweet noises. I leaned in close to him, giving me more leverage to really speed up my thrusts, and I rammed his ass quickly and mercilessly as I sucked on his neck, leaving a bright red mark.

“Ahhnn...more! Don’t stop!” He whined, squirming underneath me. I was happy to follow his command, but I wanted to switch things up. I pulled out for a moment, and swiftly flipped Asmo onto his stomach. I pulled him up by the hips and shoved my cock back inside of him roughly, continuing to fuck him hard. A loud moan escaped from him each time my hips crashed into him from behind. I grabbed his ass with one hand, digging my nails into him a little, just enough to let him know I was in control. With my other hand I reached down and began to stroke his hard, throbbing cock.

“You like that Asmo? You like it when I fuck you and play with your cock?” I teased him as I rammed my strap on into his tight ass again and again.

“Yes! Ahh..yes! Oh I...I’m gonna cum! Please don’t stop!” He begged, barely able to speak between his submissive groans. I continued to fuck him as hard as I could, giving his cock a firm squeeze as I rubbed the length of it, and then massaged the head. He was finally sent over the edge, and he shouted out in pleasure as he came, making a sticky mess all over my hand and the sheets below. I slowly pulled out of him and he collapsed onto his stomach before rolling back over onto his back. He smiled up at me, and the starving look in his eyes settled into a satisfied one.

We lay on the bed, Asmo clutching me tightly to his chest. He played with my hair and kissed all over my face.

“That was sooo fun! I can’t wait to do it again, and plus there’s still all those toys we haven’t tried yet! Now that I know what you like we can...”

As Asmo rambled on I caught sight of the clock on his wall behind him and gasped in horror, jumping out of bed quickly.

“Shit!” I cursed under my breath.

“Huh? What’s the matter with you? Where are you going? Don’t leave me, I’m not done with you yet!” Asmo pouted as I raced to get dressed.

“I’m late for my meeting with Lucifer. Dammit, Asmo. If I get in trouble it’s your fault!” I scolded him as I attempted to quickly fix my hair in the mirror.

“That’s okay, causing trouble is what I do, after all!” He giggled.

“Yeah whatever, you demon. Listen don’t come knocking on my door tonight, or tomorrow. I’m very busy and I can’t be held up like this again. I have to focus and—“

“If you keep talking you’ll never get there, silly.” He was mocking me now. I didn’t even bother responding and I quickly ran out the door. I knew I would be thinking about what had just happened for the rest of the night, if not the rest of the week.

[millennial-star-gazer]

Tantric Flames: Chapter: 9

Tantric Flames

Nalu lovefest 2019 Prompts: Magic, Worship, Reckless , Forbidden and Cravings (All Implied)

Genres: Romance, Humor, New Adult Fanfiction

Pairing:Nalu (Natsu x Lucy)

Rating: M for language, steamy and mature adult sexual content (all consensual) in these and future chapters. Reader Direction is advised.(You've been warned!)

Summary: One look, one smouldering hooded gaze, one word, one fiery kiss, one magnetizing touch was all he needed for her to completely unravel at his mercy alone, succumbing to the sinful temptation of her inhibitions, his love, his feral passion, his raw, insatiable desires, his "Tantric Flames". Originally an Submission for Nalulovefest 2017 (on previous accounts) in which Natsu gives his mate a tantric massage-after much persuasion- she won't soon forget when it turns into so much more. Also previously featured in Nalu lovefest 2018 (on current accounts) , as well as Nalu Week 2017, Nalu Fluff Week and Nalu lovefest 2017 (as stated) with first three chapters on my previous celestialgeekmage accounts . Chapter 7 was also an entry for nalu week 2019 and Chapter 8 for Nalu Lovefest 2019. ( Nalu-centric) (Slight Au).

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Chapter 9: Tempted by A Tantric Touch

A/N: Hey guys, it's your girl Millennial StarGazer! This time I'm returning with another long-awaited installment of Tantric Flames. Once again, a major thanks to and koodos to @bmarvels, @mannyegb, @animezing-fandoms/princess-starry-night, and @allie-and-her-fandoms for helping me edit and further develop this chapter! Now without further ado, here's the story-enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Fairytail which belongs to the one and only Hiro-sensei instead!

(Note: Scroll down pas the keep reading button/ cut for the designated links, legend and actual chapter.  The tagging feature and keep reading button might not show up or fully work on the desktop site but should function just fine on the app and mobile version.

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Read More of Tantric Flames and the rest of my writing on here and other plaftorms.

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1. Tantric Flames

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Chapter: 9          (Next Chapter ) (Coming Soon)

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Legend:

Italic: Song Lyrics/Quotes (or flashback dialogue)

Bold: First Person Thoughts

Bolded Italics: Empathized Word(s)

Bolded Italics (Within and Outside Bracket) including for author's side notes also known as (A/N:) within brackets (though none for side-notes in this chapter ).

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"You run your fingers over every part of my body and tease me with your touch".

(Source Unknown)

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Oh God, those love bites. So many love bites that decorated the blonde's creamy skin like jewels; far too numerous to count that always sent a red-hot line fire rippling through her nerves with with every nip, every suck; each every and stroke of Natsu's velvet tongue. Plus, he's usually doing other things at the same time. Racy images of the couple's steamy moments together from the last soak flooded Lucy's mind.

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Flashback

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The celestial mage's back arching of its own accord into Natsu's touch from robust hands cupping her breast; Blazing digits kneading the twin peaks in time with lips sucking along Lucy's pulse with so much skill that she couldn't help the heady moan that escaped her throat.

"Ya feel that, Luce?" Nastu growled in his princess's ear, the dark undercurrent of his territorial voice pulling a tingly shiver from her. "My marks all over that perfect body of yours— and not just the permanent one when you swore your heart to me . All of those are symbols of my essence, my claim, my love. That you belong to me and me alone. My mate and queen, forever and always. And those sounds you're makin'? Hot as hell."

Pretty sure, dude leaves marks on me as his way of announcing to the world I'm off limits as his mate. Explains why he's always quick to leave a fresh one in its place even after I cover them— not that I'm complaining. Plus, it's not only for his benefit but mine. It's great that he knows how much I love receiving hickeys and gets off from it.

Seriously, what more could I ask for?

Not to mention how lovely it always was to unwind with Natsu after each bath. The wizard was often keen in his offer to dry the blonde's damp hair with a towel or fire-magic-powered steam; from her perch on his lap or between his legs. 

Much more relaxing than using a hair dryer if you ask me.

 The dragonslayer would sometimes even hum or sing a familiar tune from days past in that appealing, gravelly baritone of his; would usually lull the already-zen mage into the world of dreams when combined with the sooth dual sensation of fingers combing through her hair, .

"I tell you, I tell you, the dragonborn comes ..."

Anyother guild member who might be eavesdropping, however, would often be quick to lightheartedly goad the blonde mage ( much to her chargin). Natsu no doubt would find this hilarious of course; which would serve for Lucy's cheeks to flush an even deeper shade of crimson than she already was.

"Say Luce, is that a blush I see?" he once crooned, a teasing edge to his words; though the affectionate mirth sparkling in his eyes warmed her heart just a little. "Aw, is my girl a little embarrassed? That's okay though— makes ya all the more adorable and endearing than you already are. You want me to make it all better? Cuz I can! Got plenty of kisses! Come on, you know you want some which I'm more than happy to give. God I love ya' so much, you know that?"

It's amazing really... Lucy ruminated in fond awe. How Natsu can switch between the different roles and sides to him with relative ease. From Romantic and tender to dominant, playful and affectionate; then back again on top of everything else all seemingly at the drop of a hat. All an innate part of his overall nature I guess— essentially what makes up who he is. Some people may find this a bit confusing to keep up with— but I don't. Just makes him all the more complex.

Though those people would also be right when they say that the dude still has a devious streak, she couldn't help but add with wry smirk. Even with me, though never with malicious intent. German suplex, non-stop tickling, dumping me in a tub of freezing cold water during one of our baths— too many pranks to count really. At least he's always quick to follow up with plenty of affection ever since we became an item— can't complain about that."

"You ready to get started Lucy?" Natsu's keen voice broke through Lucy's reverie.

"You know it!" The celestial mage chirped, unable to mask the pure enthusiasm in her voice; earning an amused chuckle from the dragon wizard . "Can't wait. I take it you'll be hoarding me for the rest of the afternoon?"

"Mhmm" Came his content hum in response." That really a bad thing, though?"

"No, definitely not."

"I figured. Why don't we get you up on that massage bed?"

"Sure thing!"

A buzz of anticipation was practically thrumming in Lucy's blood from such tantalizing implications of his words; the stunt Natsu pulled next , though— that was what really shot a thrilling jolt up her spine.

"Let's finish what we started later, yeah?"

The dragonslayer's proposal was punctuated by a light tap on the summoner's ass for good measure,; which resulted in a delighted squeal.

"O-okay!" was said female's response in the form of a breathy giggle.

"Let me get you that towel while I'm at it."

"Sure— thanks."

"My pleasure."

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A Few Minutes Later

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"Ugh...do me a huge favor and burn this towel. Will ya?"

Lucy couldn't help but let out an audible groan along with the heat rising in her cheeks. Good god was the particularly moist spot on the white towel a truly mortifying sight to behold. Basically tell-tale remnants of liquid arousal that had been wiped clean from her legs just moments before.

Mavis only knows what would happen if Levy or Cana noticed during laundry duty.

" Okay... why though?" Natsu questioned, brows drawing together in mild confusion. "As in why do you want me to?"

"Guild Laundry day" came Lucy's automatic reply."That's why."

"Not following ya.' Natsu blinked owlishly in uncomprehension.

"Levy…..and Cana….." Lucy supplied, a finger twirling an errant strand of blonde hair in :a self-conscious display." "I... uh.."

"Still don't know what you mean here, Luce."

"It's their turn to do laundry duty." She attempted to break down what was apparently such an abstract concept into simpler terms; not able to help the aggravation rising in the back of her mind.

"Yeah? So?"

"They'll probably see the moist stain on the towel." Lucy clarified, forcing her voice to remain level.

"I see— don't see the problem though."

"Think about who'll most likely be with them ."

"Gajeel and Laxus but…...ahh—"

Realization dawned on Natsu's face. "I get it now. What you're saying is that they'll probably catch a whiff of your arousal? "

"Well, the lingering remnants of the scent anyway. Seriously though?" he tacked on, lifting a questioning brow."That's what you're worried about?"

"Yeah... I am," Lucy admitted, nerves leaking into her voice. "Aren't you?"

"Not really, no." Natsu gave a shrug of his shoulders—seemingly unfazed.

"Why's that?" Lucy couldn't help but shoot him a puzzled glance. 

"Cuz it'll show everyone how much I rocked your world." Natsu replied, flashing his mate a cheeky grin. " And what's not to love about that?"

"Pervert — of course you'd say that!" Lucy screeched, skin flushing a deep shade of crimson.

"That's me!"

"Ugh, still don't know what to do about the moist spot— those four are never gonna let me live it down."

"You know if you're that worried, I could always use my tongue to clean ya up instead." Natsu drawled with a lazy smirk that set her heart all pit-patter .

