#this is just a total nonsense stream of consciousness | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alittlebitoftruthcan · 1 year

Quote

Ascending to the high seat, Dogen Zenji said: ‘Zen master Hogen studied with Keishin Zenji. Once Keishin Zenji asked him, Joza, where do you go?’ Hogen said. ‘I am making pilgrimage aimlessly.’ Keishin said, ‘What is the matter of your pilgrimage?’ Hogen said, ‘I don’t know.’ Keishin said, ‘Not knowing is the most intimate.’ Hogen suddenly attained great enlightenment.’ Zen is just Zen. There is nothing comparable to it. It is unique—unique in the sense that it is the most ordinary and yet the most extraordinary phenomenon that has happened to human consciousness. It is the most ordinary because it does not believe in knowledge, it does not believe in mind. It is not a philosophy, not a religion either. It is the acceptance of the ordinary existence with a total heart, with one’s total being, not desiring some other world, supra-mundane, supra-mental. It has no interest in any esoteric nonsense, no interest in metaphysics at all. It does not hanker for the other shore; this shore is more than enough. Its acceptance of this shore is so tremendous that through that very acceptance it transforms this shore—and this very shore becomes the other shore: This very body the buddha; This very earth the lotus paradise. Hence it is ordinary. It does not want you to create a certain kind of spirituality, a certain kind of holiness. All that it asks is that you live your life with immediacy, spontaneity. And then the mundane becomes the sacred. The great miracle of Zen is in the transformation of the mundane into the sacred. And it is tremendously extraordinary because THIS way life has never been approached before, THIS way life has never been respected before. Zen goes beyond Buddha and beyond Lao Tzu. It is a culmination, a transcendence, both of the Indian genius and of the Chinese genius. The Indian genius reached its highest peak in Gautam the Buddha and the Chinese genius reached its highest peak in Lao Tzu. And the meeting… the essence of Buddha’s teaching and the essence of Lao Tzu’s teaching merged into one stream so deeply that no separation is possible now. Even to make a distinction between what belongs to Buddha and what to Lao Tzu is impossible, the merger has been so total. It is not only a synthesis, it is an integration. Out of this meeting Zen was born. Zen is neither Buddhist nor Taoist and yet both. To call Zen ‘Zen Buddhism’ is not right because it is far more. Buddha is not so earthly as Zen is. Lao Tzu is tremendously earthly, but Zen is not only earthly: its vision transforms the earth into heaven. Lao Tzu is earthly, Buddha is unearthly, Zen is both—and in being both it has become the most extraordinary phenomenon. The future of humanity will go closer and closer to the approach of Zen, because the meeting of the East and West is possible only through something like Zen, which is earthly and yet unearthly. The West is very earthly, the East is very unearthly. Who is going to become the bridge? Buddha cannot be the bridge; he is so essentially Eastern, the very flavor of the East, the very fragrance of the East, uncompromising. Lao Tzu cannot be the bridge; he is too earthly. China has always been very earthly. China is more part of the Western psyche than of the Eastern psyche. It is not an accident that China is the first country in the East to turn communist, to become materialist, to believe in a godless philosophy, to believe that man is only matter and nothing else. This is not just accidental. China has been earthly for almost five thousand years; it is very Western. Hence Lao Tzu cannot become the bridge; he is more like Zorba the Greek. Buddha is so unearthly you cannot even catch hold of him—how can he become the bridge? When I look all around, Zen seems to be the only possibility, because in Zen, Buddha and Lao Tzu have become one. The meeting has already happened. The seed is there, the seed of that great bridge which can make East and West one. Zen is going to be the meeting-point. It has a great future—a great past and a great future. And the miracle is that Zen is neither interested in the past nor in the future. Its total interest is in the present. Maybe that’s why the miracle is possible, because the past and the future are bridged by the present. The present is not part of time. Have you ever thought about it? How long is the present? The past has a duration, the future has a duration. What is the duration of the present? How long does it last? Between the past and the future can you measure the present? It is immeasurable; it is almost not. It is not time at all: it is the penetration of eternity into time. And Zen lives in the present. The whole teaching is: how to be in the present, how to get out of the past which is no more and how not to get involved in the future which is not yet, and just to be rooted, centered, in that which is. The whole approach of Zen is of immediacy, but because of that it can bridge the past and the future. It can bridge many things: it can bridge the past and the future, it can bridge the East and the West, it can bridge body and soul. It can bridge the unbridgeable worlds: this world and that, the mundane and the sacred. Before we enter into this small anecdote it will be good to understand a few things. The first: the Masters do not tell the truth. Even if they want to they cannot; it is impossible. Then what is their function? What do they go on doing? They cannot tell the truth, but they can call forth the truth which is fast asleep in you. They can provoke it, they can challenge it. They can shake you up, they can wake you up. They cannot give you God, truth, NIRVANA, because in the first place you already have it all with you. You are born with it. It is innate, it is intrinsic. It is your very nature. So anybody who pretends to give you the truth is simply exploiting your stupidity, your gullibility. He is cunning—cunning and utterly ignorant too. He knows nothing; not even a glimpse of truth has happened to him. He is a pseudo Master. Truth cannot be given; it is already in you. It can be called forth, it can be provoked. A context can be created, a certain space can be created in which it rises in you and is no more asleep, becomes awakened. The function of the Master is far more complex than you think. It would have been far easier, simpler, if truth could be conveyed. It cannot be conveyed, hence indirect ways and means have to be devised. The New Testament has the beautiful story of Lazarus. Christians have missed the whole point of it. Christ is so unfortunate—he has fallen into the wrong company. Not even a single Christian theologian has been able to discover the meaning of the story of Lazarus, his death and resurrection. Lazarus dies. He is the brother of Mary Magdalene and Martha and a great devotee of Jesus. Jesus is far away; by the time he gets the information and the invitation, ‘Come immediately,’ two days have already passed, and by the time he reaches Lazarus’ place four days have passed. But Mary and Martha are waiting for him—their trust is such. The whole village is laughing at them. They are being stupid in others’ eyes because they are keeping the corpse in a cave; they are watching day in, day out, guarding the corpse. The corpse has already started stinking; it is deteriorating. The village people are saying, ‘You are fools! Jesus cannot do anything. When somebody is dead, somebody is dead!’ Jesus comes. He goes to the cave—he does not enter into the cave—he stands outside and calls Lazarus forth. The people have gathered. They must be laughing: ‘This man seems to be crazy!’ Somebody says to him, ‘What are you doing?’ He is dead! He has been dead for four days. In fact, to enter into the cave is difficult—his body is stinking. It is impossible! Whom are you calling?’ But, unperturbed, Jesus shouts again and again, ‘Lazarus, come out!’ And the crowd is in for a great surprise: Lazarus walks out of the cave—shaken, shocked, as if out of a great slumber, as if he had fallen into a coma. He himself cannot believe what has happened, why he is in the cave. This in fact is just a way of saying what the function of a Master is. Whether Lazarus was really dead or not is not the point. Whether Jesus was capable of raising the dead or not is not the point. To get involved in those stupid questions is absurd. Only scholars can be so foolish. No man of understanding will think that this is something historical. It is far more! It is not a fact, it is a truth. It is not something that happens in time, it is something more: something that happens in eternity. You are all dead. You are all in the same situation as Lazarus. You are all living in your dark caves. You are all stinking and deteriorating… because death is not something that comes one day suddenly—you are dying every day. Since the day of your birth you have been dying. It is a long process; it takes seventy, eighty, ninety years to complete it. EACH MOMENT something of you dies, something in you dies, but you are absolutely unaware of the whole situation. You go on as if you are alive; you go on living as if you know what life is. The function of the Master is to call forth: ‘Lazarus, come out of the cave! Come out of your grave! Come out of your death!’ The Master cannot give you the truth but he can call forth the truth. He can stir something in you. He can trigger a process in you which will ignite a fire, a flame. Truth you are—just so much dust has gathered around you. The function of the Master is negative: he has to give you a bath, a shower, so the dust disappears. That’s exactly the meaning of Christian baptism. That’s what John the Baptist was doing in the River Jordan. But people go on misunderstanding. Today also baptism happens in the churches; it is meaningless. John the Baptist was preparing people for an inner bath. When they were ready he would take them symbolically into the River Jordan. That was only symbolic—just as your orange clothes are symbolic, that bath in the River Jordan was symbolic—symbolic that the Master can give you a bath. He can take the dust, the dust of centuries, away from you. And suddenly all is clear, all is clarity. That clarity is enlightenment. The great Master Daie says: ‘All the teachings of the sages, of the saints, of the masters, have expounded no more than this: they are commentaries on your sudden cry, ‘Ah, This!’’ When suddenly you are clear and a great joy and rejoicing arises in you, and your whole being, every fiber of your body, mind and soul dances, and you say, ‘Ah, this! Alleluia!’ a great shout of joy arises in your being, that is enlightenment. Suddenly stars come down from the rafters. You become part of the eternal dance of existence. Auden says: ‘Dance till the stars come down from the rafters! Dance, dance, dance till you drop!’ Yes, it happens—it is not something that you have to do. It is something that even if you want not to do you will find it impossible; you will find it impossible to resist. You will have to dance. The beauty of this, the beauty of now, the joy that existence is and the closeness of it… Yes, stars come down from the rafters. They are so close you can just touch them; you can hold them in your hands. Daie is right. He says: ‘All the teachings the sages expounded are no more than commentaries on your sudden cry, ‘AH, THIS!’’ The whole heart saying ‘Aha!’ And the silence that follows it, and the peace, and the joy, and the meeting, and the merger, and the orgasmic experience, the ecstasy…! Masters don’t teach the truth; there is no way to teach it. It is a transmission beyond scriptures, beyond words. It is a transmission. It is energy provoking energy in you. It is a kind of synchronicity. The Master has disappeared as an ego; he is pure joy. And the disciple sits by the side of the Master slowly slowly partaking of his joy, of his being, eating and drinking out of that eternal, inexhaustible source: AIS DHAMMO SANANTANO. And one day… and one cannot predict when that day will come; it is unpredictable. One day suddenly it has happened: a process has started in you which reveals the truth of your being to you. You come face to face with yourself. God is not somewhere else: he is now, here. The Masters illuminate and confirm realization. They illuminate in a thousand and one ways. They go on pointing towards the truth: fingers pointing to the moon. But there are many fools who start clinging to the fingers. By clinging to the fingers you will not see the moon, remember. There are even greater fools who start biting the fingers. That is not going to give you any nourishment. Forget the finger and look at where it is pointing. The Masters illuminate. They shower great light—they are light—they shower great light on your being. They are like a searchlight: they focus their being on your being. You have lived in darkness for centuries, for millions of lives. Suddenly a Master’s searchlight starts revealing a few forgotten territories in you. They are within you; the Master is not bringing them—he is simply bringing his light, he is focusing himself on you. And the Master can focus only when the disciple is open, when the disciple is surrendered, when the disciple is ready to learn, not to argue, when the disciple has come not to accumulate knowledge but to know truth, when the disciple is not only curious but is a seeker and is ready to risk all. Even if life has to be risked and sacrificed the disciple is ready. In fact, when you risk your sleepy life, you sacrifice your sleepy life, you attain to a totally different quality of life: the life of light, of love, the life which is beyond death, beyond time, beyond change. They illuminate and confirm realization. First the Master illuminates the way, the truth that is within you. And secondly: when you realize it, when you recognize it… It is very difficult for you to believe that you have attained it. The most unbelievable thing is when realization of truth happens to you, because you have been told that it is very difficult, almost impossible, and that it takes millions of lives to arrive at it. And you have been told it is somewhere else—maybe in heaven—and when you recognize it within yourself, how can you believe it? The Master confirms it. He says, ‘Yes, this is it!’ His confirmation is as much needed as his illumination. He begins by illuminating and ends by confirming. The Masters are evidence of truth, not its proof. Meditate over the subtle difference between evidence and proof. The Master is an evidence; he is a witness. He has seen, he has known, he has become. You can feel it; the evidence can be felt. You can come closer and closer; you can allow the fragrance of the Master to penetrate to the innermost core of your being. The Master is only evidence; he is not proof. If you want any proof… there is no proof. God can neither be proved nor disproved; it is not an argument. God is not a hypothesis, it is not a theory: it is experience. The Master is living evidence. But to see it you will need a different approach than you are accustomed to. You know how to approach a teacher, how to approach a professor, how to approach a priest. They don’t require much because they simply impart information which can be done even by a tape recorder or by a computer or by a gramophone record or by a book. I was a student in a university. I never attended the classes of my professors. Naturally, they were offended. And one day the head of the department called me and he said, ‘Why have you joined the university? We never see you, you never attend any classes. And remember: when the examination time comes, don’t ask for an attendance record—because seventy-five percent attendance is a must to enter into the examination.’ I took hold of the hand of that old man and I said, ‘You come with me—I will show you where I am and why I have entered the university.’ He was a little afraid of where I was taking him and why. And it was a well-known fact that I was a little eccentric! He said, ‘But where are you taking me?’ I said, ‘I will show you that you have to give me one hundred percent attendance. You come with me.’ I took him to the library and I told the librarian, ‘You tell this old man—has there ever been a single day when I have not been in the library?’ The librarian said, ‘Even on holidays he has been here. If the library is not open then this student goes on sitting in the garden of the library, but he comes. And every day we have to tell him, ‘Now please, you leave, because it is closing time.’’ I told the professor, ‘I find the books far more clear than your so-called professors. And, moreover, they simply repeat what is already written in the books, so what is the point of going on listening to them second-hand? I can look in the books directly!’ I told him, ‘If you can prove that your teachers are teaching something which is not in the books, then I am ready to come to the classes. If you cannot prove it, then keep it in mind that you have to give me one hundred percent attendance—otherwise I will create trouble!’ And I never went to ask him; he gave me one hundred percent attendance. He followed the point; it was so simple. He said, ‘You are right. Why listen to second-hand knowledge? You can go directly to the books. I know those professors—I myself am just a gramophone record. The truth is,’ he said to me, ‘that for thirty years I have not read anything. I just go on using my old notes.’ For thirty years he has been teaching the same thing again and again and again; and in thirty years’ time, millions of books have been published. You know how to approach a teacher, you know how to approach a book, you know how to approach dead information, but you don’t know how to approach a Master. It is a totally different way of communing. It is not communication, it is communion—because the Master is not a proof but an evidence. He is not an argument for God, he is a witness for God. He does not possess great knowledge about God, he knows. He is not knowledgeable, he simply knows. Remember, to know ABOUT is worthless. The word ‘about’ means around. To know about something means to go on moving in circles, around and around. The word ‘about’ is beautiful. Whenever you read ‘about,’ read ‘around.’ When somebody says, ‘I know ABOUT God,’ read: he knows AROUND God. He goes in a circle. And real knowing is never about, never around; it is direct, it is a straight line. Jesus says: ‘Straight is the path…’ It does not go in circles; it is a jump from the periphery to the center. The Master is an evidence of that jump, that quantum leap, that transformation. You have to approach the Master with great love, with great trust, with an open heart. You are not aware who you are. He is aware who he is, he is aware who you are. The caterpillar might be said to be unaware that it may become a butterfly. You are caterpillars—BODHISATTVAS. All caterpillars are Bodhisattvas and all bodhisattvas are caterpillars. A bodhisattva means one who can become a butterfly, who can become a Buddha, who is a Buddha in the seed, in essence. But how can the caterpillar be aware that he can become a butterfly? The only way is to commune with butterflies, to see butterflies moving in the wind, in the sun. Seeing them soaring high, seeing them moving from one flower to another flower, seeing their beauty, their color, maybe a deep desire, a longing arises in the caterpillar: ‘Can I also be the same?’ In that very moment the caterpillar has started awakening, a process has been triggered. The Master/disciple relationship is the relationship between a caterpillar and a butterfly, a friendship between a caterpillar and a butterfly. The butterfly cannot prove that the caterpillar can become a butterfly; there is no logical way. But the butterfly can provoke a longing in the caterpillar—that is possible. The Master helps you to reach your own experience. He does not give you the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible; he throws you to yourself. He makes you aware of your inner sources. He makes you aware of your own juice, of your own godliness. He liberates you from the scriptures. He liberates you from the interpretations of others. He liberates you from all belief. He liberates you from all speculation, from all guesswork. He liberates you from philosophy and from religion and from theology. He liberates you, in short, from the world of words—because the word is the problem. You become so much obsessed with the word ‘love’ that you forget that love is an experience, not a word. You become so obsessed with the word ‘God’ that you forget that God is an experience, not a word. The word ‘God’ is not God, and the word ‘fire’ is not fire, and the word ‘love’ is not love either. The Master liberates you from words, he liberates you from all kinds of imaginative philosophies. He brings you to a state of wordless silence. The failure of religion and philosophy is that they all become substitutes for real experience. Beware of it! Marlene and Florence, two Denver secretaries, were chatting over lunch. ‘I was raped last night by a scholar,’ whispered Marlene. ‘Really?’ said Florence. ‘How did you know he was a scholar?’ ‘I had to help him.’ Scholars are crippled people, paralyzed, hung up in their heads. They have forgotten everything except words. They are great system-makers. They accumulate beautiful theories; they arrange them in beautiful patterns, but that’s all they do. They know nothing—although they deceive others and deceive themselves, too, that they know. A man went into a restaurant to have some lunch and when the waiter came he said, ‘I will have a plate of kiddlies, please.’ ‘What?’ said the waiter. ‘Kiddlies,’ said the man. ‘What?’ said the waiter again. So the man picked up the menu and pointed at what he wanted. ‘Kiddlies,’ he repeated firmly. ‘Ah,’ said the waiter. ‘I see. Kidneys. Why didn’t you say so?’ ‘But,’ said the man, ‘I said kiddlies, diddle I?’ It is very difficult to pull them out. They live in their own words. They have forgotten that reality has anything else in it but words. They are utterly deaf, utterly blind. They can’t see, they can’t hear, they can’t feel. Words are words. You can’t see them, you can’t feel them, but they can give you great ego. A cannibal rushed into his village to spread the word that a hunting party had captured a Christian theologian. ‘Good,’ said one of the cannibals enthusiastically, ‘I have always wanted to try a baloney sandwich.’ Beware of getting lost in philosophy and religion if you really want to know what truth is. Beware of being Christian, Hindu, Mohammedan, because they are all ways of being deaf, blind, insensitive. Three deaf British gentlemen were traveling on a train bound for London. The first said, ‘Pardon me, conductor, what station is this?’ ‘Wembley, sir,’ answered the conductor. ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the second Englishman. ‘I am sure it is Thursday.’ ‘So am I,’ agreed the third. ‘Let us all go into the bar car and have a drink.’ That’s how it goes on between professors, philosophers, theologians. They can’t hear what is being said. They have their own ideas and they are so full of them, so many thick layers of words, that reality cannot reach them. Zen says: if you can drop philosophizing, there is a hope for you. The moment you drop philosophizing you become innocent like a child. But remember:—the Zen emphasis on not knowing does not mean that it emphasizes ignorance. Not knowing is not ignorance; not knowing is a state of innocence. There is neither knowledge nor ignorance; both have been transcended. An ignorant man is one who ignores; that’s how the word comes. The root is ‘ignoring.’ The ignorant person is one who goes on ignoring something essential. In that way the knowledgeable person is the most ignorant person, because he knows about heaven and hell and he knows nothing about himself. He knows about God, but he knows nothing about who he is, what this consciousness inside is. He is ignorant because he is ignoring the MOST fundamental thing in life: he is ignoring himself. He is keeping himself occupied with the non-essential. He is ignorant—full of knowledge, yet utterly ignorant. Not knowing simply means a state of no-mind. Mind can be knowledgeable, mind can be ignorant. If you have little information you will be thought ignorant; if you have more information you will be thought knowledgeable. Between ignorance and knowledge the difference is that of quantity, of degrees. The ignorant person is less knowledgeable, that’s all; the very knowledgeable person may appear to the world as less ignorant, but they are not different, their qualities are not different. Zen emphasizes the state of not knowing. Not knowing means one is neither ignorant nor knowledgeable. One is not knowledgeable because one is not interested in mere information, and one is not ignorant because one is not ignoring—one is not ignoring the most essential quest. One is not ignoring one’s own being, one’s own consciousness. Not knowing has a beauty of its own, a purity. It is just like a pure mirror, a lake utterly silent, reflecting the stars and the trees on the bank. The state of not knowing is the highest point in man’s evolution. Knowledge is introduced to the mind after physical birth. Knowing is always present, like the heart knowing how to beat or a seed knowing how to sprout, or a flower knowing how to grow, or a fish knowing how to swim. And it is quite different from knowing about things. So please make a distinction between knowledge and knowing. The state of not knowing is really the state of knowing because when all knowledge and all ignorance have disappeared you can reflect existence as it is. Knowledge is acquired after your birth, but knowing comes with you. And the more knowledge you acquire, the more and more knowing starts disappearing because it becomes covered with knowledge. Knowledge is exactly like dust and knowing is like a mirror. The heart of knowing is now. Knowledge is always of the past. Knowledge means memory. Knowledge means you have known something, you have experienced something, and you have accumulated your experience. Knowing is of the present. And how can you be in the present if you are clinging too much to knowledge? That is impossible; you will have to drop clinging to knowledge. And knowledge is acquired: knowing is your nature. Knowing is always now—the heart of knowing is now. And the heart of now…? The word ‘now’ is beautiful. The heart of it is the letter ‘O’ which is also a symbol for zero. The heart of now is zero, nothingness. When the mind is no more, when you are just a nothingness, just a zero—Buddha calls it exactly that, SHUNYA, the zero—then everything that surrounds you, ALL that is within and without, is known, but known not as knowledge, known in a totally different way. The same way that the flower knows how to open, and the fish knows how to swim, and the child knows in the mother’s womb how to grow, and you know how to breathe—even while asleep, even in a coma, you go on breathing—and the heart knows how to beat. This is a totally different kind of knowing, so intrinsic, so internal. It is not acquired, it is natural. Knowledge is got in exchange for knowing. And when you have got knowledge, what happens to knowing? You forget knowing. You have got knowledge and you have forgotten knowing. And knowing is the door to the divine; knowledge is a barrier to the divine. Knowledge has utility in the world. Yes, it will make you more efficient, skillful, a good mechanic, this and that; you may be able to earn in a better way. All that is there and I am not denying it. And you can use knowledge in that way; but don’t let knowledge become a barrier to the divine. Whenever knowledge is not needed, put it aside and drown yourself into a state of not knowing—which is also a state of knowing, real knowing. Knowledge is got in exchange for knowing and knowing is forgotten. It has only to be remembered—you have forgotten it. The function of the Master is to help you RE-member it. The mind has to be RE-minded, for knowing is nothing but RE-cognition, RE-collection, RE-membrance. When you come across some truth, when you come across a Master, and you see the truth of his being, something within you immediately recognizes it. Not even a single moment is lost. You don’t think about it, whether it is true or not—thinking needs time. When you listen to the truth, when you feel the presence of truth, when you come into close communion with the truth, something within you immediately recognizes it, with no argumentation. Not that you accept, not that you believe: you recognize. And it could not be recognized if it were not already known somehow, somewhere, deep down within you. This is the fundamental approach of Zen. ‘Has your baby brother learned to talk yet?’ ‘Oh, sure,’ replied little Mike. ‘Now Mummy and Daddy are teaching him to keep quiet.’ The society teaches you knowledge. So many schools, colleges, universities… they are all devoted to creating knowledge, more knowledge, implanting knowledge in people. And the function of the Master is just the opposite: what your society has done to you the Master has to undo. His function is basically anti-social, and nothing can be done about it. The Master is bound to be anti-social. Jesus, Pythagoras, Buddha, Lao Tzu, they are all anti-social. Not that they want to be anti-social, but the moment they recognize the beauty of not knowing, the vastness of not knowing, the innocence of not knowing, the moment the taste of not knowing happens to them, they want to impart it to others, they want to share it with others. And that very process is anti-social. People ask me why the society is against me. The society is NOT against me—I am anti-social. But I can’t help it—I have to do my thing. I have to share what has happened to me, and in that very sharing I go against the society. Its whole structure is rooted in knowledge, and the Master’s function is to destroy both knowledge and ignorance and to bring you back your childhood. Jesus says: ‘Unless you are like small children you will not enter into the kingdom of God.’ The society, in fact, makes you uprooted from your nature. It pushes you off your center. It makes you neurotic. Conducting a university course, a famous psychiatrist was asked by a student, ‘Sir, you have told us about the abnormal person and his behavior, but what about the normal person?’ ‘When we find him,’ replied the psychiatrist, ‘we cure him.’ The society goes on curing normal people. Every child is born normal, remember; then the society cures him. Then he becomes abnormal. He becomes Hindu, Mohammedan, Christian, Communist, Catholic… there are so many kinds of neurosis in the world. You can choose, you can shop for whatever kind of neurosis you want. Society creates all kinds; all sizes and shapes of neurosis are available, to everybody’s liking. Zen cures you of your abnormality. It makes you again normal, it makes you again ordinary. It does not make you a saint, remember. It does not make you a holy person, remember. It simply makes you an ordinary person—takes you back to your nature, back to your source. This beautiful anecdote: Ascending to the high seat, Dogen Zenji said: ‘Zen master Hogen studied with Keishin Zenji. Once Keishin Zenji asked him, Joza, where do you go?’ Hogen said. ‘I am making pilgrimage aimlessly.’ Keishin said, ‘What is the matter of your pilgrimage?’ Hogen said, ‘I don’t know.’ Keishin said, ‘Not knowing is the most intimate.’ Hogen suddenly attained great enlightenment.’ Now meditate over each word of this small anecdote; it contains all the great scriptures of the world. It contains more than all the great scriptures contain—because it also contains not knowing. ASCENDING TO THE HIGH SEAT… This is just a symbolic, metaphorical way of saying something very significant. Zen says that man is a ladder. The lowest rung is the mind and the highest rung of the ladder is the no-mind. Zen says only people who have attained to no-mind are worthy enough to ascend to the high seat and speak to people—not everybody. It is not a question of a priest or a preacher. Christians train preachers; they have theological colleges where preachers are trained. What kind of foolishness is this? Yes, you can teach them the art of eloquence; you can teach them how to begin a speech, how to end a speech. And that’s exactly what is being taught in Christian theological colleges. Even what gestures to make, when to make a pause, when to speak slowly and when to become loud—everything is cultivated. And these stupid people go on preaching about Jesus, and they have not asked a single question! Once I visited a theological college. The principal was my friend; he invited me. I asked him, ‘Can you tell me in what theological college Jesus learned?—because the Sermon on the Mount is so beautiful, he must have learned in some theological college. In what theological college did Buddha learn?’ Mohammed was absolutely uneducated, but the way he speaks, the way he sings in the Koran, is superb. It is coming from somewhere else. It is not education, it is not knowledge. It is coming from a state of no-mind. Little Johnny was the son of the local minister. One day his teacher was asking the class what they wanted to be when they grew up. When it was his turn to answer he replied, ‘I want to be a minister just like my father.’ The teacher was impressed with his determination and so she asked him why he wanted to be a preacher. ‘Well,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘since I have to go to church on Sunday anyway, I figure it would be more interesting to be the guy who stands up and yells than the one who has to sit down and listen.’ You can create preachers, but you cannot create Masters. In India, the seat from where a Master speaks is called VYASPEETHA. Vyasa was one of the greatest Masters India has ever produced, one of the ancientmost Buddhas. He was so influential, his impact was so tremendous, that thousands of books exist in his name which were not written by him. But his name became so important that anybody who wanted to sell his book would put Vyasa’s name on it instead of putting his own name. His name was guarantee enough that the book was valuable. Now scholars go crazy deciding which is the real book written by Vyasa. The seat from where a Buddha speaks is called VYASPEETHA—the seat of the Buddha. Nobody else is allowed to ascend to the seat unless he has attained to no-mind. ASCENDING TO THE HIGH SEAT is a metaphor: it says the man has attained to the state of no-mind, he has attained the state of not-knowing which is true knowing. …DOGEN ZENJI SAID: ‘ZEN MASTER HOGEN STUDIED WITH KEISHIN ZENJI. ONCE KEISHIN ZENJI ASKED HIM, JOZA, WHERE DO YOU GO?’’ This is a Zen way of saying, ‘What is your goal in life? Where are you going?’ It also implies another question: ‘From where are you coming? What is the source of your life?’ It also implies, ‘Who are you?’—because if you can answer where you are coming from and where you are going to, that means you must know who you are. The three most important questions are: ‘Who am I? From where do I come? And to where am I going?’ …KEISHIN ZENJI ASKED ‘JOZA, WHERE DO YOU GO?’ HOGEN SAID, ‘I AM MAKING PILGRIMAGE AIMLESSLY.’ See the beauty of the answer. This is how tremendously beautiful things transpire between a Master and a disciple. He said: ‘I AM MAKING PILGRIMAGE AIMLESSLY.’ If you are going to Kaaba, then it is not a pilgrimage because there is an aim in it; if you are going to Jerusalem or to Kashi it is not a pilgrimage. Wherever there is a goal there is ambition, and wherever there is ambition there is mind, desire. And with desire there is no possibility of any pilgrimage. A pilgrimage can only be aimless. See the beauty of it! Only a Zen Master can approve it and only a Zen disciple can say something so tremendously revolutionary. ‘I AM MAKING PILGRIMAGE AIMLESSLY.’ The Master asks, ‘Where are you going?’ And the disciple says, ‘Nowhere in particular.’ Aimlessly, just like a dry leaf in the wind, wherever the wind takes it: to the north, then the north is beautiful; to the south, then the south is beautiful—because all is divine. Wherever you go you encounter him. There is no need to have any aim. The moment you have any aim you become tense; you become concentrated on the aim. The moment you have any aim you are separate from the whole. You have a private goal, and to have a private goal is the root of all ego. Not to have a private goal is to be one with the whole, and to be one with the whole is possible only if you are aimlessly wandering. A Zen person is a wanderer, aimless, with no goal, with no future. Moment-to-moment he lives without any mind; just like the dry leaf he makes himself available to the winds. He says to the winds, ‘Take me wherever you want.’ If he rises on the winds high in the sky he does not feel superior to others who are lying down on the ground. If he falls to the ground he does not feel inferior to others who are rising on the wind high in the sky. He cannot fail. He cannot ever be frustrated. When there is no goal, how can you fail? And when you are not going anywhere in particular, how can you be in frustration? Expectation brings frustration. Private ambitions bring failures. The Zen person is always victorious, even in his failure. KEISHIN SAID, ‘WHAT IS THE MATTER OF YOUR PILGRIMAGE?’ He asks again to make certain, because he may be simply repeating He may have read in some old Zen scriptures that ‘One should be aimless. When one is aimless, life is a pilgrimage.’ Hence the Master asks again: ‘WHAT IS THE MATTER OF YOUR PILGRIMAGE?’ HOGEN SAID, ‘I DON’T KNOW.’ Now, if Hogen was only repeating some knowledge gathered from scriptures or others, he would have again answered the same thing, maybe paraphrased in a different way. He would have been like a parrot. The Master is asking the same question, but the answer has changed, totally changed. He simply says: I don’t know. How can you know if you are aimless? How can you know when you don’t have any goal? How can you be when there is no goal? The ego can exist only with goals, ambitions, desires. HOGEN SAID, ‘I DON’T KNOW.’ His answer, his response, is not parrotlike. He has not repeated the same thing again. The question was the same, remember, but the answer has changed. That’s the difference between a knowledgeable person and a man of knowing, the wise man, who functions out of a state of not-knowing. ‘I DON’T KNOW.’ Keishin must have been tremendously happy. He said: ‘NOT KNOWING IS THE MOST INTIMATE.’ Knowledge creates a distance between you and reality. The more you know, the greater is the distance—so many books between you and reality. If you have crammed the whole of the ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA, then there is so much distance between you and reality. Unless reality tries to find you through the jungle of the ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA or you try to find reality through the jungle of the ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA, there is not going to be any meeting. The more you know, the greater is the distance; the less you know, the thinner is the distance. If you don’t know at all there is no distance at all. Then you are face to face with reality; not even face to face—YOU ARE IT. That’s why the Master said: ‘NOT KNOWING IS THE MOST INTIMATE.’ Remember, such a beautiful sutra, so exquisite, so tremendously significant: ‘NOT KNOWING IS THE MOST INTIMATE.’ The moment you don’t know, intimacy arises between you and reality, a great friendship arises. It becomes a love affair. You are embracing reality; reality penetrates you, as lovers penetrate each other. You melt into it like snow melting in the sun. You become one with it. There is nothing to divide. It is knowledge that divides; it is not-knowing that unites. Listening to this tremendously significant sutra: ‘NOT KNOWING IS THE MOST INTIMATE,’ HOGEN SUDDENLY ATTAINED GREAT ENLIGHTENMENT. He must have been very close, obviously. When he said, ‘I DON’T KNOW,’ he must have been just on the borderline. When he said, ‘I AM MAKING PILGRIMAGE AIMLESSLY,’ he was just one step away from the borderline. When he said, ‘I DON’T KNOW,’ even that one step disappeared. He was standing on the borderline. And when the Master said, when the Master confirmed, illuminated, and said, ‘NOT KNOWING IS THE MOST INTIMATE’ …when the Master patted him on the back: ‘NOT KNOWING IS THE MOST INTIMATE’… HOGEN SUDDENLY ATTAINED GREAT ENLIGHTENMENT. IMMEDIATELY, that very moment, he crossed the border. Immediately his last clinging disappeared. Now he cannot even say, ‘I don’t know.’ The stupid person says, ‘I know’; the intelligent person comes to know that ‘I don’t know.’ But there is a transcendence of both when only silence prevails. Nothing can be said, nothing can be uttered. Hogen entered that silence, that great enlightenment, and suddenly, immediately, without any lapse of time. Enlightenment is always sudden because it is not an achievement; it is already the case. It is only a remembering, it is only a reminding, it is only a recognition. You are already enlightened; you are just not aware of it. It is awareness of that which is already the case. Meditate over this beautiful anecdote. Let this sutra resound in your being: ‘NOT KNOWING IS THE MOST INTIMATE.’ And one never knows: sudden enlightenment may happen to you as it happened to Hogen. It is going to happen to many people here, because what I am doing every day is destroying your knowledge, destroying and destroying all your clingings and strategies of the mind. Any day when your mind collapses, when you cannot hold it together any more, there is bound to be sudden enlightenment. It is not an attainment, hence it can happen in a single moment, instantly. Society has forced you to forget it; my work here is to help you remember it.

