#wade hays

[xxxemogrrlxxx]

[californiaquail]

this is. a lot

[renthony]

I wonder how fast I'd die of alcohol poisoning if I did a shot every time someone in my notes boiled one of my posts down to "but are you pro or anti ship."

How many times, tumblr? How many times must I say that "proship/antiship" is a completely asinine way to frame this discussion, and no matter how much my opinions may align with one side, I'm not using a fucking shipping discourse label to discuss my media studies and censorship research?

"Are you pro or anti ship?" Neither. I am not engaged in shipping discourse. I am much more concerned with the ways that censorship is used to specifically target marginalized people raising awareness and making art about their own experiences and worldviews. You cannot enact any form of censorship without it hitting marginalized people the hardest.

I do not care about your ship wars when I am discussing things such as the Hays Code and 2024 book bans, and I am incredibly exhausted by how often people derail my posts into shipping arguments. It's slightly more tolerable when teenagers do it, because they're still figuring out how shit works and lord knows I fell into my fair share of rancid discourse as a teenager, but I am appalled at how often it's dragged into my notes by grown-ass adults.

"Proship/antiship" is a reductive framework grounded in bad-faith internet discourse drenched in purity culture. It is not a useful framework to use when discussing dark fiction, censorship, free speech, or obscenity laws. "Proship" and "antiship" are loaded buzzwords that make people stop thinking critically and engaging in good faith, and I have no tolerance for it.

I'm not interested in declaring my side in tumblr ship wars when I'm focused on things like, "when is the next local school board meeting regarding book bans, and am I eligible to run for the citizen advisory council that helps decide the fate of specific books?" and, "with the overturn of Roe v. Wade, in what ways do we need to be concerned about, and what ways can we raise awareness about, the enforcement of the Comstock Act?" and, "as a trans person living in Florida, how do I navigate my existence being treated as an inherent pornographic threat to children that should be censored and legislated out of existence?"

I do not care! About! Fucking! SHIPPING!

[gatorbites-imagines]

Daddy kink Wolverine x reader… just throwing that out there

Logan Howlett x Gambit variant male reader

Ficlet

Reader is a Gambit variant, cuz I love Gambit… I have no idea how to write accents though, so you’ll just have to imagine it. This isn’t as long as my other ficlets, but I just needed to get it out my system. There is also no outright written smut, but you guys will live.

Deadpool and wolverine spoilers ahead

Two Gambits was an experience, any member of your small resistance in the void could back said claim. Most of the time none of them could pick up on what you and Remy were talking about, since you both slid into your mother tongue on most occasions. Unlike Remy, you had had a life before being thrown into the Void. Apparently, you were only meant to be the horseman of death for a while before returning to the Gambit, but instead you had become one with this new part of yourself, meaning you needed to be gotten rid of.

Your life sense, as an avatar of death, was what let Laura find Wade and Logan so easily, and how you guys could avoid Nova and her folks as well. Seeing Logans disregard for Remy and the rest had just made you laugh, speaking in the same accented voice as Remy, making Wade make even more comments about dialect coaches and tongue twisting. The only tongue twisting you were gonna do, would have to be a bit more intimate though, your sentence ended with a short wink shot Logans way.

Maybe it was nostalgia that had you picking on Logan the night before your big surprise attack on Nova. The original Logan from your universe had never been an X-men either, not for long at least, but he had always been in your circles. It had led to multiple rolls in the hay together, so to speak, but in the end, he had even sided with the X-men to take you and the other horsemen down. Thinking back, you could never figure out if he was sad to see you go, but part of you were happy to see him finally looking comfortable by the x-men’s side.

You were both pleasantly buzzed when you crawled into his lap, throwing your long coat and headgear to the ground as you got comfortable. His hands were so rough and calloused on your hips, Logans voice deep and growly as you smirked down at him. Who would have thought that the wolverine would be into being called daddy. The moment the word left your lips, just to be a tease about it, his pupils seemed to blow wide open and before you knew it, you found yourself on your back.

Grumbles of Cajun French left you as Logan ripped through your pants with that inhumane strength of his, looking half feral with that sneer on his lips. The ferocity lessened when that title left your lips again, hands settled on his sideburns as you murmured out accented begs, soft “daddy, daddy, daddy” passing your lips.

With how wild Logan had been acting in the beginning, you honestly thought hed fuck you like he hated you, like you were just stress relief. But to your shock, it became something more akin to lovemaking. Sure, he gripped your hips hard enough to leave dark bruises, and covered your neck and shoulders in enough hickeys to make even Remy blush, but he was surprisingly soft.

And every time that word left your lips, Logan just seemed to melt into it more and more, his usual growling and snarling more akin to a deep rumbled purr against your chin as he moved you as he pleased. It was so intimate, you almost teared up, and that soft almost vulnerable look on Logans face made you think maybe he felt that way too. He kissed like you were something special and precious instead of just another partner to warm his bed, something you had so rarely felt before.

Slumped together and spent made you wonder if this meant anything at all. Or were you two just fellow broken souls who’d lost everything and everybody, and who could only find comfort in another just as shattered person. Feeling Logans arms around you made you at least want to survive and see, who knew, maybe there was space for another Gambit wherever Logan was gonna go after this.

[pumpkin-cake]

Family Man Farmer Logan (2)

dad!logan x fem!reader

YIPPIE part two!!!! thank you and credit to @mega-kittyglitter-1 for the idea of bringing wade in :)

i've also just decided to name the kid because i don't like referring to her as 'your daughter' so yeah

divider credit to @cafekitsune

part one

warnings: wade breaks the fourth wall

Logan held your daughter, Jean, as the two walked towards the stables. She messed with his beard hairs while they did so, to which Logan ignored.

"You remember the rules when we feed the horses?" He asked, his gruff voice holding softness to it as he brought her to the small stable he'd built along with several other buildings on the farm.

"Listen to what Daddy says." Jean repeated a bit vaguely, and he chuckled.

"Yes, listen to what I say. You gotta be easy with 'em. I know you're so excited to see 'em but loud noises can scare 'em." He explained, grabbing a bag of apples he kept around. The horses had grass and hay and the such inside the stable, but Jean liked feeding them applies, so he'd indulge her.

"But they're so much bigger than me!!!" She exclaimed incredulously.

"I know, but you're much louder than 'em sometimes." He chuckled, heading to one of the pens where a chestnut colored horse with flowers in her mane (courtesy of you and Jean), who was named Indy. She was the nicer one compared to her brother, Bishop. He was a bit challenging, more likely to fight with Logan. He was usually a good boy, though. Logan was a fierce man, able to establish boundaries and get some mutual respect going on between the two.

One time, Bishop had tried to nip at Jean when she was a baby. You'd never seen Logan so angry with an animal. He of course understood that the horse had been offended and maybe a bit frightened by Jean patting his nose with no warning, but the thought of anything or anyone hurting his girl was enough to make him fume.

Logan held Jean up, as she was nowhere near tall enough to reach the horses on her own. "You know what to do." He said softly, not too worried about Indy hurting Jean, but he was always careful when it came to his babygirl.

Jean carefully and slowly reached out with a big smile on her face, holding the apple in the palm of her hand. Indy made a happy snort and ate the apple whole, cronching on it loudly. Jean giggled infectiously, looking at Logan as she reached out to pet the horse.

"You're good, babygirl." He assured her, glad that Jean was so obedient when it came to this stuff. She was stubborn like her parents but neither of you played around when it came to her safety.

Jean gently began to stroke Indy's snout, a big grin on her face while she did so. Logan held her there for a while, until Jean pulled on his flannel to lead her over to Bishop. Luckily, she didn't have any bad memories of the horse trying to bite her, so she wasn't too afraid.

"Same thing, babygirl. Nice and easy." Logan hummed, giving her an apple to offer to the bigger horse. With no fear, she held out the apple to the horse, smiling innocently. Bishop hesitated, but did lean forward and take the apple from her hand. Logan nodded, pleased. "There we are, was that fun?" He asked Jean, who nodded happily as she carefully pet Bishop as well.

"Daddy, can we go pick flowers for Mommy?" She asked.

"That sounds like a great idea, baby." He chuckled, letting her say goodbye to Indy and Bishop before taking her out to the field of flowers that you mainly took care of. Logan was the handy man, dealing with the animals and any heavy lifting. He set her down, and she immediately went running to get the perfect amount of flowers.

God was he glad his daughter got to grow up in a space like this. If she was a mutant, it hadn't developed yet. If she was, he'd be even more grateful. She wouldn't have to worry about anybody trying to hurt her. You and him had the tools to homeschool her if necessary, and she had a big wide open space for growing and developing and learning.

His little daydream was interrupted by the crackling sound of a vehicle on the dirt road coming to the farm. His eyebrows furrowed, and groaned when he spotted the man inside the car. He forgot that Wade Wilson was dropping off a couple things per your request. You and Wade got along way better than Logan did with him. Wade always offered to babysit but Logan didn't trust him alone with Jean for even a minute.

Jean looked up and her brows furrowed just like his when she saw the car park and a strange man get out of the car. She dropped the flowers and booked it to Logan's legs, hugging them and watching.

Wade chuckled. "There's the wolfie! Look at you, a farm boy!" He cheered, a box underneath his arm. "The wifey wanted some rare flower seeds that little ol' me got for her! Oh! I'm getting your wife flowers!!!! You need to step it up, peanut!" He rambled, heading over.

Logan felt Jean's grip on his denim jeans tighten, and oh god her face. It was an exact copy of his scowl. He huffed, gently putting his hand on the back of Jean's head to comfort her. "I built this whole place for her. Now shut the f- shut up." He corrected himself. You didn't like it when he swore in front of Jean.

"Speaking of peanuts! It's your spawn!" He did crouch down, hoping that Jean wouldn't be too scared of his face. "I'm Wade Wilson, has your mommy told you about me? Daddy probably hasn't, he isn't as nice as your mommy."

Actual crickets around the grass punctuated Jean's silence.

"Oof, tough crowd. Daddy's girl, huh?" He said with a chuckle, a bit unnerved at how goddamn similar she was to him. He'd seen that scowl on a much older face plenty of times.

"Go on inside, she's in there." Logan said, not appreciating the fact that Jean was just as snarky towards this guy. Little kids did have good instincts, not to mention she was his daughter.

Wade held up his hands in surrender. "Alright alright, I'll let you have some more daddy-daughter time. The author needs it for his daddy issues." He said, heading inside to greet you.

"Who was that man?" Jean asked, the scowl still on her face.

"A friend of mommy's, like he said." Logan sighed as she let go of him.

"He's annoying." She huffed, going and collecting the flowers she had put down. Logan couldn't help but laugh out loud. She sure was his daughter.

"He sure is. Let's go bring these to Mommy."

[murrpa]

wade and logan stay in a nice hotel, they bags are brought into the room and everything luxury of that sort, they have dinner and then hit the hay, next morning wade orders breakfast in room while logan goes to the front desk to ask for cleaning service in half an hour it’ll take you more than one person he says, after they’re done eating they leave, as they walk down the hallway, their faces are red and they smile in shame at the cleaning crew passing by, as they both about to step on a stair case at the end of a hallway they hear a loud and echoed WHAT THE FUCK?

[akajustmerry]

guys i saw deadpool and wolverine 2024 as someone whose shipped them since i was 16 and i was sooooooo brave about it* (*it = the homophobia). like. i was so brave you guys. i was so brave that in this movie where they already had an r-rating there was no gay sex. i was so brave about this being the third deadpool film in a row to only give dramatic narrative weight to wade's relationship with a woman and treat his gayness exclusively as a joke. i was sooooo brave about the "its funny because its kinda gay heehe" humour. i was so brave about seeing hays code era gay sex allegory sequences in a franchise that featured EXPLICIT MONTAGES of hetrosexual sex. i was so brave about the fucking coexist sticker. i was so brave about this movie ending with deadpool inviting wolverine to live with him and he does....only for wolverine to uh [checks notes] encourage wade to be with a woman. yeah and i was SO BRAVE about this movie opening with deadpool wearing logan's skeleton to waste some motherfuckers. i was so brave YOU GUYS i am not even bothered actually i am fine this is fine actually!!! this is so great!!! this is awesome! this is what i love about being bisexual and wanting to see bi characters yeah i love this. wow loving movies <3

[adventuresofalgy]

Then, all of a sudden, light and colour returned to the world, and when Algy woke up the next morning he found that it had been completely transformed once again.

Algy realised that in his long sleep he must have missed much of the gradual changing of the seasons, for the sun was now surprisingly low in the sky, imparting a distinctive autumnal hue to the overgrown grasses and drying leaves, and the shadows were deep and long. But there was still some warmth to be found in a sheltered spot, providing one kept close to the ground and away from the chilly north-east wind, which kept trying to blow Algy's hair and feathers into his eyes in a most annoying manner.

As he looked around he could see that even the bell heather was fading now, but there were still a few bright flowers peeping out from the untamed mass of grasses and seedheads, and as Algy leaned back among the crazy tangle of the late summer meadow, he did indeed feel happily "beguiled by the last lingering of the flowery kind":

And down the hay-fields, wading ‘bove the knees Through seas of waving grass, what days I’ve gone, Cheating the hopes of many labouring bees By cropping blossoms they were perch’d upon; As thyme along the hills, and lambtoe knots, And the wild stalking Canterbury bell, By hedge-row side or bushy bordering spots, That loves in shade and solitude to dwell. And when the summer’s swarms, half-nameless, fled, And autumn’s landscape faded bleak and wild, When leaves ‘gan fall and show their berries red, Still with the season would I be beguil’d Lone spots to seek, home leaving far behind,– Where wildness rears her lings and teazle-burs, And where, last lingering of the flowery kind, Blue heath-bells tremble ‘neath the shelt’ring furze.

[Algy is quoting two verses from the poem The Wildflower Nosegay by the early 19th century English Romantic poet John Clare.]