"And of course, you'd suggest that," Lucy quipped with a slight roll of her eyes. "Did I mention how much of a horn dragon you are? "

"Yeah, but only for a certain gorgeous blonde of mine and she loves it."

"Oh, she does, huh?" Lucy raised a challenging brow.

"Yep. Don't bother trying to deny it, Luce".

"Ugh fine... you're right. I do. Seriously, you and your colossal ego though."

"Why, thank you! If you're impressed by that, you'd really should see my co—"

The rest of Natsu's words were cut off by Lucy's hand swatting him with a pillow which was met with a snicker.

"Pervert" Lucy deadpanned with another eye roll. "By way, you would've found yourself in the proverbial dog house if you actually meant the other kind of 'fighting earlier."

Only for Natsu's face to instantly fall in response to her statement.

"What?" Natsu objected, gaping at her with wide eyes. " And deprive me of the chance to wake up to your beautiful face each morning for that long?!"

"Yep." Lucy gave a nod by way of reply.

"But why? You know that's not the type of fightin' I met!"

"Well yeah, I know that now. But not earlier when you originally brought up. Just be glad that you didn't bail on our date earlier."

"I didn't though! And never would— honest Luce!" Natsu's voice lifted into a petulant whine.

"Hmm.. Okay, good to know. " Lucy responded, raising her hands to placate him. "Though you'll have to be without me for a few days anyway.

"Wait, seriously?" Natsu faltered , bewildered panic flashing in his eyes. . "Come on! What is it this time?"

"Camping retreat in the woods next week that Cana, Mira, Lisanna, and Erza are organizing— ladies only."

"W-ha?" Natsu continued to sputter, his poor brain no doubt short circuiting by now." But Elfman said that it was open to anyone who's free to go!"

"Really? Lucy mused in thoughtful interest. "That's not what I heard... huh."

"What am I supposed to do without you?"

"How about something fun with the guys? Should be nice, right?"

"Yeah, but so is spending time with you Lucy! It's always more fun when we're together like you said."

"And I don't disagree. Doesn't change anything though. The trip's still happening."

"Didn't say it wasn't but it'd still suck here without you! Natsu moaned, that desperate sense of longing bleeding into his voice. " I'd miss ya' too much! So would our little buddy! Can't we tag along? Maybe Even share an air mattress in a decent-sized tent? I'd gladly help set up and keep you cozy in my arms at night."

"What about Happy?" Lucy questioned, intrigued by his suggestion. His offer does sound really tempting.

"Obviously he'd share the tent with us but would have his own sleeping bag and could hang with Wendy and Carla whenever we wanted alone time. Plus there are all these cool spots I could take you to on nature hikes!."

"Sounds great."

"Course it is! So whaddya say? You onboard?" Natsu wheedled, flashing her what could only be described as the most flawless puppy eyes she'd ever seen.

"Aw that's really tempting and" Lucy gushed, heart contracting at the adorable pout he was throwing in too. Normally I'd say yes"— but it'll have to wait. Thank you though! I'd love to take you up on that offer another day."

"Oh come on— please I wanna go!" Natsu huffed,stamping his foot as if he were a child pitching a fit over being denied a coveted toy- quite an amusing display to say the least.

"Not this time I'm afraid. Sorry, them's the brakes."

"Lucyyyyyyyyy!" Natsu whined again, dragging the syllables of her name with such melodrama that she finally decided to let him off the hook

" Jeez.. enough with the dramatics already. " Lucy yielded with an exasperated groan, You can still come— the trip is for everyone. I was only kidding after all."

Said confession was met with a noise of stunned dimsay from from the pyro.

"Wait... so ya' mean to tell me that this was a joke?! he muttered, voice coming out with a small pinch of disbelief. "You were pulling my leg the entire time?"

"Yep— consider it payback for me making think you were gonna ditch earlier."

"That's why? That's not nice, Luce— not very nice at all." Natsu grumbled, though not with any real heat.

"Oh yeah, what are you gonna do about it?" Lucy baited, a daring lilt to her words.

" Oh —- wouldn't you like to know?" Natsu rumbled, eyes sparking in a such a calculating way that it sent a electrifying chill down Lucy's spine.

"I would— ngh! Nastuuuu!"

The rest of what Lucy was attempting to say Lucy's words were cut off by the lighting- fast sweep of Natsu's velvet tongue up her thighs . Not to mention that electric high-voltage jolt of ecstasy flooding her veins.

"There! that should show ya!" Natsu let out a cackle of glee. " Not to ever play dirty tricks on a dragon I mean. Guess you're not gonna need that towel after all, huh Lucy?"

"My God..."

"Yeah, I know . Just that amazing with my tongue, I guess. Natsu purred, voice laced with am indecorous promise "Plus, hearing ya' scream my name like that just gave me another hard-on that I'd love for you to see .. "

"Jeez … of course it'd would . and no real shocker that you would say something like that."

"Yep- you know me so well, Luce. and it's not like you're complain' anyway. Want me to prove it?"

" Maybe.. But God- you're such a pompous ass, you know that?"

"Yeah but all part of my charm, sweetheart."

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

A/N: And that's Chapter 9 folks! My apologies for the delay by the way! I originally wanted to post this much sooner but got hit with writer's block after getting a somewhat stumped on a particular segment of this chapter. I've also been with my other ongoing fanfics, WIPs and responsibilities among other things in my life . That all aside, at least this chapter was finally posted! Now please feel free to do me a solid and let me know what you think by leaving a comment/ review! Stay tuned for Chapter 10 too! Oh and please feel free to check out the rest of my writing which can be found above, on my profiles and in master post if reading this on tumblr. All right, that's pretty much all I have to say for now! Thanks to all my mutuals/friends, readers and followers for their continuous support over the years! (Corresponding links for the master of my writing and profiles can be found above, in the navigation bar of the desktop and bio if reading this on tumblr.) Until next time-take care!

[veale2006-blog]

The Strange Case of Shabbatai Zevi Friday, October 30, 2020 The Other Messiah Around the year 1666, a man named Shabbatai Zevi swept over Jewish history. He was hailed by rabbis throughout the lands in which Jewish people lived, as the long-awaited Messiah, come to rescue His people and bring them back to the land. But then something went wrong. Shabbatai started acting strange. He got married... to a Torah scroll. Then he started advocating heresy. Finally, the Sultan of the Turkish Empire arrested and imprisoned him. He gave him a choice. Either convert to Islam or be killed. So Shabbatai Zevi quickly converted to Islam. A thousand and a half years earlier, another Jewish man, Yeshua, Jesus, was rejected as Messiah. And since then, every Jewish hope in a Jewish Messiah has been crushed. Jesus is the only Messiah and the only answer to the Jewish hope in Messiah. Everything else is false. So, too, in your life. If you've been disappointed lately, seen your hopes crushed and broken - or if things are just not working out - chances are, you've lost sight of Him. Come back. For in Him alone is your hope - everything else is just Shabbatai Zevi - a false Messiah.

Today's Mission Is there anything you're trusting in apart from the Lord? Place all your trust and hope in Him.

Psalm 42 42 As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God. 2 My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God? 3 My tears have been my meat day and night, while they continually say unto me, Where is thy God? 4 When I remember these things, I pour out my soul in me: for I had gone with the multitude, I went with them to the house of God, with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that kept holyday. 5 Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance. 6 O my God, my soul is cast down within me: therefore will I remember thee from the land of Jordan, and of the Hermonites, from the hill Mizar. 7 Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me. 8 Yet the Lord will command his lovingkindness in the day time, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life. 9 I will say unto God my rock, Why hast thou forgotten me? why go I mourning because of the oppression of the enemy? 10 As with a sword in my bones, mine enemies reproach me; while they say daily unto me, Where is thy God? 11 Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God. A psalm of the sons of Korah A white-tailed deer drinks from the creek; I want to drink God,  deep draughts of God. I’m thirsty for God-alive. I wonder, “Will I ever make it— arrive and drink in God’s presence?” I’m on a diet of tears— tears for breakfast, tears for supper. All day long people knock at my door, Pestering, “Where is this God of yours?”

These are the things I go over and over,  emptying out the pockets of my life. I was always at the head of the worshiping crowd, right out in front, Leading them all, eager to arrive and worship, Shouting praises, singing thanksgiving— celebrating, all of us, God’s feast!

Why are you down in the dumps, dear soul?  Why are you crying the blues? Fix my eyes on God— soon I’ll be praising again. He puts a smile on my face. He’s my God. When my soul is in the dumps, I rehearse everything I know of you, From Jordan depths to Hermon heights, including Mount Mizar. Chaos calls to chaos, to the tune of whitewater rapids. Your breaking surf, your thundering breakers crash and crush me. Then God promises to love me all day,  sing songs all through the night! My life is God’s prayer. Sometimes I ask God, my rock-solid God, “Why did you let me down? Why am I walking around in tears, harassed by enemies?” They’re out for the kill, these tormentors with their obscenities, Taunting day after day, “Where is this God of yours?”

Why are you down in the dumps, dear soul?  Why are you crying the blues? Fix my eyes on God—soon I’ll be praising again. He puts a smile on my face.He’s my God.

[aroworlds]

As of today, I’m starting a major medication change that has more-than-usual hazards in how it may interact with my other medications before I factor in the autistic-and-highly-sensitive-to-medication-changes deal.

I am hopeful that (if there are no unendurable side-effects) we’ll eventually be able to get this new combination of meds to the same amount of serotonin and pain management I had at my most functional, because this combination is most likely to mirror it. (This was long before my any of my main Tumblr accounts; nobody here has seen me with my pain and mental illnesses managed to reasonably functional.) But it’s also probable that this process will not be easy or fun for me, and the risks are a little more likely than the essay-length warning sheet that comes with your first pack of new meds.

I’ve spent the last six months stressed out of my mind. My psychiatrist thinks it’s a good thing in the sense that I am trying to do things even though my anxiety is through the damn roof, but there’s nothing that’s not overwhelming for me. I’m in pain because of it, and I spend so much time trying to push back my anxiety and depression to do the minimum of what I want to do that I don’t have the energy to do "safe” or “fun” things. (I want to text my friends my new phone number. I haven’t even been able to do that.) Sometimes I find just enough energy for something new, but I fall apart right after doing so.

I can’t bear this, and smaller med changes have done nothing. So I’m going to be spending the next few weeks and months reducing one med and starting a new one (followed by a list of several other meds to try if this one doesn’t help).

I do mean to try to keep this blog going, but it’s very likely that the queue will be a hot mess at times. You know that I order it (mix up poetry and music and fanfiction, make sure there’s aromantic-specific and micro-identity specific pride at different times of the day) but I may not be able to do that as often or as well. If everything gets too overwhelming, I’ll drop back to fewer posts a day (but I’d like not to because there’s seven hundred posts in my drafts folder awaiting tags). If you see five lithromantic pride art pieces in a row, however, you’ll know why this is--because I dumped as much as I could into the queue when I felt halfway okay and lacked the spoons to order it afterwards.

The same lack of organisation will apply to @alloaroworlds (you may get whatever comes up in the queue). As for @aroflagarchive, it only posts when I have new flags to post and that queue runs out this month anyway. So I’ll add stuff to the queue when a) posts exist and b) I have spoons for tagging them, but that blog was never going to be the sort that posts consistently.