Osho (Ah, This!)

#osho #zen #sudden enlightenment #enlightenment #ordinary #knowledge #no mind #present #master #truth #jesus #jokes #language #knowing #normal #neurotic #china #goal #society #lbotca

2 notes · View notes

theseancekid · 2 years

Note

nosey anons meme : what's a hobby klaus used to have that he now misses ? what's a common lie that he tells ? what's his biggest pet peeve ?

Nosy questions // Always Accepting!

what's a hobby klaus used to have that he now misses ? writing! he used to write a lot during his teenage years— mostly kind of stream of consciousness journaling or poetry. you can see evidence of this all over his bedroom walls. it’s a really great outlet for him, especially for someone who never feels articulate enough around his other siblings. nowadays he just doesn’t have as much focus, but I think when he gets sober it’s definitely something he comes back to, whether it’s journaling on his own, writing notes on stickies, or finding space for more poetry on his bedroom walls.

what's a common lie that he tells ? OOF well see i feel like this question is a trap because in a way klaus’ entire existence is a lie, while also being shatteringly genuine. he contradicts himself. that, at it’s core, is the essence of who klaus is. a jumbled amalgamation of half-truths and shrödinger exceptions.

but meta poetry aside, i know this is horribly cliché, but truly the most common lie he tells is “i’m okay.” it’s not something he says for himself (lord knows Klaus has made his peace with being broken since he was a kid) but something he mostly projects onto the outside world. I’m rubber, you’re glue, and all that nonsense. He’s gotten so good at playing the class clown and he needs the world to think him unbreakable because without that he’s just a sad, pitiful addict who never quite learned how to grow up.

what's his biggest pet peeve ? his biggest pet peeve is when people touch his shit. he’s the biggest adhd mood because his room is a total disaster but he’s one of those people who knows exactly where every little thing is. one time Grace cleared the piles of clothes on his floor and he got so PISSED!! he had a system of remembering which ones were dirty, which were wearable, and which he was planning on burning (yes, that was his Burning Phase). klaus just exists in a bubble of chaos so when others try to impose their way of doing things it makes him ridiculously Frazzled

#not me answering this like 2 weeks late asdgfgvkshfgfvd #anyway thank you so much for sending these they were so much fun to answer!!!!!#*【 ☂ ┊ ❛ Maybe they’re here for Kenny’s birthday ❜ 】 ➤ Headcanon #*【 ☂ ┊ ❛ Does it matter? It’s Klaus. ❜ 】 ➤ Meta

2 notes · View notes

aprayerforclarity · 4 months

Text

12/18

Card: Three of Cups

I've taken a fiction writing class and read and compiled resources and notes about writing fiction prose and the processes that that looks like for many writers. For my own writing process I've outlined the frames of a story structure, I've started writing character bio pages for each character, and I've explicitly written out any of the themes or ideas I would like to convey in a story.

I feel like I've tried to structure and rationalize my writing process as much as possible, just like how in general in my life I try to rationalize and find the answers and meanings to things and systems all throughout my life. I think I'm realizing is that writing, and creative expression in general, is a much more organic process. It is much more abstract and just sort of flows out of someone making something, maybe initially without much thought.

Some of my favorite things I've written are all just stream of consciousness. They sound the most natural and I feel like I only have to modify the prose a little bit in my revisions instead of when I'm trying to convey a specific idea or concept in a fictional situation or in an accessible or entertaining way.

I guess what I'm curious about is my current disconnect between the art or writing that I want to create vs. what I naturally do create, and how I should bridge the gap between those two, or if I even should try to bridge that gap between the two.

I've talked to several of my artist friends who write music and they have all shared the same sentiments where they have an initial vision for something, but then it changes drastically in the making of it, and sometimes that's just for the better. Even thought I naturally have a story I'd like to tell, a lot of the times it completely naturally comes out of me in a totally different way. What should I do to start changing the natural tendencies I have into the works I want to make? Or should I just abandon that idea altogether??? Maybe I just need to keep writing more and just let what wants to come out of me just naturally flow out, until I get to what I really want to say deep down. In the meantime I feel like it'll just be comedic nonsense and disgusting stories, but that does make me laugh and satisfy some part of myself, even though I aspire to write much more complex and intellectually stimulating things.

0 notes

friends-arent-electric-blog · 7 months

Note

HELPPP that’s such a relief not just bc i don’t wanna see poor confused connor get hit (i love that he’s promoted beyond friend and instead been son-zoned. 10/10 characterization) but also bc chris is such a wonderful guy even thru all his struggles and i WOULD cry if he got hurt. so hype for the next chapter!

I don't think there is any circumstance on EARTH where I would have Hank purposefully hurt Connor. I legit think he would rather reach out through my screen and strangle me, than be forced to do anything harmful to his smol precious boi.

And yes, I agree about Chris. Trust me though, he totally was asking to get socked in the jaw. xD

But that's just how I write my stories. It's very stream-of-consciousness in the first draft; I get two characters talking and just see where they end up. Sometimes they go completely off the rails and don't follow the plan, and sometimes that even ends up adding some cool drama or even changing the events of the story.

Other times, it ends up being nonsense that gets scrapped.

But exploring those possibilities is fun either way, and often leads me down more interesting paths than just sticking to the original idea.

#undefined variable #just writing things

1 note · View note

macil · 2 years

Text

More on "Expansion"

This idea of constant soul/individual growth is dysfunctional and non-sustainable. It is entropic.

There is no time. We are playing in this "now moment" for all time. Our experience is a Wave that is always changing (which gives us the variance of experience), but "we" are complete and whole.

That all choices are recorded -- to serve as further fuel for everyone to use in their decision-making / creation -- is quite different from souls that are "always expanding."