[nametakensff]

Worth It (D/isco E/lysium, M/M)

Okay - this fic follows up just over a month from my 3 part K/im x H/arry series (that you don't need to read, I just ended up accidentally writing my fics as part of a continuous AU...again lol), featuring the aftermath of fetishist H/arry dealing with the slow return of certain memories, his budding romantic relationship with K/im and his past hook ups with J/ean

It ended up at 12.9K 😅 All three of them sneeze but it's mostly a J/ean fic (H/arry x J/ean with established H/arry x K/im, and then some H/arry x K/im x J/ean)

~~~~~

Content:

M/M, M/M/M mentioned and ongoing, H/arry has a sneezing fetish, cold sneezes, contagion, mentions of hay fever, rapid sneezes, spray, sneezing on someone, some mess mentions, nose blowing, audibly wet nose rubbing, masturbation, hand jobs, cumming in tissues, tissues, handkerchiefs, coughing, fever, dirty talk, implied praise kink, embarrassment/humiliation, verbal teasing, fantasies and mentions of public masturbation, graphic descriptions of semen, mentions of anal sex, threesomes, brief phone sex, brief exhibitionism/voyeurism fantasy

CW: mentions of past abuse, mentions of alcohol and drug abuse, mentions of physical violence, toxic relationships, abusive language (this fic has J/ean in it it's unavoidable), H/arry has a brief fantasy about licking cum off his hands and using cum as lube, mentions of J/ean and H/arry fucking at an active crime scene, self-hatred, some dudebro jabs at homosexuality

NSFW - Minors DNI!

Jean had a cold. A miserable, eye-watering doozy of a cold. It had started as a few errant sniffles and coughs here and there, perhaps a slightly more notable weariness when he spoke – but nothing could have prepared Harry for the sheer amount of sneezing he would witness as the illness progressed. Four days in, and Jean was a wreck. He refused to take sick leave, even having amassed a considerable amount of days over the years due to pure obstinance. He pointedly ignored any glances of either concern or aggravation as he sneezed, over and over, either into the protective cover of his elbow or a bundle of damp tissues. Not even Judit could convince him to go home.

“We’re in over our heads as it is, Jude. I don’t have the time to laze around in bed with all of – this waiting to be finished.” He’d gestured with a wide sweep of his hand not only over his own desk, but at the general maelstrom of officers marching back and forth across the bullpen, coming and going in a constant stream of activity.

“We’re wading knee-deep through an endless river of bureaucratic bullshit with an incapacitated workforce.”

“I can hear you, you know!” Harry had piped up, sat at his desk with his head in his hands as the mountainous piles of paperwork loomed over him. Kim shot him a sympathetic look from where he sat at his own new desk.

“I meant you to!” Jean growled, before a sudden teasing gasp had him spinning desperately away from Judit and sneezing fittishly into the crook of his elbow. Harry’s stomach was aflutter with butterflies as he watched. He couldn’t make out a sound, not over the din of the office and with the sheer willpower Jean had managed to exert over keeping the sneezes as locked down as possible. He finished shuddering a few moments later and extracted his face from the protective covering of his arm. He somehow now looked even worse for wear.

“Désolé.”

This was meant for Judit – Harry was sure he didn’t particularly give a rat’s ass about what anyone else in C Wing and beyond thought about these increasingly recurrent sneezing fits. The patrol officer in question squeezed his shoulder, her face a mask of concern and frustration.

“Will you at least go home when your shift is over?”

“Yes.” Jean lied.

Defeated and entirely used to accepting it with grace, Judit withdrew. She was smart like that. Harry had watched Jean watching her leave, waiting until she was out of sight before allowing his expression to waver – a look of total surrender, mouth dropping open and brows lifting high before his entire face crumpled. He’d sneezed against his wrist - five times consecutively, if the rhythmic trembling of his shoulders was any indication. When he lifted his head at last, he was bleary eyed and snuffling most pathetically. It had gone straight to Harry’s dick. Sensing eyes on him, Harry turned and noticed with no small amount of embarrassment that Kim had been watching him watch Jean. Not knowing what else to do, he’d shrugged his shoulders apologetically. Kim had merely raised an eyebrow and smirked at him before returning to his own work as if nothing at all had transpired.

Harry had been grateful for the noisy ambience and Jean’s own stubborn tactics of suppression. As long as he didn’t look in his direction, he could almost – almost! – pretend that his fellow officer wasn’t clenching with a paroxysm of tickly, cold-induced sneezes every five minutes or so. He had actually managed to put a dent, although minimal, in some of the simpler paperwork. More importantly, he had kept most of the blood in his brain and out of his dick.

It also seemed as though the way Jean stifled his sneezes into almost near silence didn’t provoke much ‘sympathetic’ sneezing in Kim, as Harry had come to label it. In typical analytical fervour, he had come to understand the perfect conditions to induce a reaction in Kim. He had deduced the following:

Volume. The louder the sneeze heard and/or witnessed, the higher the exponentiality of sneezes on Kim’s behalf.

Desperation. The more irritated, aggravated or generally torturous a sneeze sounded or appeared, the more likely this bizarre form of nasal sympathy was to occur.

Pre-existing sensitivities in Kim. Exposure to dust, cold air, a general fatigued immune system – an already irritated nose was prone to further irritation.

Naturally, a combination of all three in Martinaise had given Harry the show of a lifetime. He had (secretly, sadistically) been hoping Kim would catch his cold, but somehow he had managed to avoid it, despite having been miserably worn down and concussed by the time they finally completed the case of The Hanged Man.

Harry kept these ruminations to himself, of course. Maybe he would share them with Kim at some point. For now, at least, there had been no major paradigm shift, and Jean’s sneezes, whilst undoubtedly desperate, were lacking in volume, and Kim was entirely healthy and irritation free. That wasn’t to say there hadn't been any response from the Lieutenant, no. Harry had looked over with depleting subtlety more than once, prompted by a soft gasp, to watch Kim shudder into a small fit of his own on the tail end of Jean’s, and damn near bit through his tongue each and every time.

This system of deny and ignore had proven useful only until the night shift began. Normally, the bullpen was busier and the officers replacing those having finished the day shift would more or less keep the building near constantly occupied. Whatever evil god ruled over Revachol had decided that day, however, to summon every gang banger and petty criminal imaginable and enlist them in the sole mission of keeping damn near all officers of the 41st entirely occupied – and, more importantly, out of the office. It also just so happened to be the night that Harry had reluctantly agreed to stay and get through some paperwork, and Jean had in turn stubbornly refused to leave him unattended. Harry was slowly regaining his trust, and in Jean’s defence, he had evidently been awful at staying on top of paperwork pre-amnesia, and just as resistant to completing it in his recovery.

It shouldn’t have been an issue – but with every officer that left, taking both their physical presence and ambient sound with them, it was increasingly difficult to ignore Jean and the steadfast progression of his cold. Whilst his sneezes were apparently on continuous lockdown, he had long abandoned any attempts to blow his nose in relative silence. Every couple of minutes, Harry’s heart raced in his chest as the loud, obtrusive sound of Jean forcing air and mess out of his miserably congested sinuses echoed out in the office space. His nervous energy was manifesting in a persistent shake in his leg, tapping his foot over and over.

Kim had left early, for him, as well. He had made a habit of staying a few hours or more post shift ever since his transfer to the 41st, realising just how much they had fallen behind in administration. Harry admired him for it – paperwork, though sometimes exciting to record in the moment, was undoubtedly one of the worst parts of being an RCM officer, tediously boring at times – and yet Kim was consistently fastidious, conscientious, and perhaps most importantly, punctual. Today, though, he had excused himself almost within a minute of the day’s end.

“There’s a pivotal race in the TipTop Tournée being broadcast tonight at 7pm – I’ve missed the last few. I’m dying to see how it turns out.” He explained in response to Harry’s wounded complaints about abandonment.

“Oh yeah…you did mention that, come to think of it.” Harry recalled that when Kim had been discussing the race, he had been paying too much attention to the way the Lieutenant’s face had lit up in enthusiasm to really retain any information pertaining to the date of the event in question.

“I’m also exhausted – and it looks like the both of you are, too.” He glanced pointedly at Jean. “Don’t stay too late, detectives. Insufficient health begets insufficient policework.”

“I’m fine.” Jean croaked. Neither Harry nor Kim offered a response, though both had winced at the sheer raspiness of it.

Harry looked up at Kim as the Lieutenant pushed his chair under his desk. His big, baleful and truly pathetic eyes signaled quite clearly ‘do not leave me alone with him’. Kim simply looked at him, shook his head almost imperceptibly, and smiled in response. Harry sighed.

“Bye, Kim.” He mumbled despairingly.

“Goodbye, Harry.” Kim replied pleasantly. He tipped his head at Jean, currently recovering from his most recent series of tightly stifled sneezes. “Officer Vicquemare.”

“Lieutenant.” Jean muttered, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork. He looked thoroughly unwell, and Kim’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before meeting Harry’s gaze. The pair of them shrugged at each other, and Kim was out the door moments later.

And so, here Harry sat, not 45 minutes later and already so unbelievably sexually frustrated he had practically eaten half a pencil. It just wasn’t fair. The bullpen was probably the most silent he had ever known it to be in his entire time at the 41st. He knew this in his bones, regardless of solid memories to go off. Besides the sound of the city beyond the windows of the building and the hum of various electronics, the only other noises to be heard were as follows: Harry’s audible pencil consumption. Harry’s tapping foot on the linoleum floor. Harry’s fingers drumming on his desk. Harry’s grunts of frustration. Jean’s throat clearing. Jean’s coughing. Jean’s sniffling, sneezing, nose blowing – every noise imaginable of the miserably congested. And the inexplicably loud clock driving Harry to the brink of insanity as it ticked its way through this test of mental and physical fortitude.

The tail-end of Jean’s latest sneezes caused his sinuses to squeak quite audibly. It was the final straw for Harry – he needed to take a fucking walk. He pushed back his chair and stood up much more violently than intended. Jean cast a weary glance his way.

“Not leaving, just – kitchen. Need anything?”

Jean stared at him a moment longer, leaving Harry to sweat and wilt under his stony gaze, before returning to his work. He cradled his forehead in one hand, closing his eyes for a moment.

“No.”

Harry waited to see if anything would follow. When it didn’t, he strode out of the bullpen and down the hallway, shielding his erection as best he could with what he hoped was a subtle hand in front of his crotch. He walked towards the kitchen, fully intending to grab a sugary snack of some description as a form of distraction, but decided last minute to make his way to one of the several payphones at the end of the corridor.

“Hello?” Kim answered after the third dial tone.

“Kim,” Harry sighed desperately into the handset. “I think I’m dying. Jean, He is - He’s. Driving me insane.”

Harry heard Kim sigh an equally desperate sigh of his own. In his mind’s eye and in Kim’s apartment, the Lieutenant cast a nervous glance towards the clock on his wall. The hands were rapidly approaching 7pm. He was comfortably settled next to his radio with a can of beer. This was not ideal timing.

“You’re not dying, detective.” He offered drily. Harry was undeterred.

“But you see, Kim, I think I am. I have no idea how to deal with this. You know I don’t. You know that firsthand.”

The entire reason he and Kim had fucked in the first place had been because this stupid fetish had rendered him incapable of keeping his dick in his pants. The results had been overwhelmingly positive – they were still fucking now. Regularly. They had even started sleeping over at each other’s apartments. They went on walks and to cafes together. Neither had vocally confirmed it, but it seemed obvious to Harry that they were at least kind-of sort- of dating. Pseudo-almost-boyfriends, one might say. It had been a happy accident, and his embarrassing inability to keep his shit together had somehow – inexplicably - won Kim over.

 Jean was not Kim.

Harry’s memories had been coming back incrementally – little pieces here and there with the occasional groundbreaking moments of picture-perfect recollection. He had remembered very little about Jean  – had forgotten him entirely with the initial amnesia – and this was evidently, and understandably, an extremely sore spot for the younger officer. It turns out that he was Harry’s bona fide best friend, on top of his partner. More complicated was the fact that they had fucked, many times. This had come to light when Jean had caught Harry kissing Kim in the precinct parking lot.

“Well. I can’t say it isn’t somewhat relieving that an Officer as competent as Lieutenant Kitsuragi has equally as shitty taste in men as I do.”

Harry had barely a moment’s notice to let those words sink in before the vivid memory of Jean writhing underneath him knocked the air out of him. From that moment, he had been inconsolable. Was he in a relationship with Jean? Was he actively cheating on him right now? Had he liked men before Kim?? Jean and Kim had in turn done their best to mollify him, settling him and themselves into Kim’s Motor Carriage to conceal this latest mental breakdown from any passing officers.

Jean had confirmed that they were not in a relationship, and they had done very little fucking, if any, for at least six months, for obvious drug-and-alcohol-spiral related reasons. Harry was a little relieved, but still devastated to have forgotten. He could tell that this gaping nothingness in his brain regarding Jean deeply hurt the younger man, and for that he was truly apologetic.

“It’s fine, Harry.” Jean had spoken to him in the kind of tone one might use to console a cornered animal. “You remembered something just now. You’ll remember more, over time.”

It was the softest Jean had been with him since Martinaise. Harry had felt the tears welling up in his eyes almost immediately.

“Kim wasn’t my bisexual awakening?” He’d asked in a tiny voice, sounding ridiculous but authentically devastated and confused enough that neither Kim nor Jean had laughed at the absurdity of it.

“It’s okay.” Kim had reached out and patted his arm. “It doesn’t change anything. I won’t take it personally.”

Harry had burst into tears anyway. He was still crying by the time Kim’s MC rolled to a stop outside his apartment building, and was only just winding down by the time he was escorted to his flat by both Kim and Jean.

In present day, he leaned his head against the wall beside him. Kim cleared his throat.

“I can’t stay on the phone for long. I’m not sure what to suggest other than finding a means to take the edge off. Actually-“ Harry could hear that he immediately regretted that particular phrasing. “What I should say is, find a way of achieving relief.”

“Kim.” Harry smiled. “Are you, for the second time since we’ve met, suggesting I rub one out during work hours?”

“I assumed it was par for the course with you, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor.” The way his voice dropped an octave with the flirtation was doing nothing for Harry’s erection.

“You’re not helping,” He whined down the phone.

“Probably not. I’m just telling you what I would do if I were you. Find somewhere private and have an orgasm.”

Now that really didn’t help. The thought of Kim masturbating at his desk, head thrown back in ecstasy as he pleasured himself in plain sight made Harry’s cock twitch. He ignored the ‘private’ part, instead picturing the smaller man surrounded by an audience of hungry onlookers.

“Dammit.” He growled into the mouthpiece. He heard Kim chuckle on the other end of the line. “I guess I’m going to have to. But I’m worried he’ll come look for me if I’m gone for too long.”

“Well,” Kim started. Harry could just picture the subtle smirk of his mouth. “It shouldn’t take you very long, all things considered. Maybe you could start now.”

“You know,” Harry breathed out, “I didn’t peg you for a sex pest. Encouraging phone sex on top of it all.”

“Relax, Harry, I’m just teasing you. You’re fun to tease.”

“Fucker.”

Kim just laughed. The sound of it made Harry soft all over.

“I guess I really should go and…take care of myself. I can’t sit there anymore, constantly on the verge of going off in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

“You’re just sensitive. It’s not a bad thing. Extremely impressive for a man your age, and with your history of substance abuse.”

Kim was, within reason, in the habit of putting a positive spin on all of Harry’s flaws and fuck-ups. Harry could see how from the outside this may appear overly mollycoddling, but even if that were the case, it had done wonders for his almost non-existent self-esteem. He drank the compliment in as eagerly as he would have liked to down a double vodka and lemonade.

“I guess, but – I mean, it’s so awkward. I don’t even know if he – you know, knows. About my thing.”

Kim laughed again, uncharacteristically hard for him. Harry blinked and said nothing, letting the younger man compose himself.

“Oh, Harry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh at you. But he most certainly knows. The two of us have actually discussed it in relative detail.”

Harry gaped, almost dropping the phone in shock.

“You Judases! Ganging up on me when my back’s turned-!”

“You’re being dramatic.” Kim drawled. He was clearly enjoying this reaction. “It was a short conversation, one smoke break. I don’t even remember how we got onto the topic. But rest assured, he definitely knows.”

Harry paused, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to probe for more.

“How…does he know. In what way?”

“Let’s just say…that you liked to take advantage of Satellite-Officer Vicquemare’s hay fever – which I’ve come to understand is quite impressive, in full swing.”

Harry’s cock throbbed dangerously in his pants, drooling into the fabric of his underwear.

“Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk…!”

“Mhmm. In fact, I believe you almost contaminated an active crime scene with semen residue following such an exploit. Jean seemed to imply this was the case.”

“God…” Harry muttered. He suddenly felt an overwhelming sensation of loss mingling in with the horniness – not dissimilar to the way he felt when Dora sprung to mind. “I wish I could remember. This sucks.”

“…I’m sorry, detective. I didn’t mean to upset you. For the record, I haven’t disclosed any particular details of intimacy between us to him.” He paused for a moment, sounding genuinely dismayed. Harry knew it hadn’t been his intention to trigger any amnesia-related sadness.

“Okay.” He muttered pathetically, suddenly on the verge of tears. He was slowly realising that even without the withdrawal or presence of narcotics in his system, his default setting as a human being appeared to be overly-emotional and very bad at controlling it. He heard Kim tut affectionately over the line.

“These things will come back to you, sporadically. The hospital has said as much. You don’t need to worry, I promise.”

“…Yeah.” Harry nodded, tears beading his eyes. Kim couldn’t see him, but the motion alone was soothing.

His erection seemed undeterred by this rapid swinging of moods. It felt like he didn’t often give his body time to catch up with his emotions. Either way, it was still there, tenting his trousers in plain view of anyone who might walk past. He glanced around. The building was still eerily empty. That one unearthed memory of Jean squirming underneath him as he pistoned in and out of him danced seductively behind his eyelids every time he closed them.

Kim was waiting patiently for him to speak. Harry knew the race would be starting imminently – he should wrap this up.

“Kim?”

“Yes?”

“I might have to fuck him over this. Would that…be a problem?”

He waited with eyes scrunched shut for Kim’s response. This was…a grey area. Something they hadn’t really discussed. Exclusivity.

There had been one evening – a particularly emotional one, in which Jean and Harry had been working through their past grievances. This involved a great deal of Harry being exposed to more and more news of the complete and utter asshole he had become as his alcohol and drug abuse soared. The pain on Jean’s face at times made him feel physically ill just shy of vomiting. He was disgusted with himself.

Kim had been present, a self-elected referee to ensure neither men whipped each other into an emotional frenzy from which there was no return – or at least to step in if things turned physically aggressive. The whole thing had ended up sort of like a strange counselling session with Kim as the occasional de facto therapist. It was funny, looking back. It felt like they’d made genuine progress together, but by the end of it Harry was exhausted and practically oozing self-hatred. What had started as comfort from both Kim and Jean in the form of a gentle palm rubbing his back here, a reassuring squeeze to the thigh there had…escalated. Quite rapidly. He didn’t even remember who made the first move but fantastically, miraculously, an evening of homosexual group sex had unfolded.

By the end of it, Harry had been physically sated but in a state of near disbelief. He could no longer tell if the amnesia had been the worst or best thing that had happened to him. An orgasmic gay threesome with his fellow police officers was definitely not what he had expected going into that discussion, but he wasn’t about to look that gift horse in the mouth. In a matter of weeks and culminating in this one evening, he had gained a kind-of-sort-of boyfriend and more or less patched things up with his forgotten-best-friend-cum-fuck-buddy. And he’d even gotten to watch them fuck each other on the living room floor when he’d taken a breather for a glass of water.

Nothing of that nature had occurred between the three of them since. Nothing had been awkward the next day at work, not even remotely. Jean and Kim seemed perfectly at ease with each other, at least from what Harry could see. In addition, Jean’s face seemed to light up with hope each time Harry remembered something about him – even the awful things. It was bittersweet, getting to know him all over again. He wanted to do better than before – couldn’t even imagine treating Jean the way he had. He wanted to respect his boundaries and take things slow – if that was what Jean wanted.

Fucking Jean in the office without Kim because all of the sneezing he’d been doing had gone straight to his dick was probably the worst idea he’d had in a while. Not a boundary to be seen – and he would be taking it about as slow as a Mach 5 missile.

Kim broke the silence in a matter of seconds, though to Harry it may as well have been hours, for the agonising anxiety it caused him.

“I…don’t recommend exposing yourself to the virus when your immune system is already so compromised.”

Harry huffed out a dead-pan laugh.

“I think you know that’s not what I mean. Is it…okay? Me and him, without you there?”

Kim hesitated for a moment, then let out a measured sigh. Harry could picture him massaging the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses.

“As much as I like to indulge you, I’m okay with not being sneezed on by Satellite-Officer Vicquemare for now.”

His voice had a playful lilt to it, which was somewhat reassuring, but wasn’t enough.

“I’m serious, you know.” Harry gripped the mouthpiece of the phone tightly, the plastic audibly crunching under the pressure. “I really l-!..like you.”

Fuck. He had almost, almost dropped the L-bomb like a batshit crazy person. He felt himself flushing like a bashful little boy. Kim said nothing. Harry swallowed nervously and continued.

“I want to be with you. Like a boyfriend, I think. I don’t know. I’m not – I’m not very good at this. I’m evidently horrible at relationships.”

“…Harry-“

“And it’s important for you to understand that. Umm. I’m not just using you. For sex.”

“Harry.” Kim said. His tone was warm and patient. Harry didn’t interrupt him this time.

“I like you too.” He sounded genuine, and happy. “If you’re asking me to be your boyfriend, then…yes. I would like to try that.”

Harry punched the air in a silent dance of victory. He managed to swallow the urge to whoop like a lunatic and let Kim finish.

“You have a shared history with Jean. He’s an excellent partner to you, and an exemplary RCM officer. You were never in a romantic relationship, and neither of you have expressed an active desire to pursue one. I trust him, and I trust you. And I really do like Officer Vicquemare…”

Harry listened, sensing more.

“I also liked the way he whimpered when I fucked him up the ass.”

Harry let out the strangest combination of surprised laughter and heated groaning. Kim chuckled in response.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Harry pushed after a beat. “If it’s an issue – getting my rocks off, with him, like this – then I promise, I won’t so much as look in his general direction-!”

“It’s okay, Harry. Really. Again, despite everything, I trust you both entirely. Maybe I’m completely stupid, I don’t know. I’m still getting…acclimated.”

That was an understatement if there ever had been. Precinct 41 was everything Precinct 57 was not – chaotic, abrasive, action-packed, a clusterfuck of insanity. In Harry’s opinion, though muddled of mind that he was, Kim was doing an excellent job of taking everything in his stride.

“We can talk about what we’re doing when I see you tomorrow. My race started two minutes ago. Go and get sneezed on by your subordinate officer. Or, like I said, don’t. It seems like a particularly nasty cold.”

Harry had been doing a great deal of gaping stupidly over the span of this conversation. He did it again for good measure.

“I…don’t even know where to start. Man…Okay. I’ll…figure something out. We’ll talk tomorrow?” He asked, his heart fluttering in his chest.

“Tomorrow.” Kim agreed. “You’re ridiculous. Turns out, I like that.”

Harry grinned.

“I hope your guy wins.”

“Me too. Goodnight, detective. See you in the morning.”

“Night.”

Harry hung the phone back in its cradle before exhaling a huge breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding. He felt giddy and exhilarated with a hopefulness he hadn’t experienced in what had to have been years.

“What the fuck,” he laughed in the empty corridor. This was insanity, but if there was anything this last month and a half had taught him, it was to go with the flow and enjoy it. He didn’t always need to be fighting tooth and nail for control in a Universe that did what it damn well pleased, no matter how hard he resisted. This acceptance of futility was nothing like the suicidal ideation of his drug-induced spirals. It was paradoxically the most empowering realisation he had come to perhaps in his entire adult life. Whatever happened, would happen. He would accept it with as much grace as he was capable. Which was admittedly not a lot, but hey. Nobody could say he wasn’t trying his best.