(As for Patreon, I’ll like to only be cutting back to posting an article or story on a fortnightly basis, but getting at least one thing up a month will be my priority above everything else, if possible for me. I do have a pre-written post I’ll try to put up Tuesday week; what happens after that depends on the medication gods. I do have a month of scheduled images because I’m a bit ahead on those, so it won’t be barren for October at least.)

I don’t know how long all this will take. I could be good enough to muddle halfway through like I’ve currently been, for all I know--changing mirtazapine makes me feel a bit ick, but I can do bouts of post tagging. Or it could be like starting tramadol, which rendered me so non-functional that I had to crawl to the bathroom because I couldn’t stand, and I couldn’t do anything for days but lie in bed with my eyes closed, listening to TV. And if I have to work through multiple medications ... I don’t even want to think about that.

I just know that my life right now is not reasonable or endurable. Even though changing meds has never been simple for me, I have to try something new.

Thank you so much for your patience and understanding, lovely followers.

[sweetsmellosuccess]

The Sátántangó Experience

How exactly does one prepare to watch a 7.5 hour film? A bit like what you might do in preparation for major surgery: Pack a bag of necessities (in this case, water and protein bars), kiss your loved ones goodbye, and try to make peace with your god. Or, maybe less dramatically, treat it as you would a long train journey, one that takes you through some harrowing terrain on half a rutted track before depositing you to your eventual destination.

Of course, this sort of conception of time is entirely relative: If you have to drive somewhere that takes half an hour, it feels unduly long; but if the trip were normally three hours long, and you somehow found a shortcut that would cut the time down to 30 minutes, you would be flying on dulcet wings for that amount of time, and think you were blessed by angels. In other words, spending an entire standard work day watching one film might seem excessive, but it all has to do with your expectations.

In my case, I was at Philadelphia’s newly renovated Lightbox Theater at the University of the Arts to take in Béla Tarr’s magnum opus Sátántangó, all glorious 450 minutes, in a new 4K restoration (it’s currently playing at select theaters across the country). Armed with my snack survival kit, and safe in the knowledge that we would get intermissions at roughly 2.5 hour intervals, I settled in to watch what has been described as a masterpiece in cinephile circles, and currently resides at number 36 in the most recent Sight & Sound critics’ poll.

Tarr’s beyond-bleak film is broken up into 12 segments, each having to do with a failing farmer’s cooperative in Hungary during the last throes of communism in the late ‘80s. Each section has its own feel and perspective  —  some of them are more lighthearted, others are desolate beyond measure  —  but all expertly shot in low-contrast black and white (by Gábor Medvigy), which renders the people and landscape in various tones of drudgery grey.

It originally opened in America as part of the 1994 New York film festival, at a time when Hungary was undergoing a transformation from Communism to shaky democratic capitalism, so it served as a kind of epigraph to the era, a showcase, as it were, as to the imperfections of a political system built on a promise of human egalitarianism that proved to be depressingly difficult to put into practice.

The landscape makes up a lot of Tarr’s vision, the flat, moody farmland upon which the collective has been toiling, and the unceasing rain and wind that constantly pelts the characters as they venture outside for one business or another. As the film opens, the collective  —  made up of three couples; a curious “doctor” (Peter Berling), who spends his time spying on the others, making copious notes in his stacks of file folders, and daily drinking his considerable body weight in Palinka (Hungarian plum brandy); and the cagey Futaki (Miklos Szekely B.), who has to walk with a cane from an unspecified accident, but seems a bit more shrewd than the others  —  is anxiously awaiting their annual wages, which come all at once and is meant to get divvied up amongst the members equally.

Early on, there are various halfcocked plans from individuals to try and steal the small fortune for themselves, reflected in much idle talk about meeting that evening and decamping for parts unknown, but that ultimately come to nothing. However, when word reaches the group that the mysterious Irimiás (Mihály Vig, also the film’s composer) is, in fact, not dead as they had been told, but alive, and returning to the collective he started, the group dynamic is thrown akimbo, with various members fretting for their future, and, one, the owner of the local bar (Zoltán Kamondi), furious at the thought his business will be taken from him. 

Just why they respond like this remains vague. In ensuing segments, we see Irimiás, along with his associate, Petrina (Dr. Putyi Horvath), navigating through a police interview  —  where the local Captain informs them they will be working for him now in ways unspecified  —  though it appears the collective had very actively planned on not having to include their former leader (and his right-hand man) in their financial arrangements. As for the non-collective characters, including the aforementioned barkeep, and various prostitutes sitting idly around, the collective is virtually their only business, such as it is, so they, too, await this potential flood of cash eagerly.

As the segments begin to collect, they also begin to fold upon themselves: Scenes that we see from one vantage point in an earlier segment are revisited later on, from the perspective of a different character, enabling a thrilling moment of realization that the stream of time we’re following has breaks, jumps, and hiccoughs throughout. Never more poignantly than a moment with a young girl peering into a window of the bar  —  one of the only lit buildings in the otherwise dismally dark countryside  —  watching the adults inside drunkenly dancing and cavorting.

About that girl. Easily the most emotional moment of the film involves her, but not first without the audience paying a heavy price, depending on your empathy for other creatures. Before the film screened, during its introduction, we were made aware that there was a scene of animal cruelty involving a cat somewhere in the proceedings. The sympathetic presenter, himself a cat lover, suggested looking away for parts of that segment, though a friend of mine in attendance who had seen it before assured me looking away wasn’t really an option. Fortunately, he also told me that the cat in question wasn’t actually hurt, and was still alive at the time of a 2012 interview with Tarr.

Needless to say, my worry about this poor cat dominated my experience in the early going: Every time I saw a feline in the background of a scene, I worried that it was coming up, such that it was almost a relief when it finally happened. The situation is this: Estike (Erica Bók), the young daughter of one of the local prostitutes, caught up in her world of half-fantasies after being sent out of their apartment by her working mother, holes up in an attic with a grey tabby. At first, she pets and cuddles him, but eventually, she desires to control him, bend the cat to her will. To the cat’s increasing discomfort and fury, she grabs him by the front paws and rolls around with him, all the while muttering how she alone can determine its fate. Looping up the poor fellow in a net bag and hanging it from a post, she goes downstairs to mix a batch of milk with some rat poison powder and force feeds him until he dies (though in actuality merely tranquilized).

Wandering around the farm that night with the stiffened body of the cat tucked under her arm (a prosthetic, the director assures us), Estike runs into the doctor, shuffling outside to refill his giant jug of brandy, shortly after peering through the window of the bar. Eventually, she lies down amongst the deserted crumble of a bomb-blasted church and takes the poison herself.

As gruesome as the segment becomes, its haunting evocations permeate the rest of the film (though not immediately: in a jarring juxtaposition, the very next segment takes us back to the bar, where everyone is still dancing wildly about to a loopy accordion refrain —  only towards the end of this extended scene do we see the face of the soon-to-be-dead Estike peering inside). Eventually, Irimiás does indeed return, in time to give a moving eulogy for Estike, while at the same time transitioning the group towards his next vision, a new farm some distance away where he assures them they can finally live freely and thrive. All he needs to achieve this goal for them is the money they just received from their previous year’s efforts.

With nowhere else to go, and no other plan on the horizon, the members of the collective dutifully deposit their wages on the table in front of their leader. He sends them out to pack their things so that they may meet with him in a couple of days at the new farm he’s selected.

Gathering their miserable belongings, the group reassemble and trudge down the muddy road on foot, as the rain pelts down on them without ceasing. Distressingly, the members don’t have any proper rain coats  —  in an earlier soliloquy in the bar, Kráner (János Derszi) laments that his leather coat is so old and stiff he has to bend it in order to sit down  —  so they wear their woolen winter coats, which do little to keep them from getting soaked in the heavy fall rains.

As they make their way to this new destination, it’s clear that Irimiás is up to something. Most obviously, he could make off with their wages and move on, but it turns out his scheme is less direct than just taking their hard-earned money for himself.

Towards the second half, Tarr’s penchant for long, elegantly composed shots gives gradually away to more adventurous camerawork, including a single steadicam shot in the woods that’s like something out of a Sam Raimi film. There are extensive elliptical shots with the camera spinning slowly on an axis, this particular effect never more effective than when after the group arrives at their new farm, yet another dilapidated series of box-like concrete buildings. Once they dump their belongings and lie on the floor of the unheated, broken-windowed main house, trying to sleep, our narrator makes one of his occasional VO appearances to describe in intimate detail the dreams each character is having.

It’s a shot that could have served as an excellent final salvo, one would imagine. Indeed, by the last hour of this opus, time and again, Tarr arrives at what might be considered a conclusive moment  —  in this, the confusion is aided by his particular style: It turns out many films end on a superbly composed, static long shot  —  only to keep the narrative flowing, circling back, eventually to the original farm, where the doctor, having just returned from a stint in a hospital, begins to narrate, again, the original opening lines. Such is the perfection in this device (the segment is titled “The Circle Closes”) that once you finally arrive there, it’s clear there could be no other ending that would have sufficed.

When finally the film ended, it was later in the evening. I met up with my compatriots also in attendance, and the three of us ventured back out into the city, heading to a bar where we could nurse a beer and attempt to articulate the tangled mass of feelings and impressions of the previous nine hours. In one of the very few bars in the city that still allows smoking, appropriately enough, we debated about the film in an atmosphere swirling with the poisonous fumes of an earlier era. It seemed hopeless, but still necessary, somehow; like bidding farewell to someone already in a coma.

[noirbriar]

MDZS Modern police AU drabble dump

1.

“BAM!”

“ALRIGHT! Listen up you crazy lot!Get in line and get in the car and ya’all know the drill” Wei Wuxian dryly speaks into the megaphone to his drunk audience. While the cadets start to haul the gangs into the police van-

“THE ONLY THING I KNOW IS YOU TO GET DOWN FROM OUR POLICE CAR WEI WUXIAN YOU ASSHOLE!!”

“Relax Jiang Cheng, the night is young!”

“Fuck this.” Jiang Cheng heads back into the stripper bar and swipes a pricey cognac off and proceeds to chug it.

Just another day for YunMeng City Police. And for people to upload pictures of their favourite inspector on Weibo.

2.

“Okay. We’re done. Chopchop go go go. I have places to be, people to see, Salty Huang. Don’t let me see ya around so soon in here. “

“But you didn’t...even finish my statement,Inspector Wei?”

“Since when do criminals want to complete their charges??”

“...”

Jiang Cheng walks out of the interrogation room. He needs another coffee, black. Like his bleak life as it is now. Sometimes he wondered how they survived together as kids. Also through cadet school.

Oh wait. He didn’t. Barely.

3.

“Inspector Wei, apologies but I know you are going off duty soon but we need a statement from this guy who refuses to have it taken by anyone but you.Its regarding the weird drug circulating around the streets.  “

“Ehhh??? Can’t Ah-Liu or someone do it?I’m in a hurry!”

“He specifically asked for you. Sir. “

Wei Wuxian sulked and proceeds to throw off his coat and follows the sheepish cadet to the interrogation room.