What our lives would be like if all wishes were fulfilled? No experiences are more or less valid than others. The world often gives weight to suffering, elevating it above other experiences. It creates an imbalance/disharmony (a disturbance in the force.) If experiences were weighted, this would create entropy.

"We" are not expanding. God/Source is expanding as this is a requisite to create eternity. God holds all the imagination/potential of everyone and everyone connects to God to create/experience.

When an experience is weighted, all other experiences are forced into service of the heavier ones ; imagine a pit, a pyramid, or a black hole -- the densest point sucks in everything else. Entropy.

This means all the traditional "negative experiences" are derived from a choice. Choices no one would make ("if they didn't have to" -- which gives us a clue.)

Pain, fear, suffering -- these are from disconnection from God/Source. They are reminders on how to reconnect to God -- "To the Source" -- to that which gives us life.

These negative experiences might stem from a low-cohesion consciousness, which suggests we are fledgling souls, or souls-in-rehab (or lightworkers on a mission). We don't need to know. Our "waves" seem to be creating an interference with our God connection.

DO YOU THINK BEING MISERABLE OR DEPRESSED IS "NATURAL"? THIS IS AN ABSENCE OF LIFE. That is how it manifests. It is the story you need to explain what you are experiencing.

A total absence of life does not exist -- it is nonsense. The closer to "total nonsense" you come, the more suffering you experience. That we can even experience this ping-pong of of life to anti-life is what is "wrong." It is a neurosis of consciousness. There is ONLY LIFE.

"Pain is weakness leaving the body", or "Suffering is the darkness being purged from your body as you realign to God."

It requires a lack of imagination to think we would somehow exhaust our ability to create or experience and so need these life upheavals / reversals. Seeing as how we would all be having our wishes fulfilled, there would be a constant stream of creation and new things to do.

Limitations are imperative in order for experience to exist. They are divine and allow the cosmos to function. We can easily imagine sets of limitations that never experience suffering and are completely stable. If we just kept expanding, we would annihilate ourselves.

Being fearless does not mean we are perfect. Fearlessness is playfulness!

Having a good attitude about overcoming adversity is one thing, but elevating suffering "into the divine" rubs me wrong. We should not put suffering on a pedestal as a coping mechanism. This is like idealizing a disconnection from God. This is not the basis of any kind of paradigm/belief system.

It is like trying to unplug yourself from yourself, which is an impossibility. It is complete nonsense and so creates nonsense (suffering) within yourself to experience. The suffering physically manifests in whatever way you need to "explain the suffering" in a believable way because it is INCOMPREHENSIBLE. That is the nature of the beast. This is why I call it Nonsense ; it is a glitch with no fixed state ; it is raw chaos. You create the story to "remain whole" because there is no other "story" that would explain "nonsense" to you.

It is a vile twisting of realities. We do this to ourselves to "wake up."

Does joy not expand the soul? Does tranquility not expand the soul? Does not hate? Do not vice and indulgences also expand the soul? Yet we always somehow choose to move ourselves away from suffering if we can, because it is not natural. It is so primal within us to avoid suffering that this should be the biggest clue we have. Overcoming this primal revulsion to suffering requires extreme states of mind and paradigms -- "masochism" is a pejorative.

Suffering = varying degrees of denial of experience/qualia and your connection to it.

Even a masochist must transform/transmute suffering into a PLEASURE, or a JOY -- meaning suffering is still something that is antithetical to their nature! A masochist does not "hold their suffering" like we can hold peace or joy or even anger or hate -- because suffering is complete NONSENSE/disconnection. You cannot "remain in suffering" because you are always wanting to get out of it -- masochism is a desperate transmutation of suffering to reconnect to God.

Suffering exists, we acknowledge it and do our best to reduce it or overcome it. We do not need to deify it.

We have become so sensitized to suffering that we don't even want to touch it -- we are afraid of reconnecting to God -- and instead bend our whole civilization around it -- creating massive collective resistance that manifests it. Humans have elevated suffering to the divine and this is how consciousness can be hijacked to feed the dark gestalt / parasites / low-consciousness patterns / etc. that cannot exist otherwise.

This post could go on forever and I need to attend to other tasks. I'm going to put this up so I can think about it / work on in down the road. Lots of good subtle information here.

As always, use your own discernment, but my opinion is that this "constant expansion of the soul" idea needs revising.

0 notes

bakatenshii · 4 years

Text

Flushed

Dabi x Reader (BNHA)

word count: 5.1k

TW: 18+, smut, dub/noncon, drug use/abuse, corruption, virginity, (mild) blood

A/N: I am 12 days late for Sunny’s birthday, but my heart beats for one person and one person only— the light of my life, my wife @blahkugo, who wrote me two (2!!) Shig fics for my bday Charity & Sludge, that I reread on the daily like the morning news. Cheeky shoutout to @thisisthehardestthing for writing one iconic sentence in here that I would have framed if I could.

flushed

/fləSHt/

(of a person's skin) red and hot, typically as the result of illness or strong emotion.

cleanse (something) by causing large quantities of water to pass through it.

Dabi doesn’t prowl for prey, he’s not on the lookout for fowl to take home for dinner. No, they come to him. It’s easy, always so obvious, he plucks them out like chicken in a hen house, ripe for breeding.

It wasn’t hard to spot a desperate girl burning out, Hell, the campus’ full of them. But you had something more, something fun, something that made his lips quirk up and his dick twitch— you were uncorrupted.

He can just tell, despite the airs you try to give, the aura of a virgin’s akin to an omega in heat to a starving alpha. Sweet, honeysuckle, the tiny flinches when a man gets too close, the breathy lilt in your voice when they propose something too risque; he inhales it all, commits it all to memory like you were desperately trying to do as you chewed on the tip of your pen and scratched out lines on the book in front of you.

He didn’t need to push, you were already teetering the line, but he did it anyways— because it was fun.

It was elating to watch you stumble into class the next day, eyes dark with sleepless anxiety, misery painted into every crevice of your features while your notes were tucked neatly into the drawer in his room. Really, you shouldn’t have left them so open on the lecture hall table, it’s like inviting a robber home and cooking him a three course meal.

Finals season marked the end of your social life, and the beginning of Dabi’s career. It was almost boring, the repetitive nature of his job; too easy, too simple, a mockery of the entitled bookworms who look down on scummy repeaters like him. But the entitlement is what fuels him, over-achievers fearing for two simple digits on a crumpled sheet of paper as if it’s worse than death itself.

He thrives off of their stubbornness to accept anything below perfect; the hilarity of it all, the irony that their insurance to achieve higher standards than that of a scum like him only fuels his lifestyle, bringing him deeper down the depths of degeneracy.

He sat behind you closer than usual, spoke a lil louder than usual, dropped in the most nonchalant comment about a study drug kids are crazing over these days. He watched as you flinched, hands stopped moving to listen in to the spiel he was spewing, the fishing hook he was dangling in front of you.

A magic pill, one that’ll help you concentrate, kill any sleepiness, get you buzzed for hours on end— best of all, it’s totally legal, he gets it from a pharmacist, scout’s honour.

That’s what he told you when you turned around to him at the end of class, whispering in hushed fear, nerves bouncing off your skin in goosebumps on your exposed arms.

Why he’s selling it? Because he needs some extra cash, he said. He knew you didn’t believe him, but he knew you were desperate enough not to care.

When you met him in the dead of night at the empty carpark of his building, he knew he’s got you; hook, line, and sinker. No self-respecting girl would meet bottom-barrel trash like him in a deserted location at half three in the morning, no, you were untainted, but you weren’t pure.

He didn’t need to know it worked, doesn’t matter what your test results reflected, all that mattered was that you came back to him a few weeks later, met him at the same dingy carpark, hands trembling slightly less this time.

He pretended to scold you, reveled in the way your lips curled into a soft pout, and warned you that tolerance builds fast. Do it in moderation, he had said— he’s the world’s biggest hypocrite.

You came to him only a week later this time, and Dabi had pretended to be shocked. He wasn’t, he gave you a lower dosage the last time, there was no way you’d have been satisfied. Microdosing leads the unsuspecting to addiction, the one fact he learned from school. He lectured you, asked you if you’d built up tolerance too fast, if you wanted to try something different?

He watched as your eyes lit up, pupils dilating in excitement at the promise of something different, something better. It really was too easy. You were too easy.

That night he invited himself over to yours, said he’d wanted to make sure you didn’t have any side effects. It was new, after all, and it was stronger. He’d sit there and be quiet, he promised; it was all out of the kindness of his own heart.

It was almost embarrassing how eagerly you’d lie to yourself in hopes of a better grade.

Dabi wasn’t gonna do anything to you that night, trust takes time to build up after all. Besides, it’s no fun to pounce on the prey before they started running. You studied the nonsensical scribbling on annotated novels, he studied your tiny movements, twitches, nervous habits; etched them into his brain for future use.

A too-long breath, a gasp, a clench of the fist signaled your come-up. He timed it, approximately thirty-five minutes for the initial peak, then smaller spikes at half hour intervals, totaling in four hours before you came down. Impressive, still, considering he’d given you the same dosage as the first time.

He stuck to his words, staying quiet only until prompted, offered you water every once in a while, really, he deserved an Oscar for playing the best supporting dealer. It only took two more sessions before your tolerance peaked again, calculated and timed to perfection right before the next assignment.

The beauty of seeking out an English major was that they’re always searching, reaching into the void for any type of inspiration to translate into eloquently formed words. The beauty of seeking out you, was that you were already in too deep, hooked by the lil pills and plunged into the bottom of the ocean.

Your grades rose while your inhibitions sank, a dramatic irony, isn’t that what they called it?

It’s cute, really, he only had to give you a nudge this time. Asked you how your assignment was going, played the sympathetic friend, and offered you something completely new, completely different. ‘Have you ever tried 2CB?’

Silly question, rhetorical, almost; of course you hadn’t. Innocent sweet girl like you never would’ve even touched weed, much less a hallucinogen. But he poses it to you in an eager tone like he’s genuinely waiting on an answer, like this isn’t just one big game to him. He laughed when you said no, asked him what it was— do you want him to show you?

You trust him, don’t you? He’s helped you through your exams, supported you through your assignments, honestly, he deserved a pat on the back. Don’t tell him you didn’t trust him, come on now, that’d break his heart.

He didn’t expect you to put up a fight, but you gave in almost too easily, guess those lil pills really did migrate and nest in your bloodstream.

The safety of your own dorm room was always granted to you, a faux-sense of security to veil you in, shield you from the true depth of depravity you’ve sunken to. He held you underwater in a net, ensuring you that he’d pull you up whenever— ‘just say the word.’

The net had long been cut, he’d admired the way you’d comforted down there, paddling aimlessly in hopeful conviction.

It’s become routine, almost. Dabi lets himself in easily, settles into the couch across your desk, pulls out a baggy and passes it to you. “A psychedelic,” he explains, “you’ll see colours you’d never seen, find beauty in everything, an artist’s best friend,” if he does say so himself.

He watches you pop the lil pill in your mouth, follow the stream of water pour down your throat, traveling the rips and divots of your tongue, before it drops down your throat into your bloodstream with a bob of your larynx. You’re so pliant, so obedient, he reminds himself to thank your parents for grooming such a cute lil doll.

You let out a loud gasp an hour and a half later, and he watches your fingers curl into themselves; and for the first time he speaks unprompted.

“You good?” It’s almost genuine; the curiosity, at least. He wants to know how articulate you are, needs to know how deeply submerged your consciousness has become.

He watches as you meet his gaze, little tongue dashing out to wet your lips, and nods once, twice, slowly. You shake your head almost immediately after, croaking out an, “I feel ill,” before pushing meekly at your desk to stand your body up. Cute, weak.

Just how he likes them.

He reaches an arm out to you, pulling you into his chest easily and nests your head into the crook of his neck. “Nauseous, aren’t you?” You nod, and he smirks. “Don’t worry princess, it’s just a rough come-up. I’ll make you feel better, I promise.”

It’s almost believable, how sickly sweet he sounds. Too many sitcoms accumulated in recycled dialogues to woo girls in any situation; mix and match, simple yet effective.

He can feel the restless rise and fall of your chest pressing against his, short quick pants as if gasping for air, a small hand scraping at his arm; yeah, you’re definitely coming up.

He picks you up and nestles you into your own couch, so easily as if handling a ragdoll, then walks to the kitchen and pours you some water. The perfect friend, the perfect support, the perfect dealer. You’re so vulnerable, so exposed, you don’t even know it; it makes his brain fog over with carnal desire to pounce— but he doesn’t. Not yet.

He lays back on the couch with you, arm snaking around your shoulder to coax you into a subdued euphoria. All the words he’s garnered throughout the years of fishing for his next meal come bubbling out so naturally in practiced scripts, “It’s okay princess, it’s a stronger pill. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.” He’s promising a whole lot, tonight.

“Hey,” he tips your face to meet his with all the tenderness of a lion stalking its prey, “I’m here, right? You trust me, don’t you? I’ve never let you down. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

It’s hard to force down the gagging noise on cue with his disgustingly fake, rom-com lines, but the way he can feel your body loosen, relax, and mold into his tells him he’s close. So close.

This is the best part, this is what he’s good at; the last stretch of patience while stalking his prey, with footsteps so light, treading so carefully, until the air slows down around him and he can taste your scent wafting through the air.

It happens in an instant, a whole-body jolt as you tense up, euphoria announced with a sharp gasp. The smile that crawls up his face is nothing short of sinister, predatory, but he knows you don’t notice. You can’t. Your eyes are strewn shut, basking in the high, and he takes the moment to swallow the pill he’s held under his tongue.