~~~~~

Harry helped himself to biscuits and tea in the kitchen and sat for a while, contemplating his approach. Jean and Kim were very different beasts when it came to the appeal of Harry’s…well, everything. Whilst Kim appeared – and still very much was – quite distant at times, Harry could practically see him opening up day after day like the delicate unfurling of flower petals. Jean had known Harry for years and had both the psychological and physical scars to show for it. Being a pathetic, horny freak had perhaps charmed Kim due to its novelty. Begging Jean for a quick office fuck, from what he could glean, was surely the go-to approach he’d used on his partner before he’d forgotten everything. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go down that route again, especially when Jean was undeniably ill and pissed off about it.

He sighed, dunking his last biscuit in his tea and barely even noticing when half of it sank to the bottom of the mug in a soggy lump. He didn’t want to be overly direct, but he doubted there was any other way to approach the matter. He made up his mind and decided he would prefer any rejection coming from Jean in the form of a quick punch to the face rather than any awkward verbal letdown – the kind of which would inevitably follow any subtle attempts at flirtation on his part.  

When Harry arrived back at C Wing, Jean was mid sneeze. Harry watched him from the doorframe and knew with utter certainty that he had to fuck him. It was a primal need at this point.

“hH-Dtch!-Ngxt!-Gkkt! Hh! Dsh-tshh-tsh!”

Perhaps he hadn’t noticed Harry watching him – how could he, as preoccupied as he was sneezing himself stupid. He was stifling a lot less successfully, barely trying at all. His poor sinuses sounded miserably swollen, his inhales when he was given half a chance to take them shaky and exhausted, the poor bastard. Harry wanted his cock buried to the hilt inside of him.

Jean finished at last, sighing from the depths of his being and simply sitting still for a moment. Arms propped up on the desk, he leaned his forehead into his left hand, tentatively rubbing his nostrils with one crooked knuckle of his right. Harry strode towards him and stood before his desk, practically vibrating with energy. Jean lifted his head, cast his bleary eyes towards Harry’s face where they lingered for a moment, before taking in the impressive bulge Harry now made no effort to shield.

“What the fuck are you-”

“You’re driving me crazy. I want to pull my cock out and cum all over the place.”

Jean’s mouth dropped open. It was somewhat pleasing to Harry, to see such an expression on his partner’s face. These days, being most often met with derision, bemusement or melancholy, it was nice to shake things up a little, to know he wasn’t an entirely predictable cliché to Jean. He also liked seeing that mouth wide open – the suggestiveness of it. He wanted to see that more often.

Once the initial shock seemed to leave his system, Jean glanced around as if to confirm that there was nobody else to eavesdrop on Harry’s relative insanity. The room was as empty as it had remained for the past couple of hours – no other officers magically appeared from behind any furniture, ready to point and jeer. He turned back to Harry, but the older man cut him off before he could start chewing him out for his unabashed brazenness.

“I’m serious, you know. You’re painfully hot right now. I can’t think about anything else.”

He briefly squeezed himself through his trousers for emphasis. Jean’s eyes lingered long enough to make Harry grin.

“…And how would Kitsuragi feel about you touching yourself in front of me, getting off on my misery like the fucking pervert you are?”

Jean’s words were biting but there was no real animosity behind them. His bleary eyes seemed brighter, alert and pensive all of a sudden. Something about the way Harry’s cock throbbed in response to the derision, the ease with which the words poured out of Jean with no hesitation at all made it clear that this was an area of great familiarity for the both of them.