Where a man in a black coat, a black top hat and two black tabby cats are awaiting. Wei Wuxian flops onto a chair opposite of the man but not before he switches off the surveillance cameras.

“Tsktsktsk. Tian ah. Your disguises are getting ridiculous each time,Bu Zhi. “

“Excuse me. These is called haute couture. Ask your roommate he will teach you a thing or two!” Bu Zhi huffs, flicking a fancy Chinese ornamental fan open and waves slowly in front of him.

“Its tacky. Thats what it is. Any way what is is this time? Did you swipe off another ancient emperor era painting or some tang dynasty vase from some rich prick or what?

“I collect ART,Wei Wuxian. And I was having my eye on an exquisite cultivator era painting of the Sunshot Campaign. But I will have you know, that during my...curating...I have overheard Wang LingJiao, the mistress of Wen Chao, bragging about some drug. That sounds suspiciously like your case.”

“Wang LingJiao? The hussy of the young underground lord of Qishan City?”

“You heard nothing. You have not seen me.”

“And your brother doesn’t know. Chill. HuaiSang. I plan to keep my best intel around. ”

4.

Jiang Cheng is about to get into his car and get ready for his day off. Which is starting in 5.08 minutes. He is going to get the coffee machine going and have a nice hot soak in the tub after another disastrous bar raid. He just bought new unicorn bath bombs and his lounge chair awaits-

“JIANG CHENG HELP LEMME USE YOUR CAR I’M LATE!”Wei Wuxian jumps in from the passanger side and tries to wedge his childhood friend/ teammate off the driver seat.

“YOU HAVE YOUR OWN GODDAMN CAR!”

“ITS NOT WORKING! I’M LATE AND I STILL HAVE THE CAKE TO COLLECT!”

“USE MY MOM’S?!”

“YOU WANT MADAM YU TO KILL ME?!”

“THEN MY DAD’S!HE LIKES YOU?!”

“HE WENT OFF TO BRUNCH WITH AN OLD FRIEND!”

“WE ARE CHINESE WE DON’T DO BRUNCHES?!WHAT HAPPENED TO GOOD OLD FRIED YOU TIAO AND SOYBEAN MILK?!”

“HIS FRIEND HAS BEEN WESTERNISED?!”

5.

“Something wrong with the coffee, FengMian?”

“Its nothing but excellent RuoHan. Just a sneeze is all.”

“Ah. Shame, Changze can’t join us today.After being in Europe for so long I miss my dear friends. I was so hoping for a reunion. ”

The leader of the China Gangsters sighs loftily while Jiang FengMian smiles. The country club is exclusive and only by invitation. The food is excellent.

6.

In the end, Jiang Cheng had to take a taxi back to his loft. His off day now delayed by 20.56 minutes.

7.

Meanwhile, Wei Wuxian crashes back into his apartment, cake in hand and takeout on the other.

Mo Xuanyu comes out of the toddler room to greet his roommate.

“Ah. Wei ge, you’re-“

“A-YUAAAAAN~! Happy birthday my boy! Come come lemme hug you!”

“-back”

Wei Wuxian grabs the babbling toddler from the tired design student who gladly leaves with a yawn.

“Oh my god I’m sorry I’m late XuanYu, your portfolio..?”

“Gonna go submit now. Pantry is stocked, Alcohol is in the fridge, laundry is done, your mala sauce is in the fourth shelf.Don’t do anything stupid...yawwwn...I’m going to school...meet Huai Sang for breakfast.”

“Don’t let that sneaky fox bring you weird places!”

Mo Xuanyu smiles and gives A-yuan a goodbye wave before he leaves the apartment.

Leaving both father and son to enjoy a peaceful morning.

8.

Over in Gusu City, another family breakfast is underway. Though quiet. With dishes more bland with sugarless tea.

Lan Qingheng quietly pours his wife more congee and observes his sons who partakes after their elders. Both talented and outstanding in their career in the force. Shame that none of them chose law but he is proud nevertheless. 

Madame Lan is pleased to have her family together, along with their extended relatives who lives together within the same district. Its rare especially with everyone’s tight schedules for the entire Lan family to gather for something so pure and simple.. Lan Qiren may have retired early but he still oversees the cadet school. Lan Xichen now leads the Gusu City police while Wangji is climbing the ranks as inspector.

It is indeed a rare peaceful morning-

“Wangji, since your birthday is around the corner, I thought you may like an early present.”

“Oh! Xichen is so considerate, what did you get your brother?”

“Well-“

A crash and a few minutes later, an ambulance is called for Senior Inspector Lan Qiren whose blood pressure spiked unnaturally.

9.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN I’M PROMOTED?!I HAVE TO MOVE TO GUSU?!”

Wei Wuxian drops back into reality the next day. In Superintendent Yu’s office.

“Exactly what I said. Starting next week, You will be working in Inspector Lan’s division.”

10.

In an upscale mansion in Gusu City, with a family picture and another of a selfie of a bright smiling teen and a younger him in cadet uniform adorning his minimalistic table in a rather minimalistic room. Also half a dozen of rabbits lying on top of him in a king sized bed, Lan Wangji is almost turning 30.He’s okay.

Not. ---

I don’t know where I’m going with this or why I even wrote this. I only had that one image of jiang fengmian and wen ruohan having brunch together and WWX being all suave and ridiculous on a cop car, thats literally it.

[castielusive]

Ray’s Miscellaneous Rec List

Several of these are unique, and a lot of my favorites are on here because of that. Assume all fics are rated explicit unless stated otherwise. WIPs are marked, but few and far between. Updates regularly.

Title: Asunder by rageprufrock

Word count: 23,817

Summary:  Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder. (Matthew 19:6)

Sam gets married, Dean gets a wake up call. Easy top 3.

UPDATE: Pod fic version. It’s so good. (x).

Title: Carry On by TamrynEradani

Word count: 148087

Summary: When Sam gets into Stanford, Dean needs a bigger paycheck than Bobby’s garage can give him. Luckily, he knows a guy.

Edit: The author took this one down, but she’s said she’s fine with people reading it if they have the pdf. Hit me up if you want it.

Edit 2: Podfic version: x

Title: The Breath of All Things by KismetJeska

Rating: T

Word count: 65,404

Summary: Dean Winchester was twenty-six years old when a car accident killed his father and left him paralyzed from the waist down. A year and a half later, Dean is in a wheelchair and lives in a care home in Kansas, where he spends his days waiting to die. It’s only when Castiel Novak starts volunteering at the care home that Dean starts to wonder if a changed life always equals a ruined one.

Easily number three in my favorites.

Title: Drop Anchor by almaasi

Word count: 42,124

Summary: AU. A sailor and an enemy pirate are marooned on an island together, and while awaiting rescue they accidentally achieve domestic bliss.

Or:

Dean Winchester is lieutenant of the Royal Trading Ship Echelon. On a pleasantly sunny but particularly catastrophic day, he is marooned on an island somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with only one man for company. That man is Castiel, captain of the black-sailed Leviathan: a pirate, no less. Given the circumstances under which they are stranded, rescue seems unlikely, and it could be aeons before a ship even comes by. The two of them may as well make the most of their own private island, personal differences be damned.

This is lovely.

Title: In the Weeds by Nanoochka

Word count: 40,265

Summary:

“Dean knew, from the minute he laid eyes on Chef Castiel MacCarthy, the day would come that he would have to kidnap the man and dump the body in the darkest, dirtiest crack den in Ireland. Given that this was Dublin city, it wouldn’t be hard to find.”

Title: make you whole by casfallsinlove

Word count: 4,531

Summary: In which there is a funeral, mixed-up feelings, quiet motel rooms, and a long journey home.

Title: 300 Things by cautionzombies

Word count: ~76,500

Summary: Dean’s life at twenty-four makes him feel like he’s forty–he works two jobs to help pay bills for his house and put his genius little brother through private school, and has spent six years (on and off, let’s be honest) working on his mechanical engineering degree at KU. With so much of his life devoted to his family, Dean has little time in his schedule for class and no time for social interaction. Then, while getting his classes together for the fall, he finds himself in a do-or-die situation: He must take his last literature class now, his spring already filled with those left for his major…except that none of the English classes will fit his schedule. This is how Dean grovels and begs Dr. Castiel Milton to make a special arrangement for him, and Dr. Milton does.

Easy top 5. Ashton’s art is what got me to read this one in the first place, and I didn’t notice it linked anywhere in the fic, so I’m sticking one here quickly.  [x]

Update: Tenoko1 did an audio fic and I am completely enamored with it. [x]

Title: Significant by holyhael

Word count: 4,547

Summary: Dean Smith’s and Castiel’s unconventional morning after.

This is? Amazing?

Title: There’s No Going Back by Catchclaw

Word count: 2983

Summary: Some of the things you find on vacation are hard to bring home.

Dean Smith/ Endverse!Cas is quickly becoming my favorite thing ever.

Title: put your hands on my waist by mcpadalackles

Word count: 2,182

Summary: “Dean is sitting at the window seat in their dark bedroom, the one that opens onto the fire escape. He must be cold. He’s wearing nothing but boxers, miles and miles of lovely bare skin exposed to the cool breeze drifting in. If he is, he doesn’t seem to care.”

Short but sweet. One of my top 10.

Title: Bicker by followyourenergy

Word count: 7947

Summary: Sam Winchester is nervous.  He’s taking his girlfriend of eight months, Jess, to meet his brother, Dean, and his brother’s best friend and roommate, Castiel.  Sam loves his brother and loves Cas, but it seems like all the longtime friends do is bicker and he hates it.   Sure enough, from the moment they arrive Dean and Cas are at it.  Sam thinks he knows what’s best for the two of them, but Sam ends up learning a few things about love and relationships that he never expected.

[NEW] Title: Smells Like Queer Spirit by ChasingRabbits

Word count: 8,364

Summary: It's been ten years since Sam Winchester has seen his brother. However, just as he's come to terms with the likelihood that he will never see Dean again, fate (and the internet) intervene and Sam is finally able to track him down.

What he finds throws him for a monstrous, brain-scrambling loop.

A series with a lot of variety. Not every piece is my favorite, but this one and the last two are great.

[NEW] Title: Mr. & Mr. Smith by amarillogrande

Word count: 26,550

Summary: Dean and Castiel Winchester are a normal married couple, living a normal life in a normal suburb, working normal jobs—both as secret deadly assassins. When they find each other as targets, their quest to kill each other leads them to learn a lot more about each other than they ever did in five (or six) years of marriage.

Canonverse and (mostly) canon divergent:

[NEW] Title: A Little Company by VioletHaze

Word count: 48,585

Summary: After Cas became human, he and Dean finally stopped dancing around what existed between them. The vulnerability of the newly-fallen angel scared the hell out of Dean, scared him enough to decide that he was ready to stop pretending and make some serious changes.

Now, five years later, they'd retired from hunting to live a "normal" life in Sioux Falls complete with a house and a brand-new adopted baby daughter.  Against all odds, Dean had found that the civilian life he'd always scoffed at nearly overwhelmed him with joy. 

But Dean knew better than to bask in it; the world was a dangerous place and a happiness like that depended on him safeguarding his little piece of it.

[NEW] Title: Hunting for Faith by  perunamuusa and riseofthefallenone

Word count: 270,952

Summary: It starts a few days earlier.