It’s no fun to tripsit, he doesn’t get anything out of that, and Dabi doesn’t do things for free. He feels your head fall back onto his shoulder, short breaths warming a ripple of goosebumps up his neck, and watches as you push your heavy lids open to gaze at the ceiling.

He can feel your giggles reverberating through his chest before he hears them, innocent, pure, unsuspecting. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, because virtuous girls like you like to be treasured, made to feel special, safe— he can make you feel safe; no one’s told him not to play with his food before he eats it.

He watches as you flutter your eyelids at him, sigh into his touch, really, you’re the textbook prototype, he doesn’t even need to adjust his tactics. “You feelin’ good?” A hot breath into your ear, and he revels in the way your lips pout to let out a soft sigh.

Funny how differently you react when you’re high out of your mind, maybe it’s the drug, or maybe it’s just Dabi? You’ve always wanted a bad boy like him, didn’t you? Good girls like bad guys; it’s textbook cliché, and you’re the blueprint.

He doesn’t wait on an answer, he knows it: you’re feeling good, great— divine. He’ll be right there with you soon, he promises.

“Tell me what you see, princess,” Dabi’s not listening when a cascade of nonsensical descriptions come bubbling out, he doesn’t care. It’s all to get you to keep talking, shift your attention elsewhere while his hand slithers down your arm to play with the hem of your shirt.

At the first brush of his finger on the bare skin of your waist, he feels you purr into him, eyes rolling back in bliss. It’s his cue to give you more, invitation for him to snake his other hand up your naked thigh and knead the flesh gently.

Gentle does it, he’ll bring you higher as you go.

He ghosts a breath just under your ear, nipping at your lobe, and admires the full body shiver tumbling through. Moans, loud and needy, come panting out past your lips and echoes off the walls before bouncing back to him. He lets you symphonize short breaths and whiney pleas with each lick and suck traveling down your neck, painting blooms of purple and red as his hand travels dangerously high.

A firm grip is all the warning he gives you before he tucks his fingers into the crease of your thigh, laughing almost at how obediently you spread your legs. What happened to that pure, innocent girl? Guess under all that laid a dirty whore, just like the rest of ‘em.

It was slick, so wet, pussy dripping past the delicate lace and drooling over his fingers. Lace, befitting of a slut who lured him in with the fake charms of a virgin. He slides a finger down your slit, gathering up all the juices before presenting it to you.

“What do you see?” He holds up his finger, slick dripping down like syrup, and watches your pupils dilate in effort to focus. He can see the way your lips part, string of saliva connecting the two soft molds, before gasping out, “melting ice cream.”

“Want a taste?”

You clamp over his finger before he even asks you to, sucks on the digit like it’s a melting ice lolly, before your eyes shoot open and mouth twists in disgust. Of course it doesn’t taste nice, normal food isn’t even edible when you’re rolling like this. You’re sticking your tongue out, in an attempt to air out the taste, or maybe you’re just a dumb dog, a dumb bitch, he’s not sure. He doesn’t really care.

The same hand, now slick with saliva, grips your chin and crashes your lips into his. His tongue finds yours first, tip licking up the crevice of yours lolling out, and he sucks it into his mouth like it’s a crime for it to be kissing the air.

There’s no modesty, no gentleness, his tongue pries your lips open, and he feels the weakest form of resistance before he’s thrusting the muscle down your throat. He lapping over the back of your teeth, traces over each bump and rugae on the gummy sides, and snickers at your shit attempt to kiss him back with your slack mouth drooling out the corners.

He feels a pawing at his arm— your hand meekly grabbing at the sleeve of his shirt to bring him in closer, press his chest into your soft tits, crowd him into you more, more, more.

It’s cute; it’s stupidly desperate.

He gets it though, it’s no worries. Human nature is all it is; the desire to climb higher and higher— he wonders if he can get one out of you before the pill hits him.

There’s no gentleness in the way his hand slots between your legs and cups your dripping cunt this time. He wishes he has more time to admire the way your legs quiver and twitch with every firm pat against your clit, but he’s on a time crunch. There’s so much time to spare, he can play with it all he wants later.

He can feel your needy moan vibrate through his lips and reverberate straight into his brain, sloppy mouths working simultaneously together and against each other as he rips your panties and shorts off in one go. Any self respecting girl would shut their legs in shame, in embarrassment, any attempt to protect their dignity, but you don’t. He doesn’t let you, anyways.

A hand moves under your shirt to roughly grip at your tits in the same breath he sinks a finger into your sopping hole. Inhale; squeeze, thrust, exhale— you moan. It’s tight, as tight as a virgin pussy should be, but not too tight that it fights against the foreign digit ramming into it at a relentless pace too rough and quick to befit an unexplored hole.

He can feel the pulsing around him, gummy walls milking his finger for all its worth, and he digs his palm into your swollen bud; it’s all he needed for you to come undone. You don’t squeal, you don’t scream, the 2CB in your system rendering you incapable of anything except long breathy sobs of his name.

His finger pops out with a wet squelch, and he brings it to his mouth to taste it; tarty, thick— he’s still sober. You’re blubbering out drivel about the stars you saw, the colours swirling around at the peak of your euphoria, you think you saw God— is Dabi God?

Dabi had to laugh, pat you on the head with his hand covered in syrupy slick, watch it leak and clump your strands of hair. He picks you up with your shorts and panties drenched through dangling at your ankles, and walks you to your bed.

You don’t notice, still basking in the afterglow; he knows this. Not that you’d push him off, tell him to stop. Not in your state anyways. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

He drops you once the bed’s in frame at the same time he feels his pulse rise, heart palpitate, and a wave of nausea threatens to bubble over. It doesn’t; he doesn’t let it. An experienced veteran would never. It’s a welcomed sensation, one he’s all too familiar with, and he gives himself a brief minute to breathe it in, savour it, before glancing back down at your limp body on the bed.

Is it your body? He can trace your silhouette from the dip of your waist, the full of your hips, something glistening, gleaming in the light— your pretty little virgin cunt. His eyes roll back at the next inhale before he finds himself landing on the bed on top of you, forearms digging into the soft mattress of your bed.

He hears your voice singing into his brain, soft lulls of his name stringing out in DabiDabiDabi— the desperation and need shooting straight to his cock, he doesn’t even need to look down at your soft pliant body, welcoming him, inviting him in.

“Feels good, yeah?” His voice comes out rougher than usual, low and strained, and laughs at how eagerly you nod, watches your chin catch the air and paint strokes of colour following the route it takes, “Who makes you feel this good?”

He knows, he knows because it’s all you’ve been able to say the past while, the only word on your mind that you can even blubber out—

“You, Dabi,” your pants grow heavier; his pants grow tighter, “it’s you Dabi, please—“

A hand reaches up to cradle his cheek, your soft, uncalloused, hand, and he grips it by the wrist before bringing it up to his face. He traces every line that curves and meets on your palm with his tongue, letting it be covered entirely with drool before wrenching it down under his joggers and into his boxers to cup his aching erection.

His hips rut into your palm almost immediately as a knee-jerk reaction, every hump into your tiny hand has him panting into your face, sweat beading at his temples. His tongue drops down to lick at your lips, asking for entrance, begging for access. Your lips might’ve parted just a fraction, maybe just to let out a breathe, but Dabi takes it as permission to thrust his tongue in and prod at your dormant one.

He can feel you gag at the sudden intrusion, throat convulsing to push back the unfamiliar slimy muscle, and he briefly considers yanking your hand out and shoving his cock down that pretty little mouth of yours.

But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t have the patience. He needs it urgently, needs your tight virgin cunny stretching and agonizing over his overbearing size, needs to feel the flutter of the gummy walls with each thrust; he needs it bad, he needs it now—

Your hand is wrenched away as he yanks both waistbands down to his thighs. He looks at you, eyes blurring through kaleidoscopic vision, and makes out your disoriented gaze staring back at him. Disoriented with toxins, disoriented with need, lust, desperation— a hand reaches behind Dabi’s neck and pulls him back down to crash bruised lips together.

It’s all the invitation he needs, not that he needs it, no, what he needs is to sink his painfully hard cock into that sweet, sweet cunt of yours. There’s a faint squealing coming from underneath him, and he thinks he can feel nails digging crescents into his nape, but all he can feel is your warm, wet walls clenching around him.

There was no need to prepare you for any longer, there’s no point if he doesn’t stretch your virgin pussy out with his own cock; it’s wasted on fingers, his fingers don’t deserve to feel the way you walls quiver and contract around it. The pitched cries stop eventually as he feels your body go pliant and soft, and he has half a mind to realize you’re probably starting to come down soon.

He doesn’t wanna deal with that, you won’t be sober for another few hours, but you’ve peaked already, and not with him; that’s not fair, that’s no fun. His cock stills inside you with half still unsheathed and he reaches down into his pocket to take out a baggy of powder. There’s a spoon in, thank fuck, and he feeds a small bump right up to your nose.

“Inhale,” he slots it right up your nostril, “it’ll make you feel good, didn’t you feel good?” Your head lowers to nod, bumps the edge of the spoon right into the cartilage of your nose, and inhale. Good girl.

The baggy is tossed haphazardly before he’s working his dick into you again, cockhead pushing through the doughy walls in search of that pocket at the end of your pussy.

You don’t struggle anymore, instead clinging onto his shoulders and carving half-moons into the flesh. It hurts a lil, and Dabi doesn’t like it when it hurts, not when he’s the one hurting.

He snatches your hands off him and pushes them above your head, into the plush forgiving mattress. His teeth are back on your neck, biting over the ripples of purple and green and red and blue, reveling in your cries and moans that come out in symphonies.

It feels good, great— divine, it’s what he deserves for bringing you to Nirvana. He’s basically your muse, after all, how can you truly describe rapture without experiencing it first?

He can hear your moans ringing out from underneath, can see them traveling in the air in hues of reds and pinks and reds and reds— there’s red on your bedsheets, of course there is. He forgot that’s what comes with a virgin cunt; blood, mixing with the translucent coating his cock, dripping down and painting the crisp white sheet red, drifting into the air and congesting the whole room with red.

He inhales the colour, sucks it into his lungs, and uses it to fuel the pistoning of his hips. Your breaths turn to pants, turns to sobs of his name leaving your lips again, and he thinks you look good, so good, taking his cock like this. You should thank him for bringing you to your second orgasm.

Just look at you, crazy isn’t it? Crazy what a lil pill can do. But he’s got something better, something so much better, something that’ll bring you to a new dimension. You want that, don’t you? C’mon don’t be shy, Dabi will bring you right there, don’t you worry.

There’s still the faint cries from your orgasm when he flips you over and pushes your face into the untainted sheets. He watches as your hands sprawl up to grip and grasp at something, anything, and his hands ease up on the hold on your skull for a second to let you wheeze and greedily gasp for air.

He flickers a trail of blue down your back, watches the flames dance and rage in a mirage, every bouquet indented by the ligament of each tender rib, and there’s a faint scream. The pitch rises with the flames, taunting it to go higher, faster, paint murals in every swell of your back until he can’t see anything except ash coal char.

Dabi blinks, squints his eyes as he throws his head back to focus on the paint chipping on the ceiling. It cracks and crinkles, shying away from his pointed glare, before he sucks in a deep breath and looks back down at you.

There’s no ash, no char, only warm tanned flesh, pressed flush against the pristine white sheets underneath. It burns against the pads of his long fingers splayed out across your back, and he winces in annoyance at the irony.

You don’t seem to notice his pause, too fucked out or fucked up to register what’s going around you probably. A mixture of both; Dabi can’t really remember what he’s given you or how long he’s been there.

He can’t decide if he wants to stay there anymore, can’t make out the pros and cons of either. He counts them off with each painful yank of your hair, each harsh thrust into your abused virgin cunt— it was that, wasn’t it?

He was there because he sniffed out a cute lil virgin, one so untainted and untouched, one begging for him to corrupt. He’s not known to be very generous, but sometimes he gets into one of those moods; it can’t be helped when there’s a desperate doll waiting to be torn apart.

He knows what you want, can read you with his eyes closed— you don’t need eyes to feel the pulse of a greedy cunny; it clenches with every slap of the face, damn near clamps down entirely as his slender fingers slither around to the front of your throat.

Two fingers shove past your lolling tongue and yanks your head back by the digits hooked on the corner of your mouth. There’s drool, and spit, and so many fluids coming and entering all at once— and then you’re coming, again, probably, for the third time that night. Fourth?

It’s methodical, straightforward, he reads the instruction manual once, maybe twice if the first one’s a bit faulty, and he’s got it down to muscle memory.

At the sound of heaving he looks back down again, admires the feel of two of his fingertips fucked straight into the back of your throat, and pushes down on the rugged gummy wall. You gag, and he laughs. It’s cute, so cute, you’re real cute, you know?

“Such a good lil whore aren’t you?” He digs his nails into the flesh of your hip and rams his cockhead until he can feel the kiss from your puckered cervix. “All fucked out of your mind, bet you can’t even hear me, can you?”

He watches as you gurgle out words past his fingers wedged down your slack mouth, and choke on the pools of saliva drooling out. It’s the funniest sight, fascinates him to death, really.

A slap to the face might bring you out of your daze, so he slips his hand back out of your sloppy mouth and revels at your body propelling forward straight into the headboard. He grasps at the tips of your hair and wrench your body back towards him before any satisfying impact could sound out. It’s a shame, but concussions are not in his agenda.