“Oh, don’t worry about Kim. He all but told me to fuck this out of my system.”

That wasn’t strictly the truth, but it wasn’t a lie either. Jean scoffed in response.

“I knew he was a freak but I didn’t take him for a cuckold.”

“Hey, that’s not-“

“Shut up, you presumptuous cretin! I should punch you in the face for calling your boyfriend and asking permission to – what, fuck me? Before you even asked me?”

Harry cringed a little. This was actual, legitimate anger now – and when Jean put it like that, he really did seem like an asshole. A selfish part of him loved hearing his partner refer to Kim as his boyfriend, but he buried it for the moment. He may be a presumptuous cretin but even he knew if he started giggling like a love-struck teenage girl right now he really would be getting a fist to the face.

He paused for a moment, taking in Jean’s ire and the way his pale eyes pierced into his own. And then he opened his mouth.

“Don’t take this out on Kim. You seemed perfectly fine letting us double team you a few weeks ago.”

Jean made a strangled sound and flushed so hard he looked almost purple under the shitty, fluorescent lighting.

“That was different, you moron! We weren’t in an office, for one. It just happened. And I could breathe out of my fucking nose then.”

Harry couldn’t help the little twitch of pleasure his cock gave at both the memory of their sex and Jean bringing attention to his current, miserable condition. He peered down his nose at him, happy the younger man was sat down whilst he stood. It gave him a little leverage, the illusion of domination, to be towering over him right now.

“I doubt we’ve never done it here before. And Kim told me that you told him – behind my back, by the way – that we’ve fucked at crime scenes too!”

Trying not to think about the grossly teenage sounding 'he said, she said' turn of phrase, he initially omitted the part about Jean’s hay fever before hesitating, reconsidering and adding:

“And from the sounds of it, you couldn’t breathe through your nose then either. And you still wanted it, Vic.”

Jean blinked at him, looking a confusing mix of sheepish, perturbed and aroused. Harry realised he’d called him ‘Vic’; it felt familiar, rolled right off his tongue. That nickname on top of the damning accusation of his willing participation seemed to have rendered his partner temporarily speechless. Whilst it was pretty fun, it also felt a little too much like bullying. Harry sighed, and dropped to his knees, resting his chin on the desk and peering up at Jean with big, watery eyes. He hoped that the shift in positioning would make Jean feel better, even if it made him look pathetic.

“Please?” He batted his eyelashes up at the younger man. “Getting off will help me focus on these cases.”

Jean scoffed, again, and scrubbed his animated nostrils with one crooked finger. Harry zoned in on the motion, biting his lip as an audible squishing noise filled the air and Jean’s finger came away slightly shiny.

“You want to get off? Go jerk off in the bathroom and quit bugging me.”

Harry growled, gripping the edge of the desk on either side of his chin and staring up at Jean, who was no longer pink with embarrassment but staring daggers at him all the same.

“But – don’t you want to watch me cum for you? Because of you?” He scrambled to his feet again, leaning over the desk and hovering his face right in front of Jean’s. The younger man’s breathing seemed laboured, and not strictly because of his cold. He was turned on by this. Harry decided to go for gold and flashed him the sexiest version of ‘The Expression’ he could muster. Jean looked pained.

“Harry…” He breathed against Harry’s lips, leaning subconsciously towards him. “You can make things up to me by doing your goddamn work.”

“That’s…that’s kind of putting the cart before the horse, though.” Harry mumbled. Jean likes horses, he remembered. Maybe he’d find that turn of phrase endearing.

Harry watched him take it all in. He could practically visualise the process of Jean’s thoughts as he worked through resistance, indignation, and then – at last – reluctant acceptance.

“God fucking damn it.”

He stood, pressing a finger underneath his red-raw nostrils as if another sneeze was imminent. Harry hoped that was the case. He staggered backwards, excited grin plastered to his face and heart pounding in his chest.

“Don’t look so fucking pleased with yourself.” Jean muttered, walking in the direction of the copy room. Harry continued to look pleased as punch, trailing after Jean’s purposeful stride with a slightly more awkward gait. The zipper of his trousers strained against his burgeoning erection, growing impossibly harder now that there was promise of relief.

Harry slammed the door shut behind them, locking it for good measure just in case the station inexplicably flooded with life. Jean was leaning back against the printer when Harry turned to face him, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. In this stance, he could really appreciate the results of the many hours the younger man spent working out to an almost pathological degree. His biceps strained against the cotton of his shirt, and the way his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, leaving his hairy forearms exposed…Harry fought back a sudden pavlovian deluge of saliva at the sight of him. The way Jean was regarding him with a mixture of irritation, arousal and amusement was doing nothing to calm the throbbing between his legs.

Harry walked the few steps towards Jean and stared back. When Jean made no move, said nothing but offered a congested sniffle in response, Harry tilted his head a little in confusion.

“So, umm…?”

The older detective motioned with his hands, a distinctive ‘what gives?’ motion. Jean just smiled derisively at him.

“What? I thought you came in here to jerk off. So jerk off.” Even though the cold had left him pallid and drained, Harry didn’t miss the way his pale eyes glittered as he spoke.

“But, can I? I mean, aren’t we-?” Harry floundered slightly. This was not what he had had in mind. He realised suddenly he wasn’t entirely sure what he expected from the interaction. He’d only really been thinking about having an orgasm. But Jean had lead him here – surely that was an invitation for – what, a quick fuck? Hand jobs, blow jobs, mutual masturbation? Just. Something…together.

Jean’s amusement visibly increased with every passing moment of Harry’s braindead confusion. Sadistic bastard, Harry thought. His dick twitched in earnest.

“Use your words, shitkid.” Jean smirked at him, rounding off his command with a waterlogged sniffle that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. He didn’t give Harry so much as a chance to do so before continuing.

“I came in here to sneeze in privacy – you followed me. You thought I was going to drop to my knees and suck your dick?”

Harry visibly wilted, mouth dropping open in dismay. This was revenge. Petty, mean-spirited revenge. Sure, Jean hadn’t actually agreed to do anything – Harry had just followed him of his own accord but – but! The implications!

Jean watched his face as these thoughts whirled round his brain. Apparently, he must have looked about as pathetic as he felt, and Jean started to laugh. It was a nice laugh – a genuine laugh, maybe a little endearing and at odds with the spiteful way he had been addressing him moments earlier. Harry waited for him to finish, and he soon did, clearing his throat a little as if embarrassed at his own naked display of amusement.

“It’s okay, shitkid. You can take your cock out and enjoy the show. But I’m not touching you – I feel like fucking shit.”

Harry listened to him speak, watching his face intently. This was the first time Jean had admitted out loud to feeling unwell, even if it was blatantly both visually and aurally obvious to everyone else around him. It seemed he’d tired himself out with the domineering bravado, slumping a little against the copy machine, no longer having the energy to maintain his upright posture. His nostrils were also twitching, a surefire sign that he was about to start sneezing, and soon.

“Fine. Okay.” Harry muttered, already feeling the heat gathering and pulsing outwards from his groin at the mere promise of what was to come. He managed to extract his hard cock from the confines of his trousers, narrowly avoiding catching the delicate skin in his zipper, and wrapped one sweaty, spit slick palm around it. It immediately felt incredible, and he swore as he started to stroke it. This would not take very long.

Looking up from the tantalising sight of his own hand working his cock – a huge cock, a cock he was pathetically proud of – he focused his eyes back on Jean, and was glad he had done so. He stared as the younger man shuddered with a round of desperate, tickly little sneezes, all successfully stifled into silence against an outstretched pointer finger. Fuck, Jean looked good like that, cringing into that tight, pained expression as he bit down on every sneeze. His nostrils looked so lovely and so red in sharp contrast with the rest of his pale complexion. Harry wanted those nostrils pressed up against the shaft of his cock. He thought about Kim doing the same, willingly teasing him with sneezes and making him cum embarrassingly quickly, like the way he had done last week as they fooled around on his couch. His cock drooled precum.

Jean had a moment’s reprieve before he was scrambling in his trouser pockets for a tissue, extracting one at last that looked entirely worse for wear – balled up into no more than a lumpy mass, completely past the point of usefulness. All the same, Jean was bringing it up to his poor, flaring nostrils, giving Harry just a moment to take in his creasing eyebrows, the grimace of his open mouth as the tickle crested and he sneezed fiercely into it.

“Hn’tshh!! TSH’iew! Nd’Tsh! Tsh-Tshht!!”

He gasped, an intensely desperate sound that had Harry gasping too. And then the cycle repeated.

‘Ddtsh! Tsch’uu-TShht!! Hgk’Tssht! Huhd’Tishh-Tissh-‘Ddtshieww!!”

Harry was in pure, fetishistic ecstasy, squeezing and stroking his cock for all he was worth to those gorgeous little sneezes. It was so erotic, that such a gruff, muscular man was rendered entirely helpless by such proportionately tiny releases. His own huge sneezes were a lot more appropriate for a man his size, he thought, but the contradiction only seemed to turn him on even more than if Jean had sneezed with equally gigantic proportions. It was endearing, if one could describe something as such even whilst it resulted in an erection the hardness of which titanium couldn’t hold a candle to.

Jean paused for a moment, nose still buried in the pathetic knot of tissue, breath scissoring in and out of him. Harry steeled himself for more, slowing down his stroking so that he wouldn’t topple over the edge just yet. He wanted to cum so badly, but he wanted more. He wanted to watch Jean’s face completely unobstructed by hand or tissue alike. He wanted to see the way they would overwhelm him without the interference of suppression. He bit his bottom lip, trying not to whimper as his subordinate officer hitched, and hitched, and hitched -

“Please,” he gasped out, the sudden raspy outburst a lot louder than he had intended. It was evidently loud enough to throw Jean off balance, huffing in frustration as his sneeze failed to culminate past a desperate, vocal “Huhhdt-!!”. Harry groaned in response, felt his dick throb in his grasp as Jean’s face pinkened in embarrassment over the aborted release.

“What is it? You distracted me. Fuck, it burns!”

He proceeded to scrub at his poor nostrils with the sodden tissue, nudging the tip of his nose from side to side. Harry could tell he was genuinely tiring of the persistence of the tickle. Vague memories suddenly skimmed his brain of Jean at the tail-end of spring and over summer, bullying his nose with the knuckles of his hand when a pollen-induced sneezing fit lay just out of reach. Come to think of it, they were coming up to May very soon…god. Harry sighed, squeezing his cock to these happy thoughts and watching as precum beaded at the head. Fuck, this felt so good.

“Sorry, sorry, just please - don’t use the tissue. And don’t hold them back. Please? You’re so fucking hot.”

Jean’s blush deepened – whether in frustration or arousal at the compliment, he couldn’t be sure. Either way, it went straight to his cock.

“What? Fuck you. You don’t get to tell me how to sneeze.”

He was a little pissed, his accent thickened in overly performative and righteous indignation at the suggestion of catering to Harry’s specific whims. If Harry wasn’t mistaken, and his gut assured him he was not, it seemed like defensiveness against the fact that he would very much like to be told what to do. This felt, again, familiar. It made Harry harder to hear the way his loss of composure elongated the vowels in the word ‘sneeze’. He stroked himself a little faster.

“Come on, Vic. Do it for the station. I need to cum and clear my head so I can finish all that pesky paperwork. Please?”

He batted his eyelashes again. It wouldn’t have worked on just anyone, no – the sight of a 44 years old, recovering alcoholic police officer, wild-eyed and desperate with cock in hand, begging for his subordinate officer to sneeze uncovered so he could shoot his load. But this was Jean – normal rules did not apply.

“We’ve been through this, you prick. You should fucking do your paperwork without the promise of orgasm because it’s your fucking job!” Jean spat, raising his voice a little more than his irritated throat could take. He coughed harshly for several moments into a raised fist before sighing miserably, glancing up at Harry with a look of surrender. Harry shivered a little, resumed squeezing the head of his cock where he had temporarily abated in nervous concern at the voracity of the coughing. He ended up letting out an embarrassingly high-pitched whimper, bucking into his own grip. Jean sighed.

“Fine. I need to sneeze again, don’t distract m’hh-! Me…”

His breath started to softly hitch. To Harry’s delight, he shoved the soggy tissue back into his pocket and let his head fall back ever so slightly, allowing him to get a perfect view of his crumpling, desperate expression. Jean didn’t think he was a good-looking guy, but Harry wholeheartedly disagreed. He wasn’t one to preach the importance of self-love when he himself struggled to look in the mirror knowing how attractive he’d once been, only to squander it – even if recently, it was getting a little easier to do so. Bravado and charisma masked his discomfort – Jean’s buffer was merely rudeness and aggression. But either way, as he gasped his way into another fit of cock-throbbingly desperate sneezes, Harry had hardly found him more desirable.

“Hhd’Tschht!-D’tshh!! Hh! Hagk’Tisshhiew!! Hgk’Tschh! Hupt’TISHhhiew!! Ihgk’TSHhiew! Higk’TZSCHhhh!...‘DDTSH’uuu!!”

Jean shuddered, gripping the surface behind him as the force of the releases threatened to topple him. Each sneeze sounded positively ruined, as if his body could barely handle the cold-induced tickle that flared again and again. The first two Jean had stifled out of habit, before he’d remembered Harry would very much like to be sprayed with every single one of them. By the time he’d finished, his eyes and nose were leaking, and Harry’s legs were starting to shake with the effort of holding himself upright, a mind-numbing orgasm looming and sapping him of motor control.

“…You’re going to fall down if you don’t hold onto something. We don’t need a repeat of you nearly braining yourself on the edge of a table.”

Jean brought this up so readily, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. As if Harry should easily remember this fact, the fact that he and Jean had fucked around enough that he had (embarrassingly) injured himself falling to his knees in orgasm before. And he should remember. Why couldn’t he remember?