Castiel first notices it in the middle of the night when the dreams of fire and screams have kept him awake. He’s kneeling before the altar, praying, when the glass in the windows start to shake, the very air vibrating around him. Castiel is on his feet and reaching for the gun tucked into the back of his pants as the shutters over the windows start to rattle.

Title: Bring up the Deep by beenghosting

Word count: 22,679

Summary: They went back and forth on whether or not to make the drive until Sam found an article in the town’s local paper dated a week earlier about a lobster fisherman who swore a monster sank his boat.

Case fic!

Title: The Five People You Meet in Heaven by amarillogrande

Word count: 22,237

Summary: Heaven is white.

Well. Isn’t that fucking stereotypical

Dean isn’t really sure how he got here. Or even why he’s here. And hell, for all the times the Winchesters have died, he thinks he ought to know the drill by now. But what he doesn’t know is when most folks go, they find something different.

There’s a system God put in place. That when you’re gone (for good) there’s a couple things you gotta do first.

There are five people waiting for you.They are the five people you meet in heaven.

Best canonverse fic I have ever read.

Title: Faith Healer by punkascas

Word count: 75,087

Summary: Dean hates faith healers. Scam artists and power-hungry dicks, all of them. But with Sam nearing the end of his rope and desperate for a way to keep their father’s last words from being true, Dean has no choice but to turn to the enigmatic and irascible Castiel, more tattooed junkie than spiritual leader, in hopes of finding a way to cure Sam. Yet Castiel hides dangerous secrets, and Dean soon learns they have more to worry about than just Yellow Eyes and Sam’s growing demonic abilities. War is coming. Canon divergent after 2.10.

Title: Dean (and Cas’) Top 13 Zepp Traxx by pantheon_of_discord

Word count: 82,450

Summary: Dean eases Baby down the frontage road, trying not to look in the rearview mirror as his home gets smaller and smaller behind him.

He’s done this a hundred times. He’s driven down this road in the soft morning light, heading out to some little town in some distant corner of the country. This is a job like any other.

“It’s not like we’re never coming back,” Cas says from the passenger seat.

Dean and Cas and the open road, to the tune of Led Zeppelin. A post-series story in thirteen parts.

Title: where the weeds take root by beenghosting

Word Count: 16,450 (so far)

Summary: “Are you happy? Y’know. Just—being here,” Dean says, gesturing to the yard with his beer bottle. “Being with—I mean, you used to fight in celestial wars and—and save the world. Now you’re growing vegetables and talking about chickens.”

Title: new testament [just more of the same ‘verse] by outpastthemoat

Word Count: 46,880

Summary: No heaven. No hell.  Just Dean and Cas and the status quo.

[saeculorum-amen]

Gaslighting, Otherness, and Gospel

Experiential literature.

The Gospels are not persuasive. Although Matthew may in places attempt to fit Christ into Jewish prophecy in order to place him into the context of the messiah long-awaited, that is at most something necessary, a foundation for the actual argument, and an argument which does not appear explicitly. There is no recounting of facts, there is no framing of what exactly one should do in response to reading them. It feels to me less like they are trying to persuade you about something, and more that they are inviting you into something.

I feel that most acutely in the Gospel of Mark, with its immediacy, and in the Gospel of John, with its intensity of emotion. These are works of experiential writing which try to bring you into the experience that the apostles shared. They cannot name how this will transform you, but they hope that it might, by the experience of it, do so nonetheless, as it transformed each of them in their individual ways. If we imagine the foundation of the synoptic gospels being records of the sayings of Jesus, this is all the more clear: not statements of fact to be absorbed, but the experience of listening at the feet of Jesus, and feeling flashes of insight, glimpses of the Kingdom, as he spoke.

Perhaps the religious as a whole is of that nature, an experiential reality which can be glimpsed, but not measured and recorded — but which can, perhaps, be shared.

I find that in the letters of Paul, certainly, as I enter into his struggle to lead Christian communities, and feel the sense of responsibility that he felt, by virtue of the love that he felt for each and every person. I hear not only what he said to them, and how he told them to live, but what it felt like to say those things, to implore them. What his hopes were, so much more so than his teachings. What he taught is only sometimes relevant to my life, and the lives of those with whom I preach and teach, but the posture of love and hope and concern, of steadiness and urgency, of patience and frustration: that is always relevant. So, too, to imagine what it felt like to be in those communities, and to hear Paul’s letters written to us and our fellow-travellers in this strange and difficult way.

Much of the religious record, indeed, is concerned with the efforts to convey the experience of something which may be universal, or may be profoundly rare, but which nonetheless cannot be collapsed down into a set of facts and figures. The bush which burns and is not consumed. The flood. Ezekiel’s calling. John’s revelation. The experience of being Jonah. The experience of being the crowd which calls for the execution of Christ. We enter into and share of these things, however familiar or foreign they may be. We gain a facility with inhabiting them, whether to find our way to awe, or to gain the conviction required to decide to live differently.

Enlightenment and disappointment.

I am very much a child of the enlightenment, although I am at an age where it feels increasingly preposterous to call myself a child of anything. I was, though: I grew up surrounded by personal computers, in a household led by a deeply gifted engineer who had worked on the Apollo program. My family talk about how I was programming using the macro language of an early text editor before I had even entered school. I tell that story, too, as part of the foundational mythos by which I continually recreate my own life. It captures something very real about who I was raised to be, and perhaps hints at some more elusive things about who I deeply am.

I am no great and gifted historian or philosopher of the Enlightenment, but it seems a meaningful referent for that upbringing. I was taught to see the world in an exacting and scientific way, and to reject things which were mere superstition, or otherwise irrational. I was formed to master language, not as a way to communicate with other people, but as a way to be precise about ideas and facts. If something was true, there would be some evidence for it which could be clearly described, and provably measured — and if it was true, it would be true always and everywhere.

That is a very narrow world, more narrow than the world of Hume or Locke or Spinoza — a kind of fundamentalism of objectivity, in which there was very little room for a person to live, for a person to exist as a subject, rather than an object. The ideal human being was a data logger, not even a flawed individual striving after objectivity.

It grated at me that I could not determine whether other people experienced colours as having the same perceptual quality as I did. I was acutely sensitized to the ways in which adults seemed to be arbitrary and capricious, and to engage in proof by assertion of the legitimacy of all their rules. There was no rigour, no structure which really captured the rough edges I continually ran up against in the course of living. Indeed, I had my own experiences rejected as fabrications and lies, even experiences that would have been readily measurable, like allergies that were present from my early life, and instantly recognized once I sought diagnosis as an adult.

This created all kinds of inward and outward problems. I doubted my own reality, to the point of living with debilitating panic attacks in which my own perspective seemed to fight for control with some other realm of possibilities. I could not trust the ground beneath me, because what if some hidden law, some unknown variable, were to govern it to give way instead. I felt swallowed up in the ocean-like waters of the universe itself, as though there was no way for me to get to dry land, to real life, to the right plane of existence. I had to work hard to learn that the world, and I, would continue to exist as I went from one point to another, rather than disappearing in a kind of unstable variation of Zeno’s paradox transposed into the cosmology of simulation theory.

This introjected doubt was projected onto the world around me, too. How could I know whether what someone else said was true? How could I trust anything which happened outside of my view? Hell, how could anyone know anything?

The politics of doubt.

This pervasive hermeneutic of suspicion was not unique to my objective fundamentalist upbringing. The authority of measurement is almost unquestionable in our society, which prefers technocracy to anything more sentimental. While public debate may take on the rhetorical character of aesthetics, we find a way to turn our rules for action into something you can quantify. You will always be able to know whether or not you can cut down a tree, or dump waste into a waterway, by using a published table of figures. You don’t have to stop and think about whether you should or not, which might be unsettling and subjective, only whether you’re allowed to, which is knowable.

In the grip of my epistemological wounds, I found as a teenager that a certain kind of defiant libertarianism held enormous appeal. Political correctness was a favourite topic in the discourse I was exposed to at home and at school, which is perhaps the ideal target for this politics of sneering contempt and doubt. How was anyone supposed to know what they could or couldn’t say? Who got to decide, who got to make the list? How could someone else tell you not to say a word when they couldn’t give you criteria for deciding so? Where was the proof that words did harm?

You could prove to someone that words were meaningless by shouting the words you weren’t supposed to say, over and over. It’s just a sound, after all. It only signifies something if you let it, and it’s only dangerous if someone does something real and measurable while they happen to be saying the word, at which point the word doesn’t much seem to matter, does it? So you make the sound again and again, while behaving in an upright and respectable manner in all other respects, so that you are above reproach. Whoever hears it and feels pain has inflicted the harm upon themselves.

It’s one of those things that’s true as far as it goes, but doesn’t actually lay claim to as much as it thinks it does. It’s like treating science and religion as overlapping magisteria, as though their claims and methods existed within the same realm and spoke to the same things at all times and in all places. We recognize that doing that does violence equally to religion and to science, because the tools of one are not the right tools for the other. God exists beyond measure, but if God is calling us to build an ark, we had better use tools and measures to guide its construction, and not our ecstasy and wonder. Science sinks in the deep water of religion and vice versa.

This doubting suspicion loves not only to attack what seems arbitrary to it, but to mistake subjectivity for a compromise of objectivity. Hume thought that art was not entirely objective, but that an art critic could, with sufficient dedication, strive for objectivity in how they engaged with their work. You can use your subjective experience to serve something other than your personal biases, albeit imperfectly.

However if someone claims a subjective experience which is outside of the sort of teenage libertarian I was, someone steeped in suspicion and anxiously desperate for the objective, then perhaps it simply does not exist. If a Black person describes their systemic oppression, that seems like a fanciful and implausible explanation for the material facts of their existence. If an Indigenous person describes being shot at by strangers, that seems to border on the fantastic or the farcical. I think of the oft-repeated anecdote about Freud deciding that if all of the daughters of upstanding men claimed to have been sexually abused, this was a sign of rampant gendered delusion, and not rampant sexual abuse by upstanding men. That seemed more likely.

It always seems more likely, to the person who is troubled by the great divide between their own subjective experiences and the subjective experiences of others, that the other is at best confused, but perhaps more likely is lying and being manipulative. It stirs up a cognitive dissonance about the limitations of our own reality, when in fact it is not a threat to the objective reality of our existence, but merely to our omniscience.

So it is that the suspicious person rejects the subjective accounts of others as being inherently untrustworthy. They might engage in what has been called “sealioning”, in which they ask repeatedly for proof, they state their willingness to be convinced, and simply demand that the other person gain legitimacy by finding a way to do so. If their claims were real, after all, they would be able to find some way to do so. The fact that they cannot is not recognized as the game itself being rigged, but as proof that the suspicion was warranted.

To lie and to illumine.

We talk in the information age about information warfare, about the ability of governments to sow doubts about basic facts and to generate confusion about what is true, to the point that coördinated action becomes impossible, and the whole is weakened. We know full well the danger of conspiracy theories, for individuals and for our collective health and well-being, whether it takes the form of anti-vaccine agitation, or paranoid collective fantasies which lead to people ending their own lives, or others’, to stem the tide of global corruption. To someone committed to a politics of doubt steeped in their own epistemological wounds, even this may be a challenging statement: who is to decide who is allowed to make facts, and how? How can you know whether something is a conspiracy theory? How is a conspiracy theory any different to claims of systemic racism? Either they’re all fantastic and unfalsifiable, or none of them are.