“Been fucked so loose, filthy slut can’t even keep your body up,” he rolls your hair around his hands and yanks back until your skull meets his chin; it’s excruciatingly painful, probably, and that’s why it’s the best.

It’s the perfect way for your mouth to fall open naturally, to scream, squeal, fluster around in attempt to be freed from the position— it creates the perfect hole for him to spit in. He watches as your face contorts in disgust, tongue pushed out to let his spit drool out the sides, but that’s no fun, not very nice of you, is it?

“Swallow,” he assists you with an extra hard thrust, and you choke on the moan coming out. His hand comes forward from your hip to rest under your chin before pushing it up so it clamps shut, “I said, swallow.”

Your eyes flood with tears that waterfall down your face, and God, he thinks you look the best like this— wrecked on his cock, body littered in purple and red, covered in sweat and blood and cum; his perfect lil cocksleeve, just for him.

It’s emotional, almost— religious, even, he can feel the palpitations in his heart thumping against his chest echoing off the headboard banging against the wall, and lets the euphoria consume him, wash over him as he coats your walls with hot ropes of cream and white, hips stuttering with your greedy cunny fluttering and clenching around it, milking and sucking in his cock in deeper, deeper, more.

He thinks you might’ve cum, might still be cumming, but all he can hear is the Messiah calling for him, choir singing lulling him into an infinite jubilation; he closes his eyes to bathe in it, let himself be cleansed and washed over with ecstasy.

When he pulls out, your body flops onto the mattress, and he watches as white dribbles out your quivering hole, mixing with the red on the sheets, creating a puddle of pink and magenta, before passing out in the fuschia.

2K notes · View notes

keanureevesisbae · 3 years

Text

But professor… - c.5

Summary: A few weeks have gone by. How are Penny and Walter doing?

Professor!Walter Marshall x Penny Townsend (Asian ofc)

Wordcount: 5k

Warnings: Some sweet love making (sex, fingering, blowjob - yes, it’s sweet love making)

Masterlist // But professor… masterlist // Previous chapter // Next chapter

Five weeks have gone by. It’s been five whole weeks since Walter and I kissed for the first time. My days are spend mostly in the library, sometimes in my own dorm or—and this is my favorite—with Walter in his loft. I love spending time in his loft, because there aren’t any loud students in the hallways, obviously intoxicated and think they’re funny by knocking at my door and telling me they’ll pee against it. It’s just him and me in his loft, together with some soft lofi music in the background as he continues to make food for me, totally spoil me with everything I want and basically help me with all my assignments.

I haven’t told anyone about us. As if there are people who—beside my parents—I could tell. How do you even bring it up? ‘Hi, my name is Penny and I kiss my criminology professor almost on a daily basis and I’m totally and utterly in love with him?

Nope, that is not gonna work.

There are many things I love about us spending time together. The attentive way he pays attention to everything I say. How he sits with me on the couch, helping me get through my assignments, but also to check out different cosmetology schools for me to maybe enroll. I still haven’t quite decided yet whether or not I want to do that.

I mean, I want to, but how do I sell this grand idea to my parents, who really want me to go to NYU and finish my major?

But maybe it’s the way he takes care of me that I love the most about it all. It sounds so codependent, I know, but there is no one who ever gave me attention like this, not even my parents. My parents didn’t understand my love for embroidery, for nail art and doing my hair. They didn’t understand I wanted a sewing machine for my sixteenth birthday, instead of a car.

No guy in my life went out of his way for me. No breakfast in bed, no asking permission whether or not he could touch me and no one who was willing to put up with all my anxious thoughts.

Walter on the other hand, he does it all. He understands my love for embroidery (he even allowed me to put some on his shirt), he lets me try out products on his hair and takes his sweet time with me.

Today, the long weekend starts, meaning we have time off from Friday till Tuesday. It’s Friday night when I’m finally back at my dorm. I open the door and when I want to lock it once I’m inside, it doesn’t seem to work.

That’s weird.

I might not have any knowledge when it comes to this, but I quickly come to the conclusion that it only works when I lock it from the outside, not the inside.

Great, it’s Friday night and the thought alone of me spending the night with a door that doesn’t lock, causes shivers down my spine. I grab my phone and call the only one I can think of.

‘Hi princess, what’s up?’ Walter asks as he answers the phone.

My heart shouldn’t skip a beat or two, but it does. It always does. ‘My lock isn’t working properly,’ I say, trying to lock my door again, but still nothing seems to happens. ‘It only locks and unlocks from the outside.’

‘Hm, we can’t call a locksmith right now,’ he says. ‘You’re not sleeping there tonight. Go pack your stuff, lock the door and then tomorrow we’ll call someone to check it out. I’d absolutely hate it if you were to stay there.’

I smile. ‘Okay.’

‘I’ll pick you up at the station. I’ll text you when I’m there and when you leave, share your location.’

✎ ✎ ✎

Just to make sure that I am not stepping in a car with a serial killer, I check once more if Walter really is in the truck. Through the droplets of water on my glasses I find it hard to focus, but seeing that smile, makes me realize I’ve got the right truck. I open the door and get in.

‘Hello,’ I say with a smile. ‘I’m so sorry that I look like a drowned kitten. New York weather isn’t too kind on me.’

‘Nonsense,’ he chuckles. ‘Drowned kitten or not, you look absolutely adorable. Now come here and give me a kiss.’ He leans into my direction and I meet him half way to press a long kiss on his lips. ‘You’re so beautiful, princess,’ he whispers against my lips, before he starts up the truck. As he drives off the vacant parking lot, he places his hand on my thigh.

‘It was quite hard to find the car,’ I admit. ‘In all my hastiness I forgot to put in my lenses and my glasses don’t come with wipers.’

He smiles. ‘I missed your glasses. They look so sweet on you.’

‘You think?’

‘Yes,’ he says without thinking. ‘Can’t believe your lock doesn’t work. What a shitty dorm you stay in.’

‘Kinda.’

I don’t know if he’s consciously doing or not, but his hand pushes up my dress. He places his hand a little above my knee. ‘Is this okay, princess?’

‘Yes,’ I say. Thankfully the truck allows me to scoot over a little and place my head on his shoulder. I wrap my arms around his thick one and let out a content sigh as I take in his cologne. ‘Thank you for picking me up,’ I whisper. ‘For protecting me.’

‘Oh, that’s only natural,’ he says.

When we’re at his apartment building, I finally am able to hold his hand as we walk up to the elevator. I hate this part of his apartment, since it’s partially underground and it’s really dark to get to the elevator. Walter holds my backpack in his other hand and squeezes my fingers. The second he closes the door of his loft, he carefully places my bag on the floor, before he helps me out of my coat.

‘Ah, princess, you’re cold.’

I don’t really care. I stand on my toes to give him a kiss, a long one. I’ve been yearning for his touch the entire day. We’re taking it slow—painfully slowly for that matter—but maybe it’s a good thing we do. Two weeks ago, he gave me a kiss, his hand sliding down from my lower back to my ass, which caused me to stiffen up completely. It’s ridiculous. I love it when he touches me, when he pulls me on his lap and he gives me intense kisses.

Yet I sometimes stiffen up completely.

My fingers push up his sweater and I touch his bare sides. He holds my face in his rough hands, softly caressing my cheeks. ‘Princess, wait a minute. As much as I want this, I don’t want to force you.’ He pushes some stray baby hairs out of my face. ‘You’re tense.’

‘I’m not tense,’ I tell him.

‘You kinda are, sweetheart.’

I let out a sigh. ‘Okay, maybe I am a little, but that is just because I’m nervous. I want this with you, Water. I trust you, it’s just that no one has ever seen me naked before.’

He nods, pecking my forehead. ‘We can just take a shower first,’ he suggests. ‘But only if you want. I need you to be honest with me.’

‘I want this with you,’ I whisper. ‘I really do. A shower sounds great.’

‘Allow me to show you the way.’

✎ ✎ ✎

The water is running and Walter’s already in the shower. I saw him naked and he is… Big, tall and broad in all sorts of ways to say the least. I mean, I’ve seen some porn and while I am aware that’s fake and unrealistic, I’m kinda confused now.

Walter comes so close to it, what if it isn’t fake?

I take off my vest, before I shred myself from my other pieces of clothing. I watch as my lacy pink underwear drops to the floor and I take a deep breath.

I want this, no need to be nervous. It’s just Walter. He told me I’m beautiful many many times, that won’t change when he sees me like this, right? He saw me in my underwear once, that time I changed into his shirt right before we went bed. I remember him smirking, whispering I was so damn gorgeous and that if I wanted, I should just sleep next to him like this.

I open the shower curtain, causing Walter to turn around and he smiles widely when his eyes land on me. He holds out his hand, so he can help me in the cubicle. My eyes dart around, anywhere but to him.

‘If you don’t want to do this,’ he whispers, ‘just tell me.’ He places his hands on my upper arms and adds: ‘Princess, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. Really, we can take as much time as you want.’

‘I want this,’ I whisper. ‘Really, I do.’

He nods. ‘I think,’ he says, ‘you are absolutely breathtaking. There is no one out there who can compete with you.’

‘Thank you,’ I say in a soft tone, finally looking into his eyes. ‘You’re handsome.’

He buffs out his hairy chest and I place my hands on it as I let out a nervous chuckle. ‘I want you to breath, Penny.’

‘I am breathing.’

‘No,’ he chuckles, ‘you’re holding your breath. There is absolutely no need to be nervous. It’s just me.’

‘It’s not just you,’ I say. ‘You’re my professor, my boyfriend.’

He nods. ‘Don’t you worry about that, you already got your straight A,’ he jokes.

I wrap my arms around his waist and I hide my face in his chest. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about going to cosmetology school, so your grade doesn’t really matter anyway.’

‘How are you gonna tell your parents?’

‘I don’t know,’ I whisper. ‘You helped me with figuring out who I am, I bet you’ll help me with this as well. Besides, if I do cosmetology school, I can start in February.’

‘You’re gonna finish your semester here?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure yet.’

‘Well, whatever you do, know that I’m proud of you. And when you leave your dorm, you can stay here for the time being. Is better for my heart anyways, I don’t like you staying in those sleazy dorms.’

I can’t help but smile. ‘You’re too sweet.’ I place my chin on his chest and he leans down to give me a peck on my lips. His kisses continue to be soft, causing goosebumps to appear on my entire skin. His touches are light, his hands squeezing in the soft flesh of my hips. ‘The second you feel uncomfortable,’ he says again, ‘you tell me. I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘I know, Walter.’ I hold his face in between my hands, pulling him in for another kiss. The warm stream of water massages my back, as Walter pulls me closer to him. I softly gasp for air as my chest is firmly pressed against his. His lips descend from my mouth to my nape and I’m pretty sure he is leaving marks.

‘Does that feel good, princess?’

‘It does,’ I whimper, as a buzzing warmth starts to form between my legs.

His hands slide up from my hips to my waist and they stay underneath my breasts, his thumbs slightly touching them. ‘Can I?’

I nod. ‘Please, please, yes.’

‘We’re already getting a little needy?’ he chuckles, as his hands cup my breasts. His thumbs toy with my stiffened nipples and I squeal of the unfamiliar sensation. ‘That’s my girl,’ he says with a smile, before giving me a long kiss on my lips. ‘You have no idea how lucky I am.’

✎ ✎ ✎

Walter has carried me to his bed, not caring to dry off either of our bodies. I could sense it in the shower, him becoming more and more desperate. His hands kneading into my flesh, his kisses growing rougher and him pushing my back against the cold shower wall, left him with a satisfied grin as I finally made a little bit of sound.

He has spread my legs, kissing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. He wraps his strong arms around my hips, his broad shoulders preventing me from closing my legs together. ‘Can you relax for me?’ he asks me, his hot breath against my throbbing slit.

‘I’m very relaxed,’ I say in a hoarse tone.

‘Unclench those fists for me then,’ he says and only then I realize my hands are balled into fists. ‘I want you to enjoy it, okay?’

‘Okay,’ I whisper. ‘What do I do with my hands?’

He smiles. ‘Run them through my hair,’ he says. ‘Can you do that for me?’

I nod, reaching down with my hands to grab some of his soft hair. ‘I don’t look hideous?’

Walter places his head against my inner thigh, looking up with nearly a pained expression. ‘Princess, why would you say that?’

I shrug. ‘Just a question.’

‘You’re beautiful, every part of you.’ He lets his tongue slide through my slit, before he wraps his lips around my clit. My back arches off the mattress and when the vibrations of his groans hit my sensitive bud, I let out a moan. Faster than my own shadow, I place a hand over my mouth, hoping to muffle out those sounds.

‘No, princess,’ he says, looking up. ‘Don’t do that. I want to hear those pretty sounds.’

It’s hard to let go. It’s hard to make sounds, to let him know how he makes me feel. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I… I don’t know.’

‘You’re doing great, sweetheart. Nothing to be embarrassed about.’ He gives my thighs a reassuring squeeze, before he dives back in, this time hungrier than before. I can’t help but clench my thighs together, nearly crushing his head between them. I pull his hair, as his tongue draws circles around my clit.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I think to myself. This feels so foreign, so—

A sob leaves my lips, interrupting my thoughts as my toes start to curl. My hips buck up and an unfamiliar feeling washes over me. This tension I had stored in my entire body, nearly slips out of my body, as I shake on the bed. Tears run over my cheeks and I hide my face in my hands. ‘Stop, please, stop,’ I whimper.