“I…don’t remember anything like that.” Harry confessed, throat tightening a little.

“I know. It’s okay.” Jean softened immediately, opening his arms up to Harry. “Come here.”

He shifted forward until he was stood between the protective embrace of Jean’s spread thighs, sighing a little as the younger man reached out to place both hands on his waist, steadying him. Harry himself reached out with his free hand past Jean’s waist to press against the sturdy surface of the copy machine. He watched as Jean took a moment to scrub at his nose with the wad of used tissues. It was such a handsome nose – prominent and strong, perfectly suited to his face. Watching it twitch and wriggle and hearing the soft clicks of moisture the motions created as Jean bullied it made his cock throb. He so desperately wanted to replace Jean’s hand with his own and play with it himself, but before he could even move to do so, Jean was dropping his hands right back to Harry’s waist and sneezing all over his chest.

“AEGK’Tssch’uu!! Higk’TSschTtt! ‘TSCHh’uu!! Hh’TISH’ieww!!”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Each sneeze sounded so incredibly desperate, so exhausted yet so overpowering, accompanied by a burst of thick spray. Harry’s cock drooled over his knuckles and he whined, low and loud. By the time the fourth sneeze had completed, Harry could feel (and see) the fabric of his shirt sticking to his chest, discoloured where the spray had dampened it. Jean’s tongue reflexively licked his bottom lip clean, thoroughly soaked by the force of his expulsions. He peered tentatively at Harry before his face eased into a relieved smile.

“You really do still like it. Getting drenched by my sneezes.” He was smiling – salacious and assured all at once.

“Yeahhh…Yeah, I really fucking do,” Harry sighed, staring at Jean adoringly as he worked over his cock with a renewed vigour. “Bless you.”

He all but purred the blessing out. It turned him on just as much as any dirty talk, he realised; it was a phrase that encapsulated his adoration, gratefulness and arousal all in one. Jean seemed to enjoy the attention, as well – his breath hitched in a decidedly non-sneeze fashion, and Harry smirked at him.

“Thank you.” Jean practically purred back, gently rubbing his thumbs against Harry’s sides. He stared back into Harry’s eyes, pupils blown so wide the pale irises were almost swallowed by black. “My nose tickles so fucking much. I just want to crawl into bed and sneeze until I fall asleep.”

Oooh, he was good at this. He had an undoubtedly extensive history of saying equally as specific things to Harry. The image of Jean curled up in bed and sneezing all over himself and his bed sheets was a potent one. Harry shivered, biting his lip hard as his knees quivered and struggled to keep from bending.

“Fuckkk…”

The arm he had leant against the copy machine was shaking too, elbow caving inwards and causing him to lean closer into Jean’s space. He didn’t seem to mind, nosing at Harry’s jawline and sniffling noisily. Poor fucking thing – he sounded so congested.

“Poor baby…” Harry breathed out, pressing a kiss to Jean’s cheek. If it was too intimate or too forward, the commotion of his impending orgasm made it very hard to give a fuck. The way Jean’s breath hitched and his solid build seemed to shiver a little at this crooning told him he was probably in the clear.

Jean suddenly pulled his face back from where he had been pressing a kiss to the underside of Harry’s jaw, frantically enough that Harry leant back himself to watch the inevitable unfold. Jean’s breath hitched again, this time due to the merciless persistency of his cold. His nostrils flared, damp and pink, threatening to overflow and make a mess of his moustache. Everything about his tortured pre-sneeze expression was a joy to behold. Harry could understand why he’d taken advantage of it many-a time before. His hand was a blur over his dick; he simply could not stop stroking and squeezing himself to the spectacle of it all. His brain conjured up the image of Kim, watching him watching Jean the way he’d done earlier that day, and he whimpered like a bitch in heat.

“KISHH’uuu!! IhGgKk’TSChhHU! ‘TShhiewww! Fucking h’hell…! hhAGK’TZShhiew!! ‘DZT’shieww!! Ihk’TSsschhttt!!”

Harry almost swooned as the sneezes caught his chin and the exposed column of his throat. He was hot, so fucking hot, even hotter with Jean’s too-warm body so close to his own. He could imagine the delicate aerosol of spray immediately sizzling and evaporating where it kissed his boiling skin.

“Ohh, fuck. Bless you, god, shit. M’gonna cum, gonna shoot…!”

“You make a mess of my uniform, you fucking die.”

Harry groaned through clenched teeth. If Jean didn’t want that, the last thing he should be doing was growling insults at Harry in that stupid, sexy voice of his. His cock throbbed, a decisive pre-orgasmic tremor of pleasure.

Jean seemed to realise any scolding or death-threats on his part were useless – he’d no doubt learned that, right on the brink of orgasm, a hoard of rabid zombies could be seconds away from attacking them both and Harrier Du Bois would be cumming his brains out even as the mauling commenced. Harry felt something press up against the head of his cock, moaning stupidly the second he realised it was the sodden tissue Jean had sneezed and snorted into. His body jerked with the first spasm of orgasm.

Through the roaring onset of his pleasure, he felt Jean wrap an arm round his waist whilst the other clamped the tissue to the spitting head of his cock. Both hands occupied, the younger man was pressing his face against the collar of his shirt, rubbing his nose frantically against him. Harry heard the deep groan he was making as the pleasure started to really crest, so fucking good, hours and hours of tension draining out of him with every blissful twitch of his tortured dick. When Jean’s breath started to hitch, he could feel the in and out of his expanding diaphragm, hear every minute snag in his breathing.

When Jean sneezed, an oh-so desperate triple, audibly and tangibly wet against his collar and bursting across his neck, he all but yelled as his orgasm sky-rocketed from pleasurable commotion to earth-shaking rapture.

“Hh’AHTTt’SHiewww!! KTSh’Schuu!! AEGKk’TSSHhh’uu!!”

His fingers spasmed uselessly against the copy machine, knees all but given out – Jean had had the right idea to hold him up. He was slumped against him, chest to chest, breathing as laboured as a bulldog as the final tremors of orgasm pulsed through him. He just leant there, propped up against Jean like a ragdoll and waiting for his body to cooperate. Jean was slowly rubbing his twitching, damp nose against his neck – it felt electric even in the aftermath of release.

“I never understood,” Jean started, speaking softly into the crook of his neck, “Why you ever felt the need to drink and do drugs the way you did when you can cum like that.”

Harry didn’t know what to say, his brain still a veritable puddle of goo. He’d like to know himself, but he was certain that this sudden resurgence of sex beginning in Martinaise with Kim had followed a relatively lengthy period of LDS – i.e. Limp Dick Syndrome. If he’d been having orgasms, they hadn’t been this fucking good. That he was certain he would have remembered.

“Hah,” He breathed out an awkward, monosyllabic laugh in lieu of anything even halfway intelligent. He smiled and panted, open-mouthed, at the sound of Jean’s responding scoff. He continued to lean there against the warm embrace of the younger man’s body until he felt him shifting in discomfort under his weight.

“Harry. Get off.”

He sighed, pushing himself off of Jean one-handed. He looked down between them, dick in his own hand whilst Jean’s patiently held the snot and cum-filled tissue in place as it threatened to overflow.

“Umm. Fuck. I think I have a handkerchief somewhere, hold on…” He started to root around in his blazer pockets, ignoring Jean’s glare as he unearthed one and started to wipe his hand and cock on the fabric.

“You had that the whole time and you let me use my last tissue to soak up your cum?” Jean rasped. Harry paused for a moment at how unwell he sounded.

“Sorry.” He flashed an apologetic grin at Jean, too blissed out to offer up any kind of excuse. He was getting sick of saying that he’d forgotten things, even if it was true.

“Whatever. Fuck.” Jean tossed the pulpy tissue into the nearby bin, following the trajectory with his eyes and looking pleased with himself when it landed on target.

Harry folded the handkerchief over, offering the clean surface of it to Jean, who took it wordlessly. He tucked his sensitive dick back into his pants, resisting the urge to start coaxing it back to full hardness as the sound of Jean’s lengthy, crackling nose blow forced a pathetic little twitch out of it in response.

Jean snuffled into the handkerchief, massaging his sore, red nostrils, seemingly perfectly content to stand there watching Harry. The older man noticed the prominent outline of the Satellite Officer’s erection, unattended to, straining against his trousers. He looked down at it then up at Jean again, wanting to broach the subject, but then paused, noticing the way Jean was frowning towards the general vicinity of his shoulder.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Jean swiped the handkerchief one last time under his nose before folding it over again and leaning forward.

“Hold still.”

Harry did so, obediently standing in place as Jean scrubbed at the collar of his shirt. He smiled like a dope as he realised his partner was attempting to clean away the prodigious results of that last triple.

“Messy boy.”

“Shut your damn mouth.”

“Is there even any clean fabric left on that handkerchief?”

“Shut up, Harry.”

Harry did. He felt like he was dangerously at risk of swaying in place, the endorphins and release after all the teasing and buildup leaving him far too loose and carefree. Jean pulled back at last, pocketing the handkerchief and rearranging Harry’s shirt collar and necktie. He looked up at Harry, catching him in the act of staring at his face, at the way his dark eyelashes fanned over his cheeks as he worked to smooth Harry out in an almost mechanical fashion. He flashed a little smirk his way, then yanked his tie just so.

“You’re lucky I didn’t use this hideous thing to clean up my mess.” He purred, the raspiness of his voice only adding to the allure. Harry swore under his breath.

“Are you trying to work me up for round two?” He whined. Jean dropped his tie.

“Absolutely the fuck not. Are you going to do your fucking job now?”

Harry sighed. What a fucking buzzkill.

“Yes. Yes I’ll do my job, you win. Although…” He leaned forward, pressing his mouth right up to Jean’s ear and murmuring in a low voice, “I’d like to do you first.”

Jean shivered and huffed a little laugh.

“That was fucking awful, oh my god.”

But he didn’t push him away. He wrapped his arms round Harry’s shoulders instead, humming in approval as Harry kissed his neck and trailed one broad hand down his torso before draping it across the bulge in his pants. He sighed, a gorgeous little exhalation of pleasure that sent shivers down Harry’s spine as he started to unzip his pants.

“Do you want this?” He asked even as his hand collected the moisture from Jean’s tip and spread it down his shaft, stroking him firmly.

“Hahh…Yeah. Mm’fucking tired though. So forgive me for – hah!” He cut himself off with his own frantic moaning. He didn’t bother to elaborate; Harry imagined he really was exhausted if his mouthy self was starting to economise his own verbosity.

What Jean lacked in words was more than made up with by the sweet, continuous stream of moans he let out next to Harry’s ear as he wrapped himself around him, resting his head on his shoulder as the older officer kissed and licked the shell of his ear, whispering words of encouragement and praise. His hand moved instinctually over Jean’s length – at least the easy muscle memory, built up over years of fucking, remained where his active memory did not. He clenched his teeth, pushing back the bitter thoughts and focusing on Jean’s gasps and sighs, the little “Ohh fuck”s and “Like that”s he would occasionally choke out as Harry stroked and teased. His own cock was hard again, but he ignored it, speeding up his pace as Jean’s hips started to buck arrhythmically.

He pulled back to watch Jean’s face as he fell to pieces – a different kind of vulnerability twisting his features into a mask of pleasure, though it wasn’t all that different from the irritated expression a pre-sneeze tickle would take. It was achingly familiar – a face he’d no doubt been made to make hundreds of times before at the mercy of Harry’s hands, his mouth, his cock. He’d watched Jean cum when the three of them had fucked, but this was different – just the two of them together in god knows how long, for the first time since the drugs and booze and misery made him an utterly reprehensible waste of skin. Watching those dark eyelashes flutter like that made his chest tight.

“Harrier, fuckkk…gonna cum-! Fuck!”

Jean started to convulse almost immediately, a shuddering gasp wrenching itself out of him as he trembled in Harry’s grip. Harry caught the spurts of semen with his free hand, a moment too late as the first spasm painted a white stripe over the yellow fabric of the thigh he’d pressed between Jean’s legs. He was too blissed out to care, kissing the corner of Jean’s open mouth as he continued to orgasm, mewling as the pleasure overpowered him. He ejaculated into the cage of Harry’s fingers a couple more times before he sagged in exhaustion, clinging to Harry and moaning, blushing face pressed firmly into the shoulder of his blazer. His voice broke on that last, whimpering vocalisation and Harry’s heart ached for him.

He stood patiently as Jean caught his breath and clung to him like a lifeline. One hand awkwardly closed around the dripping mess of Jean’s orgasm whilst the other loosely gripped his sticky, softening cock. He’d have to wait for Jean to unlock the door of the copy room first, holding both sticky hands upright until he located the nearest sink to wash them off. He supposed he could lick them clean – cum wasn’t the worst taste in the world – but the depravity of it would just make him horny all over again. He may as well just take his own cock out and use Jean’s cum as lube.

He was pulled out of this particular train of thought at the sensation of Jean trembling several times against him. The realisation that he was muffling a series of tiny little sneezes into near silence against his shoulder was doing absolutely nothing to keep the blood out of his insatiable cock. He closed his eyes and pictured his paperwork instead.

“Sorry…” Jean muttered, sniffling as he extracted his face from the makeshift covering.

“It’s okay.” Harry murmured, kissing his cheek. He frowned; Jean’s skin felt even warmer under his lips than before. “You’re burning up, Vic.”

Jean sighed.

“I figured as much.”

He unwrapped his hands from around Harry’s shoulders, looking queerly at him as if he didn’t understand why Harry was still stood there with a hand on his wilting cock until he realised the older man’s predicament.

“Oh, uhh…I’ll get you some paper towels. Wait here.”

Harry waited, eyes closed and replaying Jean’s sneezes and his orgasm over and over in his mind, opening them only once he felt the younger man gently wiping his hands clean. He smiled weakly at Jean, and Jean smiled back at him – shy, boyish. At odds with the lines of stress and exhaustion that marred his face, aging him beyond his years.