The most deeply wounded will not settle for simply resisting belief of others’ subjective accounts, but in fact feel a deep pressure to convince others to lose their faith, too. Governments and market manipulators may know the value of lying, but the wounded make lying itself their weapon. Their goal is not to convince someone of a different truth, but that no one is to be trusted.

They do this by lying, by being disingenuous, to the point of gaslighting, i.e. of trying to get people to doubt their own sanity. They talk about this among themselves as a kind of clownishness, as though they were jesters for the masses, who could bring out uncomfortable truths by defying convention and expectation. It is a chaotic clownishness, however, with no principles and unspeakable truth. There is a reverie in disruption itself.

Some of them end up promoting a kind of sadistic nihilism, but equally common seems to be falling back on an anti-intellectual faith in the status quo. The former seems obvious, but the latter is more surprising. In essence, since there is no grounds on which to make the fuzzy decisions about society, those things should not be changed. There’s no way to engage in creation from a blank slate of how a society should be ordered, but we happen to have a society nonetheless. Therefore there is no position from which action to change society can be taken, except by objective and rational means.

If someone advocates, then, for deviance from the status quo for subjective reasons, it is useful not only to demand that they prove themselves (which they cannot), but to remind them and everyone around them that people are unreliable. They will lie brazenly, even openly, like the teenage libertarian saying a swear word or a slur repeatedly. They want to show you how effortless it is, that anyone can do it, that anyone can make themselves do it. They want to show you that mere words are meaningless, and other people are not to be trusted.

The demands of empathy.

I do experience these people (and I have had more dealings with them than I would like) as wounded, rather than as master manipulators. I think that they are telling the truth, albeit perhaps not intentionally, when they say that they would like to be convinced. They would like to be surprised by an argument, to find out that there is something they have been missing. They do so feel like something is missing, but nothing seems to be able to make it appear.

They watch videos of people suffering, even dying, wondering how it can be that it has ceased to stir up emotion. They read with delight accounts of the stalking of people who don’t seem entirely real to them. In a way, they have fallen into the perennial trap of the gnostic heresy: the belief, perhaps, that there is a divine spark in them, but the suspicion that it is not present in everyone.

Their rhetoric talks about non-player characters, people either not enlightened enough to be fully alive, or who are perhaps not actually people at all. This language comes from the world of role-playing games, in which some characters are directed by the dungeon master or the game itself in order to provide a backdrop for the hero’s life, and to create the difficulties that impede their progress. The non-player character is an explanation both for the seeming absence of the divine spark in others, and also for the frustrations and failures of the individual’s life, for which no other explanation can be accepted.

There is something so innocently wounded at the core of this, like the teenager who discovers at their first kiss that the music does not swell, the lighting does not change, and their perspective does not shift as the camera pans in or out. There is an intensity which is missing from life itself that we know must exist because we see it in movies. Where has it gone, and who has taken it? This leads either to a solipsistic nihilism, or to a politics not only of doubt but of resentment. Someone else is programming the game to be against me, which I know because by every objective measure I should be winning.

The trouble is that the experience of other people’s subjective realities, the thing that lets you glimpse the divine spark in them, is to be open to the experience of them. You have to move beyond the world of ideas and wishes. You have to stop watching from afar. This seems pointless or even destructive, though, when you expect only another disappointment. Empathy comes slowly, and starts with the leap of faith of seeing the other person as a subject like you, too. There is a self-reinforcing structure to these things, and their reality is purely relational. It is not the case that if it were real you’d be able to directly apprehend it against your will.

The pain.

I spent several hours recently dealing with someone engaging in sealioning who was being openly dishonest, with the goal of displacing outpourings of empathy for a marginalized community, and creating a landscape of doubt instead. I thought that that was the end of the story, but as I digested the experience and let myself think about what was going on in the interaction, I found something truly unpleasant come over me. For the rest of that day, I became enraged at interactions which felt emotionally insubstantial, or in which another person seemed to be acting by rote. This caught me by surprise, as although those things might annoy me normally, the intensity of my reaction was wildly out of proportion. Indeed, I found a part of myself almost felt compelled to show that I could act out of proportion.

There were two forces at work there. In the one instance, I had simply spent time exploring a pattern of mind that I then found myself inhabiting a little bit. After all, it wasn’t a world of ungrounded fantasy, but an outlook which has a few kernels of truth that have been massively distorted, and that massively distort the experience of the world in turn. In fact, it was a world view I had known very well, and had worked hard to leave behind, through developing relationships with other people, through my theological development, and through lots, and lots, of psychotherapy.

I have probably even been primed by the pandemic to return to that experience of the world. I don’t leave the house much, I don’t see friends, and I spend too much time in front of computer screens. People exist as ideas, as abstract things I think about. My own feelings feel very far away when my life starts to fall back into that shape, and I normally work hard to keep it from being that way. And yet.

So those old disappointments were present to me, and brought their emotional weight back up to the surface. They were accompanied by a double urgency, however, in the form of a second force: reality testing.

I wanted desperately to remember what it was to feel, to feel empathy, to experience the subjective reality of another person’s life. I urgently needed to remember that the wounded worldview was wrong, and I lashed out in hopes of finding something that would make me feel something. I did — I felt bad. That repeated a few times, until it started to feel almost absurd. I knew better, but it all felt less substantial than I wanted it to.

That was very hard at the time, and it’s very hard to share. It’s still a little challenging, no doubt worsened by the limitations of pandemic life as I have experienced it, but I know what the path back looks like. I’ve let myself talk with friends to remember what other people are like, and I’ve got plans to see some friends for a connection that will be more substantial. Something where my attention isn’t split between a dozen open tabs, or with all the work tasks hanging over my head, or with the task of driving, or thinking about how to respond to a violent troll on social media.

The hermeneutic of curiosity.

It is a core religious value for me that other people exist, and that they have an interior life like mine, and a subjective reality that is every bit as full and real as mine. Jung talks about psychic reality, i.e. subjective reality, as being the most real thing there is, because it is the very thing we apprehend and experience most directly, entirely unmediated. I find that powerfully compelling, and as a religious person I find it enticing.

The religious task, after all, involves that sharing of experiential reality which cannot be reduced to facts. Gregory of Nyssa talks about the inability of the mind to grasp things which are beyond spatial metaphors and reasoning. So it is that I find other people a holy thing: filled with otherness, but enticingly close. But if you engage with another person as an object, you will not find those secret and elusive things: their interiority, their soul. You can glimpse, though, and how glorious it is to glimpse, something of the inner life and the spirit by opening yourself to them, by listening deeply to them, and by engaging in substantive conversation and exploration together. This is the religious task itself.

We might think of the religious task as contemplation of the divine, and looking for something of the divine subject to reveal something of themselves to us, but as the First Letter of John reminds us, we can see one another, and we cannot see God. If we are going to learn how to experience the intersubjective reality of union with the divine, we surely start by being open to doing so with the other person. After all, if you will not experience the interior reality of the other person, who is so like you in every respect, how can you expect to experience the interior offering of the divine, who is utterly unknowable in every respect?

Perhaps it’s easier with God because there’s no material distractions, no illusion that the other person exists primarily to be beautiful, or primarily to frustrate us. There is no possibility that God is a non-player character. A non-player character has substance but no essence, while God is pure essence. God is the energies which make the game go, and is not programmed by anything, as we, ourselves, are at least a little programmed, by language, by culture, by society.

We have rightful yearnings for the other, but they ought to be mutually reinforcing. We are captivated by the beauty, by the difference, or something else enticing about the other, but we are not to mistake them for an object to be possessed, a way to access beauty or something we lack within ourselves. We are called to relationship, to the interpenetration of mind and spirit, by our yearning, and to let ourselves yearn for the transcendent beauty the same way we are enticed by material beauty. The transcendent other, too, loves and made each and every living being, and fills them with breath, so if we are curious about God, we ought to be curious also about God’s people.

This hermeneutic of curiosity has to not only be open to the subjective, but has to not count the cost. Paul talks about this as foolishness, as something which is wise in God’s sight, but which the world will look at and think is absolutely reckless. This is being willing to try to help someone even if it might not work. This is giving of your own resources even if you might get nothing in return. This is being willing to risk believing someone, even though you know that people lie.

Yes, Christ sent the disciples out, and sends all of us out, with an admonition to be wise as serpents and gentle as doves. You can wonder about the motives of others. You should be curious about your own suspicion, even, because it might be telling you something valuable. The question is if you are willing to be transformed for the Kingdom of God: if you would rather believe something which causes you to act more kindly than is required, or if you would rather avoid taking any material risk, even if it causes you to disbelieve someone whose suffering you could have alleviated.

The empty tomb.

Martin Buber shares a piece of Hasidic wisdom which suggests that everything that exists, everything that God has created, has some purpose for the person of faith, some religious value, which must be found, even atheism. The value of atheism being that it calls us to act as though we were responsible for the state of the world, rather than God. It can be so tempting to engage in spiritual bypassing by displacing all responsibility off to God, but we are sojourning together on this little piece of rock, and whether we like it or not, this coëxistence is what we have been called to live rightly within. It’s not about whether we would live well together in the Kingdom of God, but whether we are willing to live as we would in the Kingdom even now.

This brings us to the knife’s edge of disappointment once again. What if it doesn’t feel good? What if it doesn’t feel right? What if it isn’t good enough? Perhaps it is better not to try.

That would be foolishness in the wrong realm. That would be expecting things to feel right, here and now, when in fact it might be very uncomfortable to do what God calls us to. This bitterness may, like the scroll Ezekiel eats, come to taste sweet once we let ourselves enter into it, but it may just be difficult. I think of how many of us in adulthood expect that at some point all the grown-up tasks will become easy and effortless, because they looked that way to us as kids, when in fact they remain a slog and a time-sink, and that’s just part of the sad reality of life.

There has to be something we believe in more than gratification, and more than that our success and our feelings of meaning look like the climactic scenes in movies. For me it is the joy of encounter with God and with other people. It is the substantial beauty of seeing what is real and loving it because it is real, and not because it appears as I wish it would. I do not always manage that. Still, I know that is what I want to give my heart to, even if it’s difficult.

If you love something, you can follow where it leads, instead of perpetually being frustrated that it isn’t going down the path you expected. If you really need to go down that path, go down it, but don’t imagine that something else owes it to you to make the way clear. This is the realm of the Holy Spirit, which may lead you to two divergent paths, not to test you, but because that is what is real. Something which is beyond the spatial things the mind can understand, but which may exist in the reality of God. It may be that the paths will merge after a time, and it may be that we could take either path just as well, and that they really do diverge. Perhaps there is more to us than just one thing.

We are invited to experience the reality of what is, not what we expect. This is what the Gospels call us to: to share in the slow revelation by Jesus of some truths about us, about God, and about the world, and the image of a life which awaits us, and a life which is possible for us here and now. Jesus points out again and again that these things are all the out-pouring of a single truth that cannot be named, but that can be gestured at and felt among us all the same. He tells us that love made us and calls to us, and that we can live according to love, too, but that this is not the path of light and life. Love encompasses all that is, and love leaves nothing out.