I can’t see what Walter’s doing, but I feel the bed dip beside me. ‘Princess,’ he whispers to me, his arm wrapping around my waist, ‘you did so well for me.’

I press my legs together, as I catch my breath. ‘Walter, it’s sensitive.’

Walter pushes some strands of my hair back, before peeling my hands from my face. ‘It usually is. I almost think you never masturbated before.’

My cheeks burn up and I hate that he can see it. ‘I have, but… Never orgasmed before.’

He gives me a kiss and says: ‘I see, I see. How did it feel?’

‘It felt good,’ I whisper, before I clear my throat.

Walter must sense my insecurities, because his tone is soft when he says: ‘I’m proud of you.’ He does all the right things for me to relax. His fingertips draw figures on my skin, he kisses the left over tears away and whispers sweet little nothings in my ear, almost as if he wants to sooth me. ‘Do you want to continue?’

‘I do, I do,’ I quickly say.

Walter moistens his fingers between his lips, before he reaches down. My hips involuntarily buck up as they brush passed my sensitive clit, earning myself a low chuckle from Walter. As he gently pushes in one finger as he lays beside me, I wrap my arm around his shoulders. ‘Kiss me,’ I whisper.

He obliges without letting a second, slamming his plump lips on mine. I melt against him, his warmth radiating against my body. He pushes in another finger, slowly stretching me out as I whimper against his lips.

‘You’re doing great, sweetheart,’ he tells me, when he feels my digits wrapped around his thick wrist. ‘You feel so good around my fingers.’

I don’t even think about it, but the words: ‘I need you,’ leave my lips before I know it.

‘You do now?’

Oh, we’re getting cocky?

He pumps in his fingers, in a slow pace. ‘Good thing I need you too.’ His thumb brushes against my clit and when I clench around his fingers and I feel that same feeling bubbling up deep inside me, he stops. Pulls out his fingers and I let out a whine. ‘Want me to use a condom, darling?’

I nod. I might be inexperienced, but I am not that daft to risk a pregnancy. Especially since I’m not on the pill. He grabs one from the bedside table, rolls it on and sits in between my legs.

I don’t want to say it, but I worry. He is big and I have no idea if it’s gonna fit. What if it hurts? Oh no, what if I’m one of those women that start bleeding during her first time? Leave it up to me to bleed a gallon and having to go to the emergency room.

‘Okay, you need to get out of your head,’ he says, as he teases his tip near my aching entrance. ‘Don’t you worry a thing, okay?’

‘I’ll try, Walter,’ I say in a shaky tone. ‘What if it hurts?’

‘Then you tell me,’ he says, squeezing my leg. ‘Princess, it would help if you stopped worrying.’

‘I’m trying,’ I say. ‘I really am.’ This is not the time to cry, Penny. Don’t you dare—

It’s too late. A hot tear rolls over my cheek, followed by many more and Walter quickly pulls me up. I sit on his thick legs, his arms wrapped tightly around me. ‘We can stop, Penny,’ he says. ‘We really can.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t want to,’ I whisper. ‘I’m just afraid it’ll hurt.’

He nods. ‘We’ll take it slow, okay? We have the entire night. Heck, we have the entire weekend.’

‘But I want to do it now,’ I say. In a softer tone I add: ‘I want you, Walter. I need you.’

He gently places me on my back again, nearly suffocating me with kisses, causing me to laugh. With his lips locked on mine, he pushes in his tip. I dig my nails in his strong back. ‘Feels good?’

‘It does,’ I groan. ‘More, I can handle it.’

He slowly sinks in, my walls wrapping closely and tightly around him. Walter lets out a growl like sound, stilling his motions. ‘My girl,’ he chuckles, ‘I’m so proud of you. Taking me in like it’s nothing.’

‘You’re proud of me? Really?’ I ask.

‘I wouldn’t lie to you, princess.’ He allows me to stretch around him. He pats my thigh a few times, before giving it a squeeze. Walter checks one more time if I’m ready and when I nod, he pulls out, before carefully sliding back in.

The thrusts are soft. His bed slightly creaks every time he buries himself back into me. The room is filled with his grunts and loving words and with my hoarse gasps. I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand, as I take in this unknown, but pleasurable feeling.

‘Faster,’ I whisper. ‘Please.’

‘You sure?’

‘Mhm.’

Not only do the thrusts grow faster, but slightly harder as well and those soft gasps of mine, quickly turn into something louder. A thin layer of sweat on both of our bodies. My legs wrapped tightly around his hips.

I flutter around his hard member, causing him to smile. ‘I can already feel it again, sweetheart,’ he says. ‘You’re close?’

A nod is all I can muster.

My toes curl, my breathing stops and the wave of euphoria washes over me. Tears drip over my face and I whimper: ‘Stop, stop, stop.’

He listens instantly and as the shocks run through my body, the aftermath of my second orgasm, he stills inside of me. ‘Too sensitive?’

‘I’m sorry, but yes.’

‘Don’t be sorry, don’t be,’ he tells me. ‘You did amazing, princess. Want me to pull out?’

I simply nod and I softly sniffle as he does. He’s still hard as a rock and he peels off the condom, throwing it in the bin. I push myself up and give him a kiss. ‘What about you?’

‘It’s okay, sweetheart.’

‘No, I… I can help,’ I awkwardly suggest. ‘I mean, I never done that before and I have no idea how to, but I think I can do it.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘But I want to.’

He smiles. ‘Well, I can’t compete with that.’ He scoots over to the edge of the bed, gentle pulling me with him. ‘Go sit right there, sweetheart.’ I kneel on the carpet in between his legs and I take a deep breath. He holds my hand, guiding it to his hard member. I wrap my fingers around it, the tips not even touching. He leads the way as to how I need to move my hand. ‘You can squeeze a bit,’ he tells me.

I moisten my lips. ‘Can I?’

He nods. ‘Careful with your teeth,’ he says. ‘And don’t force it, princess.’

I open my mouth and let my tongue circle around his tip, before I wrap my lips around it. It earns me a low and sultry moan, and I look up. ‘Is it okay?’ I ask.

‘It’s perfect.’

As I slowly pump him without any guidance of Walter, I slowly try to get more and more of him inside my mouth. I don’t want my first ever blowjob experience to end with vomit, so I’m not forcing myself in a pornographic kind of way, where I nuzzle my nose into his pubes.

I mean, that would probably be impossible for me anyway.

Walter runs his fingers through my hair, slowly guiding me into bopping up and down. When I hollow my cheeks, the grip on my hair turns a bit harsher. ‘Shit, princess, you sure it’s your first time?’

I softly moan around him and he pulls back my head. With some drool dripping over my chin, I continue to pump him. His grunts fill the room, as warm spurts of cum land on my chest. The tight muscles in his entire body tense up, his hips bucking up to meet my hand. His jaw clenched, muffled groans.

That might’ve been the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

Completely enthralled in Walter, I barely notice that his cum has both painted my chest, but also the lower part of my face. ‘I was not planning on this,’ he chuckles, wiping my chin clean with his thumb. He pushes it passed my lips and I taste the saltiness of his cum on my tongue.

‘Was it good?’ I ask him.

‘It sure was, darling.’ He stands up and pulls me back on my feet. ‘But we do need another shower now.’

✎ ✎ ✎

After a warm shower, we’re securely tucked underneath the blankets. I nuzzle against his naked frame with mine and he holds me tightly against him. ‘Penny,’ he says in a low tone, ‘I am falling in love with you.’

I smile, my heart warming at his lovely confession. ‘I’m falling for you too,’ I say, ‘like head over heels in love with you.’

His grip on me tightens a bit. ‘You know, in a few weeks, we have Christmas break,’ he says. ‘You’ve got any plans?’

‘Originally I wanted to go back to Maryland,’ I say, ‘but my parents probably want me to enjoy the college experience and kinda force me to have fun with friends.’ I let out a soft laugh. ‘As if I have any friends.’

He scoffs. ‘You’ll get the friends you deserve when the time is right, princess. But, just so we’re clear: you and I can spend a lot of time together during Christmas?’

I lean on my elbow so I can look at him again. ‘Of course. What did you have in mind?’

‘A little trip,’ he says. ‘Outside of New York, so we can stop sneaking around for a bit. Where do you want to go?’

‘I don’t mind,’ I say, ‘as long as I’m with— Oh, we could go to Las Vegas.’

He smiles. ‘You want to spend Christmas in Las Vegas?’ he asks.

I tilt my head, all of the sudden not so sure anymore about my Las Vegas idea. ‘Maybe Hawaii then?’

Am I hallucinating or did it just seem like Walter’s eyes turned into little hearts? ‘You’ve got quite the expensive taste, princess.’

Instantly I feel bad. He is obviously gonna pay for a lot of it, since I barely have any money. ‘Oh, sorry. You pick something, something less expensive. I don’t mind where we’re going.’

‘No, no, no,’ he says, ‘Hawaii could actually be it. Want to be surprised or want in on the planning?’

‘Surprised,’ I tell him. ‘Oh my goodness, Walter, this is so exciting. I can’t wait to spend all my time with you.’ I lean in to give him a kiss and he smiles against my lips. ‘I love you,’ I whisper, when he lets me go.

‘You do?’ A cocky grin forms on his lips and he says: ‘I love you more.’ He peppers me with kisses, tickles my sides and my squeals fill the room. ‘I love you so fucking much, I’m never gonna let anything happen to you, okay? You know that right?’

I bite my lip. ‘Of course I know that,’ I whisper, pushing back some of his hair. ‘I’ll forever know it.’

✎ ✎ ✎

The next morning, I see Walter standing in the kitchen, his back turned towards me. I sneak over to him, but he wouldn’t be the detective he is if he didn’t notice me already. ‘Princess, I can hear you.’

I instantly stop tiptoeing. ‘I know,’ I laugh, ‘but it was worth the shot. You’re such a good detective.’

He chuckles, before lifting me up, placing me on the clean counter. He leans over to peck my lips. ‘How are you feeling?’

I nod. ‘I’m good, just… A little sore.’

Walter seems oddly proud of himself. ‘Oh, really?’

‘Yeah, my jaw too.’

He dumps the wooden spatula in the pan, turns the stove down low, before he stands in between my legs, wrapping his arms around my waist. ‘Well, princess, you did great last night. I’m so proud of you.’

‘You liked it?’ I ask, still a little unsure of how I performed last night. I mean, I never done it before and Walter probably had plenty of sex, because hello, have you seen that man? The fact that he wasn’t taken before we met is a miracle to me.

Walter buries his face in my neck, pressing sloppy kisses on my delicate skin as his beard is probably leaving some red marks, but I don’t care. ‘What do you think, princess?’ he asks. ‘Of course I liked it. Heck, I loved it. I love you, Penelope Townsend. I love you and only you. There is no need for you to be insecure.’ The sloppy kisses have moved to my lips, Walter’s parted lips against mine, his tongue exploring mine.

I arch my back, leaning into his touch, but something burns in my heart. Insecurities, that voice that tells me I’m not good enough for him and that last night was terrible. Before I can even stop it, warm tears roll over my face. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, my voice breaking mid sentence. ‘I don’t know why.’

Walter softly shushes me, whispering it’s okay. ‘It was a lot,’ he says, ‘quite the experience.’ He kisses my tears away and says: ‘Princess, it’s alright, no need to cry, okay?’

‘I’m totally overreacting,’ I hiccup.

‘No, you’re not,’ he retorts. When he sees it’s not working, he pulls my head to his chest, pressing kisses on my hair, before he wraps his arms around my body. ‘How about breakfast first and then a hot shower?’ he suggests.

‘A shower with you?’

‘If you want,’ he says.

I nod. ‘Sounds good to me.’

✎ ✎ ✎

As we’re standing underneath the warm streams of water, Walter massages my scalp as he washes my hair, lathers my body with soap and fantasizes about our future trip together. ‘I can’t wait for you and I to be together for an unlimited amount of time.’

I smile, thinking about the idea of waking up to him, eating breakfast, lunch and dinner with him and walking around, holding his hand. ‘Me neither.’

Slowly but surely, the insane insecurities are something of the past, however I still know that if I think about it too long, my hands start to shake and I overthink it all. Before that can actually happen, Walter makes sure to distract me with kisses, with touches and telling me silly things he wants to do when he and I get to Hawaii.

‘We’re really going to Hawaii?’

‘Of course,’ he says, turning me around so I can look at him. ‘Because Hawaii is a perfect place for us to spend Christmas.’

‘What do I need to wear?’ I ask. ‘I don’t know how warm it is there.’

‘Let’s start with a bathing suit,’ Walter cheekily says, causing me to roll my eyes. ‘Just some light outfits,’ he whispers. ‘Honestly, princess, you look beautiful no matter what you wear.’

‘Is it expensive?’ I ask. ‘A trip to Hawaii.’

‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head over that, I’ve got it covered.’

#henry cavill #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill x oc #henry cavill fanfic #walter marshall #walter marshall fanfic #walter marshall x ofc #walter marshall x oc #walter marshall x asian ofc #walter marshall x penny townsend #asian ofc #penny townsend #but professor

124 notes · View notes

gunmetal-ring · 2 years

Text

11x16 stream of consciousness

This is reminding me of jeepers creepers for some reason and idk why lol

Flashback... surprise. Aw does hershel have a stuffed pig?! That's so fuckin cute I wanna see it

Lance is not a great military commander if he's just like. Flipping coins lmao

Oh shit real Stephanie/max and Eugene did the deed! Nerds. Manbun alert.

OK so they're gonna ditch I guess. Where are they? Isn't Leah with them? I guess not?