“I never meant to hurt you.” It was pouring out of him before he had a chance to think twice. Jean sighed, working on Harry’s other hand.

“Harry. You never meant to do any of the things you did, or so you keep telling me. I don’t need to hear this again. Not right now.”

His smile was replaced by the regular hard line of his everyday frown. Harry could have kicked himself.

“I’m sorry, Jean. I really am. I can’t understand why I did the things I did to you. Will you look at me?”

Jean hesitated, then peered up at him under eyelashes dampened by tears. Harry leaned forward and kissed each of his eyelids, lips coming away salty and damp.

“I never want to put you through any of that again. And I won’t.”

Jean’s lips quirked into a tiny, defeated smile – one that said he didn’t really trust him, but wanted to believe in him more than he ever had before. Harry considered it a success, and pressed their foreheads together for lack of anything better to do whilst his hands were still sticky, though notably less so than before. Jean uttered a soft little hum.

“You just jerked me off and this is somehow even gayer.”

Harry laughed.

“Fuck you, man. You’re ten times gayer than me.”

He kissed Jean for all of five seconds before the younger man couldn’t breathe, ducking into Harry’s shoulder and coughing all over his blazer. Harry winced – the dreamy haze of afterglow was beginning to fade and Jean did not sound good.

“You’re so getting this now. I hope you’re happy.” Jean muttered, wiping his mouth dry with the back of his hand.

“If you think for one second I regret doing any of that, you are sorely mistaken.”

“Hm. Whatever you say, superstar.” Jean drawled, tossing the soiled paper towels into the bin alongside the shredded remains of tissue. “Now, move it. You need to wash your hands and do your fucking work.”