You cannot tell someone that. There is no fact to be conveyed. There are a set of truths which must constellate in your mind, and which as soon as they seem settled, suddenly become elusive once again. You can feel disappointment and suspicion, that this thing which should have been true always and forever has changed, or you can let yourself be curious, and follow after it down a different path. It may all at last make sense once more, only to yet again appear fragmented and destroyed. It may not make sense at all except in hindsight. It will probably not all fit in our perspective this side of death itself, but this is the journey we are called to.

So it is that the women who came to Christ’s tomb found it empty. The empty tomb had its own reality to reveal, a baffling revelation, an unnameable experience. Some of the other disciples would not believe it until they saw it themselves, but found that the women’s account had been true all along. The empty tomb could be a disappointment. The empty tomb must be the path to life. That is something that we may experience, by the experiences shared by people we have never met, now long dead themselves. It is something we can never, fully, know. Beyond measure and explanation, so foolishly we place our hope in the absence of something, someone we never met while he was alive.

All of this is in God, as Christ is in God. May we meet Christ in one another. May we yearn across the chasm. May we find Christ in the empty tomb. Amen.

[punkscowardschampions]

Ali & Ro

Ali: Soooooo Ali: How'd your date go? Ro: I'm not sure who you meant to send this too, but perhaps try again? Ro: You can't mean me Ali: Coy, that's how you're playing it, I see Ali: Solid choice 😉 Ali: You and Drew musta been agonising over coffee options then Ro: What are you talking about, Ali? Ro: It was just a coffee stop for everyone, rehearsal fuel Ro: You know full well I've never been on a date Ali: I know full well that was just a ploy for some alone time with you Ali: and not yet but it is so clearly on the cards! Ali: I'd start dropping hints now, otherwise who knows where you'll end up Ro: Don't be ridiculous? Drew isn't remotely interested in me like that Ro: Why would he be? He has his pick of girls at school, and beyond the gates, too I'm sure Ali: Because you're you and he should be so lucky Ali: A bombshell with brains to boot Ali: Yeah, he's got a rep but he's being uncharacteristically sweet with you so, taking him at face value Ali: Anyway Ali: What do YOU think of him? More importantly Ro: Oh no no, this isn't a transformation story whereby I take off my glasses or get my braces taken off finally and am suddenly considered good enough for the protagonist Ro: Besides, I'm not even smart, just a hard worker Ro: Most importantly, he's always sweet with Meena so it's hardly uncharacteristic Ro: Other than knowing him as her kind older brother and Caleb's friend I really don't, know him that is Ali: Oh hush ignoring the fact that art is always a poor imitation of life and not the other way 'round Ali: He's love interest #1 at best, potential to be more if he sticks to his lines Ali: You're the loveable protagonist, silly Ali: Hmpf, fine. Would you like to know him better then? Ro: Of course, like I said, he's kind and sweet and Caleb's proven himself to be a good judge of character Ro: I just fail to see why he'd be interested in getting to know me, beyond being civil to me for the aforementioned reasons of mutual connections with important people Ro: He's Drew Goldsmith and I'm me Ro: We're incompatible given even the little we are both aware of concerning each other Ali: Well, I dunno about that, I think he's a fool and my evil plan is working 😏😂 Ali: Because he fancies you Ali: Potentially Ali: This stuff can defy usual logic, for better or worse, opposites CAN attract or repel in the case of humans Ali: But he wants to find out, I know this practically for a fact (of course, I haven't asked, don't worry) so its up to you to decide if you do too Ro: I have no idea what you believe you possess in terms of knowledge about his attractions or intentions but I highly doubt you're right in so far as him fancying me Ro: Sorry to say Ro: He may look like Connla of the Golden Hair but I am by no means a fairy maiden Ro: If only I could be noble born, never grow old or indeed never die Ali: Have you forgotten what happened to the last person to question my omniscience, sister? 🤔🍄💀😉 Ali: And have you also forgotten who and what you are, 'just because they told us too Ali: Cannot believe what I'm hearing here, I refuse to! Ro: of course I haven't Ro: but perhaps I should try and grow up, or at least be more realistic, when it comes to this Ali: Never! We do live in those green and pleasant hills after-all Ali: Won't stroke his ego as hard as to say UNLIMITED pleasures await but Ali: Everyone is positively like a silly child when it comes to love Ro: It isn't love though and therein lies the issue Ro: Simply a silly crush on my part and polite interest on his Ali: It rarely is at first sight Ali: and there's nothing polite about how keen he is Ali: See where it takes you, that's all Ali: he's clearly going to be hanging 'round jam seshs' and the like as long as you're about so whatever it will be, its inevitable Ro: I thought it would be, the whole charade of fireworks when our eyes collide and butterflies in my stomach. Everything clear and definite Ro: I'm afraid of whatever this is Ali: That's just horniness Ali: You just have better restraint than romance novel writers, is all Ali: Its aright to be afraid, its new and unknown Ali: Here be monsters Ro: Well that is comforting, especially if it ensures I won't fall as hard and fast as those heroines do Ro: particularly if I'm destined to do so alone Ro: Okay...but what if the monster is revealed to be me, in his eyes anyway, what if he gets to know me and doesn't like what he discovers Ali: Sure it was the corsets, poor girls could barely breathe, makes swooning all the more likely, those dastardly dandies! Ali: Then he's as bad, and ignorant (and MORE scared of the unknown than you feel right now), as every explorer who wrote natives off as savages Ali: You are far from a monster in every sensible definition Ali: Misunderstanding maketh monsters Ali: So that'd be on him, can't control other's perceptions but he isn't going to think you are, there's just no reason to Ro: I know you're right but Ro: I just suppose I wish I could control something Ali: I know Ali: Well, one thing you can control is your yay or nay to whatever he's offering up Ali: Not suggesting you have to make the first move, or put it all out on the line, 'cos he definitely will Ali: #gentleman Ro: That much is definite Ro: We should call another rehearsal, allow you to guide my vision to where yours currently reside so I'm not blindsided Ro: because I'm just not seeing what he wants with me Ali: Absolutely Ali: I'm really feeling the whole band thing too Ali: Are you enjoying it? Ro: Unexpectedly so, yes Ali: Right? I think everyone is Ali: Its something Ro: I've never played in front of that many people outside of a recital setting, I thought I'd mess up but it wasn't like that at all Ro: And everyone there seemed really into it Ro: Who knew there was so much respective talent surrounding us? Ali: Mess ups are more than welcome but you're flawless Ali: Me me me! 😊 Ali: Toying around with the idea of doing some local performances Ro: Flawless was you and Caleb Ro: I've never heard your voice so complimentary in a duet before, don't tell Marlene Ro: Oh? I think the others would be into that Ali: 💕 Ali: Might get her so raging she'd have to join us to prove you wrong Ali: I know it probably sounds a bit soon but like you said, performances are so different to practice and whatnot Ali: People would vibe Ali: There's all the places I've done solo, they'd be chill, and you know Suggs? Left School this year gone Ali: He's having a big Bday party for his gf and he's asked if I could do something Ro: Terrifying as it'd be to make a possible enemy of her, she's a very good bassist Ro: Very true, and too much practice can make it sound too rehearsed which clearly isn't what you're going for with this Ro: I heard Caleb talking to Drew about potentially performing at the restaurant so he'd be excited for sure Ro: Hm...I'm not certain I know who you mean but a gig's a gig Ro: Would he be alright with you bowing out as a soloist? Ali: She is Ali: She's gonna come around on her own tho, I know her Ali: She's just pouting Ali: Understandably, I'm not being as glib as I sound, just, we weren't right Ali: Exactly! That would be chill, you've gotta come thru with me just to get food, it's delicious and its beautiful Ali: Yeah, of course, one person can only rock out so hard solo Ali: Even if that one person is me Ali: Like, Bowie had a band, ya feel? Ro: I trust you and your intuition Ro: When's the party? Ro: I need to mentally prepare Ali: ✌ Ali: we've got 2 weeks to prep, assuming he doesn't get his arse dumped Ali: awkies, want us to play you out honey? 😂 Ro: Funeral march for his ego Ro: If the stars are good to me I'll make 2 weeks of wishes Ro: Should suffice Ali: Brilliant Ali: I'll check our charts Ali: Pull out some eyelashes if necessary Ali: The stars will fall and align for us Ro: I have faith Ro: Have you told the others yet? Ali: I haven't actually, I'll drop it in the group chat later Ali: Seeing Caleb tonight so I'll discuss the finer points with him then Ro: Good idea Ro: Oh yes, I'd forgotten it's your date night! Ali: As long as he hasn't we'll be fine 😋 Ro: Have you done his chart? If not he has perfect eyelashes to steal Ali: Not yet Ali: Been getting quizzed myself by his Ma Ali: Fair 'nuff but no time to sneak in so hey Ms Cavante, where was Caleb born and at what time exactly? #witchgirlproblems Ro: How very unfair Ro: Tonight could be the night Ro: I've already got the cards out here, questioning myself Ro: The spread's favorable for the party to go well for us as performers Ro: [Sends her a picture of the tarot] Ali: Knew we'd ace it but with the fates on our side we CANNOT fail Ali: are you asking about the Drew sitch? Ro: Perhaps Ali: I got you Ali: Keep it between you and the universe 💖 Ro: OH what are we going to wear for our first performance? Ali: THE BEST BIT Ali: We need to plan! Ali: Maybe shop! Ali: I think the party is a masquerade ball (how sweet for a hapless stoner, right?) Ali: We could run with that Ro: Well now I'm enthused Ro: Pencil me into your diary please Ali: Absolutely Ali: I think we could make better masks than we could ever find Ali: or makeup looks Ali: we will workshop this Ro: Agreed, you could create something amazing overnight Ali: We could go out and forage fresh flowers for it Ali: that would look beautiful Ro: Yes! Oh my god, we have to Ali: Perfection Ali: I'll see what the others want too Ali: Maybe we could go a galaxy glitter/paint moment on the guys but I feel like Meena would fosho want in on this floral faerie moment Ro: If you need me to start pressing any of the flowers let me know Ro: I'll make time Ali: You're an 👼 Ali: We can do it over lunch Ali: in between practicing Ali: Such busy 🐝s Ro: I don't mind I like to stay busy Ro: Do you think Drew will come to the party? Ali: Same tbh Ali: I bet he will Ali: And not to show off his musical prowess, bless him Ro: Do we need a name to perform under if we don't just want to be called 'Ali's band' by the host? Ali: Fantastic point, I don't want to be THAT lead singer Ali: So much to think on, oosh! We'll have to put the feelers out in the group chat Ali: should be something we all vibe Ro: I bet the boys will have some interesting ideas Ro: You should speak to Tommy as well, he's learn so much stage stuff at school Ro: If we're going to do this might as well make it look professional I think Ali: Agreed Ali: As long as he doesn't want to choreograph a whole girl group dance routine for us Ro: Imagine! Ro: I'd have to hide behind the piano Ali: Shy yet sultry keyboard girl prerogative Ali: I'll crowd surf my way outta there Ro: How long of a set are we going to play? Ro: There's so many potential covers not to mention the originals you and Caleb both have written Ali: Oh man Ali: we could do 20 like an opener but we are the main act, as it were, but its not that hardcore Ali: I think we could put together a 60 Ro: I hope we can all agree between us Ali: we will Ali: oh, could you cover for me with Ma tonight? Ali: she's not my bestie rn Ro: Of course Ro: I have a rare night free of any babysitting duties so it'll be simple Ali: Good, you deserve a break from the little demons Ali: I hope a book and a bubble bath are on the cards after you calm down the dragon Ro: They are indeed Ro: Perhaps I can suggest the same for her Ali: Perhaps I'm just giving myself away as twisted but that is a hilarious mental image Ali: Her grumpy face peeking out of a bubble beard Ro: Ali don't that's going to stay with me when I do get in the tub Ro: Oh no Ali: 🙊🙈 Ali: I can only apologize Ro: Cleansing that from my thoughts immediately Ro: Are you coming home at all or just straight out to see Caleb? Ali: If I do, catch me creeping up the stairs Ali: She's not been this pissy since Lachlan Ali: She's so SURE Caleb is like that and its just Ali: hilarious Ali: imagine Ro: Once she gets to know him better she'll change her mind Ro: She has to Ali: She SHOULD but will she? Ali: Stubborn old goat 😂 Ali: He's not going anywhere any time soon so if she wants to pine for Marlene that's on her but Ali: 🤷 Ro: I'll start counting cars to wish on just for her (and you), hold my breath, dig out my baby teeth, everything Ro: She just doesn't want to be a grandmother yet is all, it's no slight on Caleb personally I don't believe Ali: My vagina my choice, Mama Ali: Bless her Ali: It'd be fine if she threw out the same level of concern at...oh, idk Ali: Bea and Fraze Ali: 🙄 Ro: If she could secure us all same sex relationships she would, undoubtedly Ro: Likewise, if there was any feasible way to show Bea concern that she'd allow it'd be done Ali: When your kids don't have the good grace to be gay #gutted Ali: Yeah Ali: I need lessons on how to be a bad bitch, clearly Ro: Please don't take any lessons from Bea Ali: Its okay, I don't think she'd be willing to teach me Ro: Very true Ali: Best kept secrets and all that Ro: Speaking of, I've just received a text and must go Ali: Say no more Ali: run baby run 💚 Ro: Have fun tonight Ro: Bluebeard and I will try not to miss you too much Ali: Aww, I'll be home for snuggles lads Ali: wouldn't wanna get pregnant Ali: Laterz Ro: See you soon xx