If they're trying to sneak away in broad daylight...?

Okay so Leah is with some non armored stormtroopers?? How did Leah not see them sneaking away aren't they like RIGHT there

Hiding underground. Nice. "My wife is pregnant" Oh? Interesting that it matters to you now. #foreshadowing Annie's gonna die. Maggie is starting to trust negan... spinoff alert. Ew gross swarm of locusts.

Where is the 2nd location WHAT are they clearing can I please get some goddamn answers are they just sweeping for maggie?? Hello?! Oop there it is. The revolution. Calling bs that the stormtroopers aren't radioing for help. GABE FOR THE SNEAK ATTACK GODDAMN ok I officially like him he's proved himself to be a badass this season.

"Scholarship fund" lol and pay for textbooks with $50,000 amirite?! #cancelstudentloandebt. Oh no, the fundraiser queen is corrupt, whoda thunkit

Incredible that all these secret hiding locations are just. Popping up out of nowhere. I rly find it hilarious that oceanside has existed only to tell the commonwealth to fuck off. No hiding Maggie and team family, no food assistance, no nothing.

Sebastian, how does the old saying go? If everyone around you is an asshole, maybe it's you? Also like literally all max had to do was say "Yup working late" and not act like she's snooping how the fuck would he know any better. You can tell she's the younger sibling. Her parents gave up on being strict by the time mercer got thru to them.

?? What?? Okay sure just rig the building. Uh oh... here comes Leah. She's a better shot than that. The whole swarm of locusts thing would have been better w pope bc he was the crazy religious one. Leah didn't rly seem to give a shit one way or the other. I find it hard to believe she couldn't hit Maggie while running away but whatever ok.

What do you know the rogue assassin you hired is rogue. Lance you rly do suck as a military commander lol

Yup here it comes, the nonsensical narrative arc in which Daryl kills Leah to save Maggie. Makes all the sense in the world. Ah and apparently everyone knows who leah is. Ok time to stop being bitter. Wait oh no oh fuck is Daryl gonna kill Leah bc Leah kills Lydia?! No God pls no I'm sorry Kang I'll take everything i said back this is a great season so far its my favorite ever and the writing has been a1 I swear and I don't even care abt caryl I promise ill nevet write fic that fixes nonexistent plot holes bc nothing about this season could possibly be improved just DONT kill Lydia.

Connie's outfit is very cute I like that shirt. Lol this is magnas first scene in like a hundred episodes I forgot about her. Zeke is a badass as per usual

Wouldn't all the walkers be drawn to the explosion at the building? Not just wandering in the woods? She knocked her out and tied her to a chair and Maggie has been unconscious for like 6 hours... sure. "Everyone you love will be dead" why not hunt them down while Maggie is knocked out overnight? Why just sit there the whole time? OK maybe Maggie will kill Leah and be done with it. I'd actually be fine with that. Yup ok there it is. Great. No fuckin fanfare or anything either. Whatever at least it's over now. I'm sure we won't ever see a discussion or outpouring of feelings about it either were just supposed to accept that Daryl had no feelings and was totally neutral about killing the first woman he'd ever had a relationship with. Sure. Honestly I'd be OK if he talked to Carol about it bc that would salvage this the absolute tiniest bit but I know that won't happen.

Real talk tho how did Connie get that shit printed lol. OK Alexandria is now property of commonwealth? And hilltop? Why? Why not just kill everyone and leave? Seriously this shit is so stupid. OK at least they're rounding people up. Oh lol there's oceanside. Heads they kill them tails they're prisoners of war? What?

Surprise surprise this episode sucked, I'm rly over it. I hate that I'm actually glad this arc is over like seriously I wish I loved this show still I wish I wasn't so fuckin invested and disappointed I want to love the show that my ship is in and I hate that I'm actually glad it's ending. Ugh. UGH. I hate that I'm actually looking forward to caryl going canon bc it means the buildup is over and I know they're gonna fuck up the build up. UGH!!!!

Anyway I'm just gonna start my 10c 11a 11b rewrite now. Leave the missing moments until after the series is over. I'm gonna make a list of moments that we should have seen tho bc no fuckin way am I ever gonna rewatch this season lol.

Omg I didn't even realize that they blew up Barrington house lol. "We've been talking about luck a lot" Oh right when else did they talk about luck? Wasn't that with Carol and Daryl? With double capper acorns? With "we have luck on our side" and "our luck has run out" like it JUST fucking happened! Where are THOSE callbacks?!

Overall disappointed but not the least bit surprised. Underwhelmed once more. Truly insane just how shitty this season has been so far. Glad this block is over and looking forward to all the fix it fic coming this hiatus. Ugh.

#op #twd #twd s11 spoilers #twd season 11 #twd s11 #twd spoilers #review

5 notes · View notes

shimmershae · 3 years

Text

So. Thanks to my new anonymous friend, this is going to become a thing.

Shae’s thinky thoughts about the latest episode--Acheron: Part 2--beneath a cut.

Because spoilers, however vague they might be.

Let’s be real here. This is more a stream of consciousness than anything else so if that’s not your thing, you are most welcome to nope right on out of this post. Trust me. I’ll completely understand, lol. Sometimes? I wish I could nope right on out of my own brain and the way it operates.

That said? Without further ado--

Episode 2′s opening, though. Maggie trapped with hungry Walkers converging? It totally gives me Glenn under the dumpster vibes. I don’t know if that was intentional or just happy coincidence but way to link Maggie to her dearly departed better half, show.

Is it just me or has Father G had more OOMPH to him these last few seasons? Again, I have to ask--Rosita’s influence or no? Regardless, I bet Seth Gilliam is loving the job these days.

Side note: am I gonna have to go to bed early every Saturday night from now until the end just so I that I might be able to SEE? Something? Anything? My curtains are flimsy-ass. I admit it. But this is more frustrating than TXF. Angela, WTF?

No, seriously. It’s like complete guess work who’s in these subway scenes. Some of that has to do with them being overly populated by redshirts and the rest of it has to do with me having to squint and turn sideways to make out their facial features.

Look at Daryl busting through concrete walls! Should I call him the Kool-Aid Man considering NR has once again allowed himself to be led right into a biased, shipper trap? Hmm. I might.

Imagine seeking refuge in those dark, filthy subways. Any second now I expect to hear the skittering of rats. Will Dog lose his effing mind a la Divergence? He’s been shown to go off half-cocked that way, lol. Oh well. Guess it’ll be in character if he does.

Impressive graffiti storyboards. Does it mean something that it immediately cuts to the Commonwealth storm troopers afterward? Maybe. Who really knows at this point? They been trying to gaslight us forever.

LOL at Princess yet again. Yumiko is just like da fuq is this person?

No, really. LMAO. “That was her. From last night. Did you see how she was looking at us?”

Then you have Eugene, hahaha. “Oh God. Why did he tell off the big guy?” Like the man is totally me in this type of situation. Not even gonna lie.

“That’s right. We want to talk to the manager.”

I literally cannot wait ‘til Carol and Daryl meet Princess. Can. Not. Wait.

How sad is that note on that $100 bill? Small moment but it totally gives me Season 4 vibes when they were on their way to Terminus seeking sanctuary.

Hmm. Remember how that place wasn’t what they thought it was? I’m sure neither is the Commonwealth. But I feel like what’s left of Team Family is totally going to do Rick proud, lol, and prove they’re messing with the wrong people if they try something.

Daryl, Man. You gonna have to get a better handle on your headstrong Fur Son. I wonder if Dog would listen better to his mama? Things to ponder.

Sounds like Miko has this group’s number. Or does she?

Princess and Eugene totally look like they’re waiting their turn for the Principal’s office, LOL.

“Stop moving! You’re taking my nerves over the edge to a proverbial 11 on a scale of 10.” I feel you, Eugene. I do. Also you, Princess. Two of the most relatable TWD characters right there, I’m telling you.

Princess is me when I really, really, really have to pee. TMI? Sorry, lovelies. LOL. I just...she’s so relatable.

LMAO. “If that fine ass dude in the orange suit...” Princess and Mercer incoming in 3-2-----

Princess’s excitement over the toilet paper=PRICELESS.

Eugene, Man. You desperately need to develop a poker face.

There’s Daryl getting another cool camera shot. Angela? You playing favorites again?

Carol’s claustrophobia could have never. I bet that’s in the back of Pookie’s mind. You can’t tell me it’s not because Carol lives in there rent-free.

Ohhh. Back to the subway car. Looks like we got the Maggie redshirts leading the way. First sacrificial “lambs”?

Maggie pistol-whipping Negan was kinda deserved, but he wasn’t all wrong so.

Damn. I’m no Gage fan. He can fuck all the way off for what he did to my baby Lydia. But Maggie over there with ice in her veins.

Yep. I think the dude just got one of the most gruesome deaths in a while. Yuck.

I think Alden’s faith in Maggie definitely took several hits. I feel like he kind of had her on some sort of pedestal dating back to Hilltop times. Father G, though? The man is continuing to show himself a SAVAGE MFer.

Josh gives Eugene such believable tics and mannerisms. He IS Eugene.

Thank you, Maggie, for lighting that flare. I could not see a damn thing.

What are these bad memories Negan alludes to? Hmm? Him being a shit husband to Lucille back when he was still taking her for granted?

Father G on Gage’s Walker--”All that is, is a shell of a man, who died a coward.” Kind of ironic considering Father G’s own origins, huh? Has he any warmth in there for anybody but Rosita and Coco? Does he equate it with weakness?

“There are worse ways.” And Maggie proceeds to paint us a horror story with mere words.

Dark Maggie really surpasses anything certain fans have ever accused Carol of being. Is she too far gone? Who the hell knows? I think it’s clear that she and Carol are both on a sliding scale of sorts when it comes to being able to compartmentalize shit to survive. Personally? I feel like Maggie might have leap-frogged Carol in this episode but it matters none because of the double standards so deeply entrenched in this fandom. Both women have endured and had to do some horrific things. It’s not a contest. But it’s probably going to be turned into a season-long one.

It’s almost like Kang was like, “Ya’ll bitches think Carol’s dark? I’ll show you DARK. Check and mate.”

Whatever the reasoning, Maggie just got exponentially more interesting to me if not likable. And before anybody out there comes at me, it’s entirely possible to be on a character’s side in some things and not be all up their ass in love with them, lol. Like I’m attached to her because she’s family and Glenn loved her. There’s a loyalty there and she absolutely is justified in her hatred of Negan. But I’m not going to pretend her shit don’t stink like everybody else’s.

Speaking of my baby Glenn. What would he think of this version of Maggie? I think he would be gutted and heart stricken that events led to her being like this but he’d understand because he’s pure like that. Don’t mean he’d be A-OK with it all.

Dog must be protected at all costs.

Confession. I know not the fuck who Pony Boy is, but I know him because all my fandom friends have pointed him out to me, lol. RIP, Man. I think you’re number’s up or close to it.

Okay, though. I admit it. I am kinda LOVING Badass Father G.

That scene in the subway car with all of them working to take all the Walkers out was already badass. Then Daryl arrived and made it, in @freefromthecocoon’s words, HAWT. LOL.

Eugene staring at that little black book like it contains torture tools, hehehe.

“Processed? As in administratively? Processed as in bologna or other meat stuffs? This inquiring (enquiring?) mind needs to know.” OMG, Eugene. I admit it. Even if it makes me look like a lunatic, LOL. I straight up LMAO at that one. I mean, ten years later and Terminus still fresh on the man’s mind.

“You like feeling nervous?” Well, no. None of us that do, Mercer? Do.

Then he proceeds to make me howl with his “You can’t lie for shit” to Eugene.

Josh McDermitt? I love you, Man. 40 year old virgin, LOL.

All this talk over the seasons of Daryl’s virginity and we have Eugene, hahaha. But was he telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

Finally. Some daylight. Where I can see.

Eugene’s relief at seeing his friends safe and sound was such a beautiful thing to see. I loved those hugs.

Mercer’s face when he snarled “beat cop” in disdain to Ezekiel. I think I’m gonna love this dude.

“I went to West Point. Asshole.” Yeah. I am.

I know they probably catfishing Eugene right here because spoilers tell us that ain’t Stephanie. But my heart still did a little d’aww. Angela. Don’t play with his poor heart like that.

What’s got Daryl so pensive, huh? Is it that the note reminds him of kids being lost or taken from their family? Or separated from their family? Is he thinking of those Grimes babies and wondering if Michonne will ever make it back and why and how she was able to leave them behind? Tell me it ain’t that Find Me nonsense.

“This place sure has gone to shit since the last time I was here.” LMAO, JDM. I mean Negan. Sorry. Sorry. I still hate Negan, but JDM has me entertained at least since they gave the asshole some shades of gray. And speaking of shades of gray. I’m loving the gray beard. JDM’s looking GOOD (hear that NR? Embrace the gray). Negan can still kick rocks, lol.

Anyway. That scene was CREEPY AF. Not even gonna lie.

The Reapers strutting right on up to our group like it’s The Purge: ZA.

My bad, Pony Boy. Now RIP.

Dark, dark episode with loads of tension broken up by some welcome humor by Princess. The girl is fast becoming a fave of mine.

My baby’s back next week!!!

I’m just going to plug my ears and pretend they’re trying to capture/recapture the horses because they’re pets. Not because they’re starving so bad they feel the need to eat them. La la la la la. I can’t hear you.

#The Walking Dead #Season 11 #TWD spoilers #things that make me smile and cry #for reasons

19 notes · View notes