Harry sighed and followed him out of the room, casting one quick glance back over his shoulder to assess the damage. Nothing, thankfully. Just the spray on his shirt and the cum on his leg.

~~~~~

Jean had gone home shortly after their excursion in the copy room, leaving Harry unsupervised. He had done some paperwork, but he had also called Kim from his desk phone when he was sure the race had ended and relayed the entire turn of events to him. He’d also jerked himself off again reliving it all, moaning stupidly down the receiver as he came. He was happy to hear the Lieutenant’s own groan of completion, and he’d ended the call, promising to talk again tomorrow. And not a moment too soon – the bullpen was suddenly flooded by a stream of Junior patrol officers, returning amidst a blessed lull in criminal activity.

The next few days at work had been uneventful. Busy, but monotonous. He’d gone out to dinner with Kim, and they’d fucked. Jean had miraculously allowed himself a solitary sick day, surprising them all. He’d returned the following day, still sick but markedly improved. And that had been that.

Until Jean’s cold finally caught up to him and Harry became a sneezing, sniffling mess almost overnight. He’d dragged himself to work and had hardly had 15 minutes free of sneezing since he’d arrived. He’d figured that Jean’s general nasal sensitivities had been the main cause of the sheer number of times that he’d been sneezing with the same affliction, but no. It was easily one of the tickliest, sneeziest colds he had ever encountered – even worse than his cold in Martinaise.

He wanted to lie around and sneeze in bed, away from the scorn and watchful eyes of his fellow officers. But no dice – he had to work, he had to get through this fucking case and oh – oh god. He had to sneeze.

“IIIEEEEESSSSSHHHTTTTttt!!!”

The sneeze had been cunning and entirely malevolent, not giving him the dignity of even a short buildup before the tickle spiked sharply and it was bursting out of him. It hadn’t been messy, thank god, but it had been wet, and his paperwork had taken the brunt of it as the force propelled him over his desk. He groaned, rubbing the underside of his sore, tickly nostrils with the back of his hand. The files were dappled with moisture, the ink of his chicken scratch handwriting bleeding across the page where the worst of the damage had been done.

Nobody had been passing within range of the spray this time, at least. The surrounding area of Harry’s desk had now been dubbed the less than subtle title of ‘The Splash Zone’, following McClaine’s misfortune to be making his way across the room and in front of Harry the second a particularly violent sneeze worked its way out of him – and all over the younger officer’s blazer. Harry had apologised, but in all honesty didn’t feel the least bit sorry for him – or his ugly, checkered jacket.

He snuffled thickly, wiping his runny nose across any remaining dry skin to be found on his arm and wrist. This fucking sucked. He had known the risks. He had willingly exposed himself to Jean’s cold for the sake of a nut. He had nobody to blame but himself. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t feel utterly, miserably sorry for himself. He cradled his forehead in his hands, doing nothing for the preternatural nasal drainage but feeling too rotten to care.

A shuffling noise prompted him to glance towards the source of the disturbance. Kim was using a pen to nudge a tissue box, half-emptied by Harry this morning alone, closer to him and into his line of vision. Harry peered over in bemusement as Kim, mission accomplished, settled back down into his own chair, looking back at Harry with a mixture of exasperation and concern.

“You really should cover your mouth, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor.”

Harry sighed, helping himself to a bundle of tissues.

“Sorry. I know. They’ve been sneaking up on me, is all.” He finished before blowing his nose with a resultant sound so thick and crackling that all other noise in the office seemed to dim in comparison.

“Oh, believe me, I’ve noticed.” Kim muttered, returning to his own work with a resigned sigh.

Harry knew he was referring to the way he had been sneezed on this morning, lying in bed as they shared a kiss. It had absolutely destroyed any chance of morning sex and earned Harry one of the iciest looks he had ever received from Kim. He counted himself lucky that Kim was not one to resort to physical violence when slighted, and that his blubbering, heartfelt apology was entirely successful in transforming Kim’s anger into a wilting, stony-faced acceptance.

“I really do have no means of avoiding this illness, now.”

For as bad as Harry had felt about the whole thing, he couldn’t deny that that admission of defeat and the mere thought of Kim catching his cold – this ridiculously sneezy cold – made his cock feel hard enough to cut glass.

A folder of documents was slapped down on his desk with a sudden, resounding slap, making Harry jump and swear behind the tissues. He peered up at Jean, looking almost radiant with healthiness compared the to the state he had been in several days prior.

“From the Boogie Street Stabbing case.” He smiled down at Harry, looking cocky and amused.

“You look like you’re feeling better.” Harry spat, dropping the soiled tissues on his desk and tossing the folder to the right with the rest of the ‘to be returned to’ pile. Jean smiled even wider.

“Apparently the best way to get over a cold is to give it to someone else.”

He directed his best shit-eating grin at Harry, eyes brighter and more focused than they had been in days.

“Wonderful.” Kim grumbled almost inaudibly to the side. He really wasn’t looking forward to getting sick, and Harry could sympathise. He made a mental note to spoil Kim rotten the second he started to feel under the weather. Jean didn’t seem to have heard him, and if he had, he was staunchly ignoring him and favouring bothering Harry the same way a bored child would tease a grumpy old dog.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than rub your health in my face?” Harry snuffled emphatically.

“You’ve rubbed much worse in mine. Consider this pay back.” He turned to leave, but at last minute turned around and deposited another folder – a thick, evil looking dossier on some mob boss or other – on Harry’s desk. “And this, too.”

Harry gaped at him in dismay.

“You’re cruel and unusual!” He groaned after a retreating Jean. His partner merely smirked and flipped him off. It was aggravating, but mischievous and about as light-hearted as Jean was currently capable of. Harry felt, through the weariness of his progressing sickness, a sense of relief. He flipped the bird right back at him, hoping he didn’t look too paradoxically gleeful as he did so.

Jean didn’t seem to notice this capriciousness, just patted his pocket to check for his carton of cigarettes and angled his head towards Judit.

“Jude – smoke break?”

“You shouldn’t be smoking anything – you should still be in bed.”

She followed him outside all the same, more to keep an eye on him than anything else, ready to provide medical attention should he suddenly cough up a lung. Harry envied her immune system – it seemed having kids constantly bringing bugs home was a truly effective form of inoculation to just about anything that was passed around the bullpen.

He watched them leave absentmindedly – before yet another cruel, bullying sneeze tore its way out of him.

“HAAAAEEISSSHHHhh!!...HUH! HAHHHGGGTTSSSSSHHh’uuu!!”

And it brought a friend along with it. A messy friend. Harry clapped a hand over his mouth several seconds too late, muttering an exhausted ‘fuck’ and snuffling into the cage of his fingers. Not getting any warning was incredibly inconvenient but the force of the sneezes, how they sent shivers of pleasure down his spine…that he could appreciate.

“Say it, don’t spray it, Mullen!”

That was Mack, shouting across the bullpen and earning a couple of sniggers in return. He was a meathead, and it was a juvenile, unoriginal and otherwise comically cliché comment. It wouldn’t have bothered Harry in the least had his sneezes been intentionally intrusive, but the fact that he was totally at their mercy brought a light flush of shame to his cheeks. He just wanted to go home and jerk off. He flipped the bird in Torson’s general direction and reached for another tissue.

Kim beat him to it, pressing a bundle of fresh tissues into his palm. Harry looked up and flashed him an appreciative glance, replacing his hand with the tissue. The Lieutenant stood next to his desk, a file underarm, ready to be submitted to Captain Pryce.

“Bless you.” He offered quietly. Harry tried as hard as he could not to visibly squirm. Kim smiled at him. “Was it w-worth...!”

Harry stared adoringly up at him, thanking all his lucky stars for Kim and his ridiculously suggestible nose. If he had a tail, it would be wagging back and forth in a veritable whirlwind of excitement, thumping against the back of his chair.

Kim’s nostrils flared violently and his gaze unfocused, even as he valiantly fought to prevent his eyes from closing. It’s too late, Harry thought. My paradigm is infallible. You’re going to sneeze. He was right, of course; within seconds, Kim’s expression was cinching tight and he was sneezing convulsively into a handful of tissues, plucked frantically from the box on Harry’s desk just in time.

“NGxtt! Hh’NGxt’tzschu!! Hh! hhdt’Tszchhuuu!! Fucking hell…”

In much the same way as Kim had been unable to fight the natural reflexes of his body, so too had Harry. His cock twitched in his pants, filling with blood in an instant. Even if Kim didn’t catch his cold, his own sneezing was an inevitability – which meant so too was Kim’s. Fuck, but he was going to have even more fun with this.

“Bless you!” He offered back, heart thumping so hard in his chest he could hear his pulse in his ears. “And honestly? I think it was worth every second.”

He laughed as Kim tossed his balled up tissues at him and strode irritably out of the room.

[bougiebutchbinch]

Hey hai, sorry for the long ask but I wanted to hand deliver a snippet to you if that's okay, cus I'm half way through the stone trans top logan fic and am way too excited to finish it (obviously you don't have to post this, I'm just writin for sillys :3 and I wish I could put a -read more- cut in an ask)

Logan was sick and tired of Wade. Well, not Wade, he could never get tired of Wade, he was tired of Wade's non-stop never-ending jokes. Well, some of the jokes-

Dammit he was pissed off at Wade's sex jokes.

He was always putting jokes everywhere where they didn't belong and usually Logan just ignored him, but in the past few days the jokes were getting less and less varied in their subject. All about how good a fuck would be and all the things he would do to Logan in bed and Logan had to stop himself from growling whenever the man even joked about his dick anywhere near Logan.

Sure it wasn't Wade's fault he felt his way, but nothing was going inside him, and that was final.

And one night they were down at a bar, neither drinking much, Logan needed to cut down on his alcohol and Wade was enjoying sipping at his stupid fruity cocktail.

He scowled as he brought his beer back up to his lips.

Wade had brought his suit mask, pulled up to his nose as he sipped, wearing some shitty hawiian shirt or oter, obnoxious kahki shorts that clashed horrendously, knee high white socks with sneakers, and he didnt know what the fuck kinda look wade was going for but it sure was something, logan just chose to come out in his flannel and tank top and jeans, his outfit he felt most comfortable in, although the jeans were pissing him the hell off too, maybe that was just because they couldnt hold the shape of his packer and it looked like he had no dick, he really hated to admit how self concoius he felt going round outside when he felt he didnt look right.

But he could distract himself from those feelings by letting himself get pissed off by wade.

Wade, who now he had tuned back into the mans ramblings, he realised he was talking about logan, apparently his favourite topic of conversation,

“Y’know I'm not a natural bottom, but I'd be willing to do anything for you, babygirl!”

Logan just turned his head round very slowly, ever so slight fuzz of alcohol feeling comforting instead of drowning,

“Yeah yeah haha, real funny wade.”

Wade looked over at him with a grin, this was the first time Logan replied to him all night,

“Who said I was joking peanut?”

Logan hesitated for a moment before scoffing,

“Take off your mask and look me in the eyes while you say that and I might just believe you.”

SKDJFGKLJDSFGSDF I AM ABOUT TO GO TO UNI YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO MEEEE

I have to sit in lectures all day and pretend I'm not thinking about Wade getting absolutely fucking WRECKED. this is going to haunt me. haunt me. :screams:

Also I love how every time Wade says 'not a natural bottom' you can just TELL he is lying. The lady doth protest too much, etc. etc. etc.

Logan's packer-woes are relatable, lmaoooo. I love him and I am so excited for this. Seriously. Thank you and everyone else who's also latched onto this headcanon - having more rep with the character I'm majorly projecting onto really does mean the world!

I can tell this fic is gonna be great fun already.... I can't wait.

[cyberphuck]

ROYAL ASSASSIN ABRIDGED: PART ONE My friend Razz wants to understand my shitposting about Robin Hobb’s Farseer Trilogy, but they don’t want to actually have to read the books, so I’m summarizing it for them (and you)! When we last left Fitzy-Fitz, it was a really fucking long time ago, sorry, I stopped going to church and learned to chainsmoke (and this book is LONG, I mean it’s LOOOOOOONG, so I kept avoiding getting started on Abridging it, lmao). You can brush up on the frankly insane amount of different characters here at the Royal Assassin Cast of Characters post, or find the links to the rest of the Farseer Trilogy Abridged series here at this link here.

- Fitz awakens one fine October morning in a bed at Jhaampe hospital, where he's been recovering from being poisoned and poisoned and bludgeoned and kicked and drowned. At first he was having eighty seizures a day, but now that it's down to only twenty-five seizures a day, he and Burrich figure it's high time for the two of them to skedaddle before they get snowed in.

  Then, exactly like that scene in Attack on Titan where Eren reaches for a spoon and accidentally turns into a Titan, Fitz drops a spoon and accidentally turns into a seizure. It's a lot less cool. He wakes up hours later back in the same damn hospital bed with Jonqui the King's Sister and now healer sitting beside him.

  "This sucks," he whines.

  "Time heals all wounds, Pull-Out Fail," Jonqui says sagely.

  "Shut the fuck up. I'm fifteen and obviously know a lot more than you about healing, and I've decided I'm never going to get better."

  Burrich strides healthily into the room with a swanky new skunk stripe in his hair where his skull was recently cracked open. "What-ho, Lil Accident, are you ready to go back to Buckkeep?"

  "No. Everybody's gonna make fun of me. You go back without me."

  "So long as you wear that collar," Burrich says solemnly, "I must follow you."

  Fitz touches the black collar with the word DADDY on it in gold letters. "The way you followed my father?"

  "Yes."

  "Was it like, a sex thing?"

  Burrich, who has enough hidden piercings to set off a metal detector at twenty paces, asks, "Are we going back to Buckkeep or what? I'm getting kind of bored sitting here watching you do the Harlem Shake."

  "Also, I heard that Molly's candle shop was foreclosed on and she had to go live with relatives in a town that's about to be raided by Vikings," The Fool says from under the bed.

  "Gosh, I wish I could talk to King Shrewd or the Fool or find out what's happening to Molly," Fitz sighs, then sits up as the room fills with the wavy lines and harp glissando of a dream sequence.

  "Wake up, King Shrewd," the Fool says. He's sitting on a chair, not under the bed or in a hay bale for once, and Fitz finds it extremely disturbing.

  "Fool? What are you doing here?"

  "Oh, King Shrewd and not Fitz, I have to be here because you're sick and old," the Fool fools. "Here, let me fluff your pillows and feed you soup."

  "This is so weird," Shrewd-Fitz says. "I feel like... oh, the Skill line is ringing. What? Vikings are viking Siltbay so late in the fall?"

  "You know, it's creepy when you talk to yourself like that," the Fool mutters.

  But Shitz (Shrewd-Fitz) is already on a Skill video call, watching the Red-Ship Raiders pulling up onto the coast. Vikings run through the town, viking everything in sight. The raiders are wading through blood up to their knees, people are running around headless and on fire, it's awful. The raiders aren't even stealing anything-- they're just wrecking stuff, which anyone who's been to a Raiders game can attest to (go Cowboys).

  "Fool," Shitz says. "You can see the future, right?"

  "This is a weird time to reveal that particular nugget of information, but sure. Let's see... ah, yes. I see a bard who can't fucking read the room trying to find a rhyme for 'dismembered child.' That is not something Jaydee made up, it's a real line from the book."

  "Thank you, Fool, that's extremely fucked up," Shitz says. "Oh wait, who's this on the video call... It's Molly! Oh SHIT, it's Molly and Vikings are going to vike her!"

  But Molly wasn't called Molly Nosebleed as a kid because she's a trembling little violet. A Viking tries to vike her and she stabs him to death, whirls around and shouts "WHO WANTS SOME, MOTHERFUCKERS?!"

  Then a house falls on her.

  "Oh god, oh fuck," Shitz says, panicking. "Fool, use your future vision and tell me if Molly's okay!"

  "A bunch of women died in a bunch of horrible ways," the Fool says. "Do you want me to list them?"

  "No," Shitz says, and so the Fool doesn't spend two pages describing the graphic sexual assault, murder, and maiming of a bunch of townsfolk. Shitz sits back in his bed. "Run off and let Verity know Siltbay is being viked."

  Ever loyal, the Fool cartwheels down the stairs. Then Shitz sighs and says, "Man, being old sucks."

  "Yes it does, so quit your fucking whining about your little seizures and come home," Shrewd says, and ends the Skill call.

  The next morning, Fitz-Fitz packs up his stuff and heads out with Burrich and Hands to make the long boring trip back to Buckkeep.

The return to Buckkeep sucks especially hard because they have to take the 99 instead of the I-5 like last time, and Fitz is getting carsick. Along the way they keep having to stay in incredibly sketch Super 8s, which wouldn't be that bad (free soap and free weird smells!) but Burrich and Hands overhear someone standing out in the hallway talking loudly on their phone about how much King Shrewd fucking sucks.

  "Yeah he keeps raising taxes to 'defend our country' or whatever but Vikings are still viking the beach towns as much as they want," had said the Buckboi in the hallway. "You know who rules, though, Prince Regal!"

  "What towns did Buckboi say were viked?" Fitz asks.

  "A town no one cares about," Hands answers solemnly, "and the one where Molly had a house fall on her."

  After that incident, Burrich decides that they're gonna make the rest of the trip using surface streets and driving through people's yards. "If Regal finds out you're out here, he'll send someone to kill you," Burrich explains. "Verity's definitely not gonna protect you."

  "Is that because he consistently sees me as a tool first and a family member and human being second?"

  "Look," Hands interrupts. "I see Buckkeep-shaped lights in the distance." They ride up to the gates, which are guarded by a kid who was born a thousand years too early to be the squeaky-voiced teen working at the drive-thru. “Halt,” he squeaks. “Who the fuck are you?“

  Burrich scoffs. ”Who the fuck are YOU?“

  ”I asked you first!“

  ”I asked you sec—“

  ”All right, all right, who's holding up the line?“ The last book had a rich and exhausting cast of random extras murmuring in the background, but this one used all of their budget on talking CGI wolves, so they had to fire most of them and give almost all of their lines to Blade, The Guard Captain. His job is to appear at important moments and say things like 'hear, hear!' and 'how big WAS she?' “Holy shit, it's Burrich! Twitter said you and Chivalry's Post Nut Regret were dead!”

  “It's called X now,” Fitz says, emerging dramatically from the shadows.

  “Oh.” Blade says, while four of the other guards die of secondhand embarrassment. “H-hi, Chivalry's Pos... I mean... Fitz. You uh. Did you have a nice trip? Hey, you... did something with your hair, it looks... it looks good!”

  “Prince Regal was going around telling everyone I was dead, wasn't he,” Fitz says flatly.

  “Sometimes I can still hear his voice,“ Regal sighs from somewhere in the castle.

  ”What? No. What?? No! What?! No!“ Blade laughs as six more guards thud to the ground. ”No, of course not! It was just, you know, like, you know. YOU know. You know. I didn't really believe you were dead, I did retweet the link Regal posted but I commented with 'big if true,' so it wasn't really...”

  Fitz smiles. “Ho ho ho, Captain, don't worry your sweet little tits about it. Everyone falls victim to misinformation from time to time, and I accept the apology I assume you were about to provide me. Do carry about your business.”

  Halfway up to the stables, Burrich pulls Fitz aside. “Listen, Lil Accident, we're not at Grandma's house anymore,” he hisses. “You can't talk to people like you matter or Regal's gonna get his panties in a knot about it.”

  “And then he'll choke me,” Fitz agrees.

  “What?”

  “With his knotted up panties.“

  ”I'm also still alive,“ Hands offers after a long silence. ”Fitz, you're too weak and pathetic to wax your own horse, let me do it.“

  ”But...“

  ”Come on, Fitz, let Hands, my new favorite child, take care of the important work.“ Burrich takes Fitz's arm. ”Now go on up to the castle, that collar is making everybody question their sexuality.“

  ”What's a sexuality?“ Fitz asks, just before he's shoved into the castle, screen door banging behind him.