[zukoscomet]

The Thirty-Something Years of Half Jobs

Chapter 2 (”Not the Deuce”) uploaded here.

“Don’t freak out but I need to tell you something important,”

“Okay, big brother. Hit me,”

Bellamy still struggled to believe that the little girl he’d carried around on his back was now the young woman that sat in the passenger seat on his truck. Not just a young woman; a wife and a mom, too. And a kickass martial arts teacher. Now, it was his niece, Amei, that liked to cling to his shoulders for rides.

Octavia was jet-lagged, slumped in the seat like marionette cut from its strings. Her job took her on awesome business trips that Bellamy had always been envious of. Tokyo, this time. Her hair was down and limp, eyes shadowed, and her skin waxy.

The news she was about to receive would soon wake her up.

“O,” Bellamy took a deep breath in, hands clenched on the steering wheel. “Clarke and I are going to get married.”

He’d been expecting an excited squeal, her hands to fly to her mouth in shock. Instead, he got an eyeroll reminiscent of her teens. “Well yeah, you two have been engaged for what . . . six years now?”

Bellamy suddenly felt ridiculous, his skin turning hot. Octavia and Lincoln had married in less than a year of the proposal.

“No. I mean like we’re actually going to get married,” he emphasised. “As in been to the city clerk’s office, planning it as we speak, getting married.”

He’d finally got his sister’s attention. Her eyes snapped away from her phone. “Shut up. No, you’re not.”

Bellamy couldn’t help but smirk at the look of utter disbelief on Octavia’s face.

“Yes, yes we are.”

Then came the excited squeal. Twenty four years old and bouncing up and down in her seat. “Oh my god, really? You swear? Clarke’s gonna be my sister-in-law?”

He just nodded in return, starting the engine of his truck as Octavia naturally begun to freak out.

“My brother’s getting married, at last. When does Clarke want to go dress shopping? The place I got mine from is lovely. I’ll take her. Is she having bridesmaids? I’ve never been a bridesmaid before, Bell. Lincoln can take you to get a suit. You said he was going to be your best man when you first got engaged, right? I can’t believe this, I can’t-”

Bellamy grinned like a maniac as he listened to his sister babble excitedly. In this moment, he wondered why he and Clarke had waited so damn long in the first place. Octavia seem to come to the same thought.

“So what set things in motion after all this time?” Octavia cocked her head to the side before her eyes widened even more. “Is Clarke pregnant?”

Bellamy just snorted at her assumption, but somewhere deep down, he wished it were true. “No, no. One step at a time, O.”

“Jesus, Bellamy. You’re like 30 already. Learn to run or you’ll seize up,” Octavia laughed, putting her arm out of the window.

Next came the part of the conversation he’d been dreading.

“So when’s the big day?”

He could feel his heart speed us a little in his chest, the blood pumping faster. Octavia was going to be doing a different kind of freaking out when he told her. It took Bellamy three goes of opening and closing his mouth before the fatal word escaped him.

“Tomorrow.”

“Very funny, Bellamy. Fucking tomorrow.”

There was a long silence. Bellamy kept his eyes on the freeway and refused the urge to look at his sister.

“Oh my god, you’re serious.”

“Yep.”

“What the fuck?” Octavia sat back in her seat. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Typical Bellarke thing to do, if ever I saw it.”

Bellamy sighed at the old moniker that the other kids used for him and Clarke back in high school. It drove Clarke up the wall and everyone knew it so inevitably, it was never going to die.

“Where are you going to have it?” she asked after a moment of contemplation.

“Monty’s place.”

Bellamy and Clarke were damn lucky in that they happened to be best friends with Monty Green. Monty ran a restaurant on Central Park. The rent cost him a pretty penny but it also gave him a small section of land. A really nice bit, too. Enough room for a wedding ceremony for sure.

“Clarke wants you to be her bridesmaid. Raven and Amei, too. I’m taking you back to our place now so you three can sort things out. Or atleast that’s what she told me. And yes, I do want Linc to be my best man.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bellamy could see his sister recovering from her shock, regaining her posture.

“Want me to call him for you?”

Bellamy did the same, sitting up a little straighter in the driver’s seat. A wedding in less than twenty four hours. He was fucking crazy, but his friends, his family; they were, too.

If anyone could pull this shit off, it was them.

“Call Lincoln.”

“A wedding in a day? Wow, Griffin. I didn’t know you had it in you to be this ballsy. Did you have like really great sex last night or-”

“Stop there, I haven’t had nearly enough alcohol to hear the end of that sentence.”

If there was anyone that Clarke could rely on to bring her thudding back down to Earth, it was Raven Reyes and Octavia Blake. Bellamy could be brutal, but he was nothing compared to them. Her mom had tried to stop her from hanging out with them in high school. A bad influence on her, she’d said. But when Raven and Octavia had climbed the tree in her backyard to get into her bedroom, she’d given up. The girls had tended to use the Griffin’s front door from then on.

The Griffin-Blake-Reyes triumvirate, as Bellamy called it, was fucking unstoppable.

“So, where are we going to acquire a wedding dress that fits Clarke perfectly, looks gorgeous, is affordable, and has equally nice accessories?” Raven asked, tipping the last dregs of red wine down her neck. “Also, we need dresses for me, O and Amei.”

“Suits for the boys, too.” Octavia pointed out.

“Leave that to Bell and Lincoln. That’s their responsibility.” Clarke ruled, breaking the seal on a fresh bottle.

“Still leaves us with the dress problem.” O lent back against the pillows of Bellamy and Clarke’s couch.

In her peripherals, Clarke could see Raven sizing her up. Guesstimating her height. Dark eyes roving over the width of her waist, torso, thighs and breasts. Wasn’t exactly new. She had a short history with Raven, before she had Bellamy and Raven had Luna.

“See something you like, Reyes?”

“Oh, I’m taken and so are you. There’s a reason for me checking you out,” Raven smirked back at her, refilling her glass. “Leave the dresses to me. I know a guy. For me, he’ll fit us today.”

Clarke’s eyebrows quirked up. “Here’s where you tell me that this place is in the Deuce.”

Octavia coughed out a poorly-hidden laugh behind her hand. Raven alternated between scowling at the pair of them.

“I’ll have you know that this is a very legit establishment I’m talking about here. That thing with the Deuce was on like one night out. You guys fucking loved it. Give me a break,” Reyes retorted indignantly. “Anyway, you remember Kyle Wick from senior year?”

The Blake girl snorted. “If that scumbag is the fitter, you’ll have to drag me in there kicking and screaming.”

“Ditto. It’s his sister, Paige, that runs the business. She’s cool. Personally thanked me when I dumped her brother’s ass. Said I could call in a favor when I needed it.”

“So you know a girl?”

“I do.”

“Raven Reyes,” Clarke raised her glass. “You are a godsend.”

“Bow down, bitches, to the Reyes power,”

“I can do our make-up and hair and stuff, easy. Amei can help. She loves all that.”

“So we have outfits sorted. Venue and times set. Guests have been invited. Kane’s letting us use his Porsche to get there,” Clarke ticked off on her fingers.

“Monty’s handling the feasting. Jasper on the discs,” Raven said.

“Linc has the rings.” Octavia added.

“Got a priest?”

“Yeah. Please don’t ask where.”

“Should we be concerned?”

“Probably but we’ll leave it for now.”

“That leaves a nice, hot honeymoon for the lovers.” Raven and Octavia waggled their brows at each other suggestively. Clarke was too resigned to berate them, or even cringe.

“Bellamy’s adamant he’s handling the honeymoon.”

Bellamy and Clarke didn’t go abroad that often. They were in well-paying jobs with no children and a small apartment to upkeep; money was no object, really. It was the time aspect. Clarke worked ungodly hours around the clock at Ark Medical. Doctors were in short supply. Lawyers weren’t so much, but Bellamy the Harvard Graduate was fucking great at his job. Clarke would often wake up in the night to an empty bed, only to find Bellamy passed out at his desk with yet another case under him.

A holiday would be good for them.

Octavia grinned, examining her flawlessly manicured nails. “We’ve got this made, girls.”

“Well,” Raven yawned, stretching her arms. “The bride stays with her maids the night before the wedding, Clarke, You’re gonna have to turf your dearly beloved out to stay with one of his boys.”

“I’m sure he’ll go quietly.” Clarke said, pulling out her phone to deliver him the news.

Raven set her glass down on the coffee table with a loud chink before jumping to her feet, as though propelled by a spring.

“Ladies, let’s go and get our dresses for the long-awaited Bellarke wedding!”

Octavia was up in a second, too, cheering with Raven.

Clarke just sighed.

Fucking Bellarke.