  Inside, Fitz looks around and notices that the place looks cleaner than it had before he'd left on the world's worst road trip. All the beer cans and ash trays have been cleaned up, someone's taken down the band posters and put up tasteful watercolors of succulents, and the 'NICE COCK' that had been scrawled above the toilet has been replaced with 'live laugh love.'

  ”Wrow,“ muses Fitz as he passes a sign on Verity's door that reads 'IF THE WARSHIP'S A-ROCKIN', DON'T COME A-KNOCKIN'. ”I'm kinda gonna miss the crusty sock smell. Good thing my room still reeks like teenaged boy.“

[ahedderick]

Saturday at the Yock

Summer day, the kids (and Roommate) and I went to Swallow Falls State Park. It's one of my very favorite places, and we try to go every year. The Youghiogheny River (pronounced Yock-a-hay-nee) starts in West Virginia and flows north through Maryland toward Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. The park has three sets of falls and, when the water is low and calm in summer, it is wonderful for swimming. The huge boulders and massive flat plates of rock make every inch of the river a playground. Climbing, scrambling, sliding down rocks, wading, swimming, and jumping in the water . . it is all fun. We had a great time, aside from the very tense time when Son and Roomate were free-climbing a huge stone 'island' with vertical sides that sticks up out of the river. Erosion forgot that part - it's just standing there.

Oh, and the river has old-growth hemlock forest on either side, which is beautiful in its own right. Just stunning. I'm so tired, but - what a good day.

[lordgrimwing]

Friends and Family #11 / Accidents #02

“We’re shearing the sheep today,” Amras said, popping over his brother’s shoulder. Amrod popped over the other shoulder and rested his chin on his older brother’s black hair. “Can you help us?”

Caranthir looked up from the old herb book Nerdanel gave him to read while he worked on grinding madder roots for dying. “Why?”

Amrod sighed, mouth falling into a pout. “My shoulder still isn’t back to normal. We could use another set of hands wrangling the wild ones.”

“Alright,” Caranthir agreed, relenting easily. It was never too much of a bother to help out his favorite brothers.

“Thanks!”

 Outside, the twins already had most of the sheep pinned up behind a temporary fence. Caranthir rolled up his sleeves and waded into the wooly animals. He caught sheep while his brothers sheared, helping Amrod get his settled back on their butts so he didn’t strain his shoulder again. The blades of the large metal shear made an almost rhythmic background noise as the twins ran them easily through the thick fleeces.

It was mid spring. The muddy spots in the yard were well on the way to drying up and the sun felt nice against his back. Elros’ voice drifted up the glen on the wind. He and the other kids must be out planting the fields with their uncles. Caranthir was glad the Ambarussar asked him to join them.

The work went on. 

Before too long, there were only three sheep left in the pen (all the others were now happily munching the hay and grain the twins used to lure them in in the first place, glad to be rid of their heavy coats). The last three were, of course, the three that wanted to be handled the least. They darted about, surprisingly agile in the pen now that they weren’t packed in alongside all the others.

Amras grabbed for a particularly wily looking wether, but it ducked its head and dodged past him with a bleat. While it avoided the redhead, this sent it directly into Caranthir’s waiting hands. He grabbed the wether by its curled horns, yanking its head up to get control of where it went. Or, he tried to.

The sheep was solid muscle under the thick wool and it wouldn’t give up without a fight. It baa’ed when it was grabbed but threw its head back down and continued forward. With a powerful lunge, it slammed straight into Caranthir’s lower abdomen. 

He gasped, pain shooting out from the impact, and toppled backward as the animal bleated once more. He didn’t let go though, and the wether came down with him.

“Shucks,” Amrod said with a little tease in his voice as Amras swooped in to wrestle the sheep off of his brother and onto its butt. “Nice catch!”

Caranthir groaned in response and sat up. He’d lost his glasses somewhere in the struggle and everything was a bit hazy without them.

That’s when he felt it: a warm, wet, horribly familiar sensation between his legs. He’d peed himself.

Shame flushed his cheeks red. His face burned. This hadn’t happened in years. He wanted to curl up and disappear into the ground. He wanted to run inside before Celegorm wandered into view and saw him. 

“Cara, are you okay?” Amrod asked, and then said a little “oh” as he walked over.

Though it wouldn’t do a thing to hide the evidence, Caranthir squeezed his legs together and hid his face in a hand. Please, he couldn’t take any teasing about this. It’d been so long since even Celegorm joked about all his childhood accidents that he didn’t have thick enough skin to take even the Ambarussar’s normally harmless laughing.

He should have just stayed inside. Things always went better when he kept to books and plants.

“He must have hit you really hard,” Amrod said, sticking out his hand.

Belatedly, Caranthir looked up and realized he was holding out his glasses, offering them back to him. He took them wordlessly because he didn’t trust himself not to start crying if he opened his mouth. 

“Sorry about that,” Amrod continued, offering his hand again to help him stand up after he put his glasses back on. 

The way the wet fabric of his pants clung to his skin as he stood reminded Caranthir of far too many occasions from his childhood, which suddenly didn’t seem long enough ago. 

“Son of a gun,” Amras said as he looked up, already half way done shearing the wether. 

Two people seeing the wet stain in his pants did not make him feel any better.

Amrod pulled a face at his twin. Amras turned his attention back to what he was doing.

“I’ll meet you with dry clothes,” Amrod said.

Meet him? “What?” Caranthir managed to say, feeling horribly off-balance. 

“At the stream,” the redhead clarified, already turning toward the house. “You can go wash. I’ll be right there.” He said it like it wasn’t any trouble at all.

Still mortified but no longer feeling like the world was going to collapse and leave him as a tear-stained teen again, Caranthir nodded. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Walking to the stream babbling in the forest not far from the house was a horrible sensory experience, but somehow he made it in one piece. As soon as he was at the dugout bathing pool, he toed off his shoes, stripped off his soaked pants and underwear, threw his shirt on the ground and sank into the water. The sudden shock of cold made all his muscles tense and his breath rasp out between his teeth. 

He already felt better than a moment ago.

Running a hand between his legs, he rubbed away the phantom feeling against his skin there and then dunked his head. He came up with a sputter and gasp, head clear and thoughts less panicked by the embarrassing accident. 

His little brother was sitting on the old log set back from the water when Caranthir looked up, wiping crystal water droplets from his eyelashes. Amrod indicated the pile of clothes flopped over the log, then tossed a bar of soap to him. “Catch!”

Caranthir scrubbed with the soap and dunked his head once more for good measure before climbing out of the pool. He wasn’t embarrassed by his nakedness, and he took the towel held out to him, drying off quickly and dressing while Amrod waited. He sat on the log, feeling suddenly drained once he buttoned up the shirt. 

“Thank you.”

Amrod looked over at him, eyebrows raised. “What for?”

Caranthir sighed and looked at his hands, at the abrasions caused by grabbing that sheep’s horns. For not laughing at him like Celegorm and Curufin would have. For not acting like this was just another accident from the kid who couldn’t control his bladder like Maedhros and Maglor would have, even if they’d be entirely well-meaning. “For being you.”

Amrod snorted and grinned. “I’ll always be me.”

“Accept for when I’m Amras!” He added, diving out of arm reach as he did. 

He rolled across the ground and scooped up the discarded clothes and shoes. “Beat you back!” He shouted and raced toward the house.

Caranthir snorted, tossed the towel over his shoulder, and jogged after his little brother, who definitely wasn’t so little anymore.

[nonnieapple]

⛈☂ Midnight Surf ☂⛈

 • (Marshall Lee x reader)  • r a t i n g: m a t u r e • 4 9 2 3  w o r d s  • p o s t e d 07.04.2024    🌧 navigation  • s u m m a r y: you go out for a midnight meet-up with your friend marshall lee. a follow up and continuation of "strings"- can be read alone but makes more sense after you read "strings."

The forest again.

Bathed in unnatural candy hues of the night, the foliage didn't dare rustle as you waded through it carefully. You walked and walked, greeted by many off-putting but harmless creatures, until you stopped at a grassy hill overlooking a familiar landscape.

  You sat down on the checkered white and red cloth sprawling across the ground. You looked around. He appeared slowly. From completely invisible to a floating, but very real, wraith. 

  "Hey, dude, what took you so long?" Marshall floated down, almost sitting but still floating above the ground like a mysterious fog. 

  "Walking. I don't have flying privileges." You smiled up at him, crossing your legs. His expression changed as it dawned on him, but he didn't look any less mischievous or smug. 

  "What do you want to do today? Er, tonight?" You corrected yourself awkwardly as you shifted in your seat. He sat down on the cloth, his long legs outstretched beyond its edge. His band shirt- cropped by him and a pair of scissors, accessories to the crime-  shifted over his shoulder. You weren't even looking down there, you were fixated on his face. 

  Instead of a response he dug through his deceptively flat pockets. He pulled out a pack of- cigarettes? You squinted. You had seen those before, one of the first times you hung out. And by his own words, they weren't tobacco.

  "Are you into this kind of stuff?" He asked as he lowered his arm, quirking a brow. You piped up. 

  "Yes. If you are," You said, a little too fast and a little too eager. Not even a little, a lot. He smiled, amused. 

  "Oh? Didn't pin you as the type." He opened the box.

"You don't know a lot of things about me," You replied cryptically, laughing as you looked away. 

  He lit the cigarette with the lighter he carried around at all times. Once he lit several cotton candy trees with it on Prince Day. That didn't go over well. The trees filed a restraining order against him.

  Marshall brought the cigarette to his lips and puffed a cloud of glitter. You suppressed a cough, gaze focused down. He passed you the thing and you took it hesitantly, bringing it to your lips. You paused. Your hands shook and your chest tightened, the pythons in your lungs strangling you from inside. 

  The cigarette had grooves in it from his nails. There was a slight scuff in the paper and you could see where his teeth grazed the pink filter. 

  You heard your name said softly. 

  You glanced up at him as your shoulders tensed upwards and your brows slumped downwards.

  "You okay?" Marshall leaned down to be on your eye level but kept his distance. His hands were close to your knees. You lowered the cigarette.

  "I have got to admit something." You frowned. "I'm sober. I don't do drugs, smoke, drink... anymore." 

  You waited for some kind of disappointment from him, telling you you were lame. You hadn't thought about this. When you saw him in Fionna's house that evening, you weren't sober yet, and you could've done it then- but now- you couldn't bring yourself to fake it, or to break your clean streak. 

  The air around you felt empty and cooler, his gaze like a sweater of hay. 

  "Why didn't you tell me?" Instead of disappointed, he looked concerned. You thought about the answer. Your hands clenched around nothing as Marshall took the cigarette away from you. 

  You felt grass poke into your legs. 

  "Well, I... don't know. I guess it didn't feel important enough until now." 

  "It is important. I'm proud of you. And I'll keep these away from you, by smoking them all myself," He said with an underlying light tone, juuust as you thought he was getting serious. His attitude put you at ease. 

  You shrugged, shoulders finally relaxing. You laughed. 

  "Go ahead. I'm not gonna stop you." 

  "The effects wear off quickly anyway.”

  He took a drag and his fangs grazed the paper. His eyes shifted over to the horizon.

  You reclined. With the newfound silence, your mind began drifting instantly, thoughts overthinking and brain overflowing with self-doubt. You felt stupid and tiny in his presence at the moment, even though you hadn’t previously. It wasn’t his fault- it was all your brain. Maybe you should’ve told him you were sober before you met up. You sighed.

  “How’s guitar been going?” He asked without looking at you. You pursed your lips. “Good. It’s been good. Learning a lot. Practicing. My fingers are shredded.”

  Your fingers were streaked with marks of steel strings, skin toughened. You wondered if he had the same. You imagined holding his hand, and- you shook your head, shaking away the thought like an etch a sketch.

  Marshall leaned over. You froze as he glanced at your hand. You tensed up instinctively. His eyes flicked up to yours and he leaned back momentarily, leaving as fast as he came (LOL). You exhaled shakily.

  “Welcome to the club. This is your life now,” He huffed out glittering smoke. “If you stop it’ll be gnarly. Keep practicing.” A smug smile adorned his face and his ears tilted up. Your brows raised.

  “I’ve also been practicing synth,” You mentioned with forced casualty. Sharing things about yourself either came out of your mouth randomly and with no prior thought or had to be pried from you by your own hand, no matter how weird it felt.

  “Synth?” Marshall raised a brow.   “And harmonica.”   “Okay...” He turned to you fully, leaning on his hand.   “And drums.”    “And omnichord.”   “And ukulele.”   “And theremin.”   “Also, the violin.”   “Exactly how many instruments do you play?” He asked slowly, squinting.   “All of those.”   “Is that all?”

  “Oh, I've also been practicing the rain stick. It's a very delicate balance. Of balancing the stick and turning it slowly so it sounds like rain and not like white noise coming from a TV in a horror game as the guy finds his clone dead on an armchair. In front of the TV.”

  Marshall’s confusion was evident on his face.   “I don't even know what a rain stick is.”

  “Of course you don't. I mean-“ You raised your hands defensively. Marshall grinned with amusement.

  “Whaaat?” He tilted his head and his ears lowered, hair, darker than the night sky, spilling over his face.

  “I mean it's an unpopular instrument in Aaa. Not to say you don't know things. You know lots of things! More things than I know! Probably.” You glanced from side to side.

  “Like what?” His tone changed and his expression did as well, more mischevious. It was your turn to be confused.

  “I assume a lot of the things you know I don’t- that’s my point? I don’t know?” You awkwardly fidgeted with your hands. Marshall seemed disappointed.

  “Right.” He sighed and snuffed out his cigarette.

  A silence settled.

  Yikes.   …

 You feigned a cough.

 “How's yooooooouuuuur....” You began to speak, only for your neurons to fizzle out. You panicked as your brain searched for a topic.

 “Music career?” You sounded embarrassingly unsure, maybe he wasn’t noticing, but you wanted to punch yourself. In the face. He stuck out his tongue and frowned as the cigarette crumpled into the grass.

  “Same old same old. I'm great and everyone loves me.”

  He focused in on the checkered cloth beneath him. He ran his hands over it in circles and you watched his black nails. His brows stayed furrowed and his voice was quiet.

  “I wish I could do more with it though.”

  You watched him curiously, moving a little closer.

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve done everything. Almost everything...” He shrugged and gestured. You knew he had not played the rain stick. “I've made so many albums and played shows in every place I could reach. Every corner of Aaa and most islands.” He sounded genuine, and his expression was serious. Not everyone got to see him like this. You were happy that you did. You hummed.

  “What about the Nightosphere? Have you done one there?”

  Marshall’s pupils shrunk at your words.

  “Can't. My mom would get involved and it'd be a whole thing.” He huffed and scoffed at the thought.   “I get that. Have you ever been to... the Dead Worlds?”

  “Yeah. Played a metal show. Death loved it. Butterscotch Butler tried to steal my skin.”

  You rolled your eyes.

“Ugh. Typical.”

  You inhaled deeply. The night air was pleasant and fresh, and a breeze had begun to pick up.

  You crossed your legs, following the lines of the grass stuck to the bottom of your shoes.

  “You know, it’s weird how much I think about death. My whole life is just one big thought about death.” You bit your lip. Your nails scratched against the top of your shoes.

  “Imagine how I feel.”

  You met his gaze. His pupils widened, almost becoming round.

  “I can’t,” You responded bluntly. “Do you think it’s worse to be immortal than mortal?”

  “I think both are shit. Immortals long for death, and mortals try to evade it. Besides my mom. She's doing just fine with her immortality." 

  You both looked rather sullen. The atmosphere was heavy.

  “Do you long for death?”

  “Not anymore.”

  You were relieved and concerned at that.

  “I try not to ask about the way you became a vampire,” He had told you about some of his past, in fragmented bits that you had pieced together. “But do you think it influenced the way you view it? Death?”

  “It changed everything. I forced myself not to care. The loss is endless and the crap is endless.”

  You ran a hand through your hair.

  “That is crazy depressing,” You breathed.

  Marshall didn’t reply. He took out a cigarette. He lit it. You would’ve as well.

  "It's been so long since I became a vampire. And I'm still mad about it..." 

  "I'm still mad about plenty of things that happened when I was a kid. I think most people still hold onto some things. Especially when they're that traumatic." You clasped your right hand over your left, careful not to brush the fingertips. 

  "You think so?" 

  "Yeah." 

  He took a drag of the cigarette. You wanted some kind of thank you, some response. You knew you weren't going to get it. It took him a lot to open up. And he was also high to an unknown degree. At least you two matched each other's weirdness.

 “You know what’s more depressing? My exes.” You snapped your fingers.

  "Want me to beg?"  He smirked.

   You stuttered in flustered confusion. 

  "What-?!" 

   Marshall laughed. 

  "The last time you mentioned your exes? Treehouse?”

  You covered your face.

“Oh… right. Don’t say that ever again, what the hell?"

  Marshall shrugged.

  “My last ex was a demon.”

  Marshall split his attention between you and the cigarette.

  “How’d you meet?”

"I don't recall..." You deflected, fidgeting.

  "You can't "not recall" meeting your demon ex, unless you were as high as Gumball's opinion of himself," Marshall scoffed. You tensed, sighing.

  “I was at a music festival and they threw up in front of my then partner’s sea lard. We started dating shortly after I broke up with said partner some years later.”

  “You’d think the main hurdle in our relationship would be that they were a demon and I was human. But no, the real villain was their struggle with emotional vulnerability and my trauma.” You placed your hand under your chin in thought.

 “What about that other partner?”

  “They were a demon too. And the previous one as well. Huh, all were demons.” You tapped your knee.

  Your eyes widened.

  “Do I have a type?!”

  Marshall held back laughter.

  “You only noticed?”

  You leaned on your hand.

  “Damn, I never thought about it for some reason. Is that weird?”

  “No. It is kinda funny though.” This cigarette was going way faster.

   The moon was high in the sky and you could see galaxies along with the stars.

   You laid on half of the cloth, feet on the grass. A dancing beetle crawled onto you and you shook it off, ending its party of one. You saw things in the sky you hadn’t seen before. Galaxies, stars, nebulas. You should’ve stopped to appreciate things more, small things that became ordinary. Your eyes shifted to Marshall briefly. He looked really cool. You turned your head to the hills. They were spotless.

  “Are you only into demons?”

  Your counting of the stars was interrupted.

  “I wouldn’t say so.”

  You weren’t sure.

  “What about vampires?”

  You partially sat up, but didn’t look at him.

“You’re the only vampire left.”

  He hummed in agreement.

 “I’d- I... I mean, sure,” You stumbled verbally.

  “What about a demon vampire?” You could hear the smile in his voice. You turned to see his gaze on you. You hid your smirk.

  “I’d give them a chance.”

  He hid a giddy expression with a cloud of smoke. Judging by the length of the cigarette, his last cloud. 

  He reached for another. His expression turned perplexed. He shook the box. Empty. 

  "Guess there were only two. I did smoke one while I was waiting for you..." 

  "Sorry for not flying," You sassed from the ground, flailing your arms for emphasis. 

  "You could've asked me to pick you up, you know?" 

  You were confused as you heard and felt the shifting of the cloth. Marshall disappeared. You turned your head around. You called his name unsurely, turning back around to sit up. Before you could, you felt weight on either side of you and watched in horror as Marshall appeared above you. He straddled you. Your face flushed and your brain shut down. 

  "Marshall, what are you doing?" You asked with a strained, worried tone.

  Marshall stared down and studied the details of your appearance. 

  "Hm? I wanna see who I'm talking to," He explained calmly. 

  Your hands dug into the cloth and you pressed yourself into the ground. Your breathing hastened much to your dismay. 

  You gulped as you looked around him, trying to find the least weird place to look at. Not his jean zipper. Probably not his bite mark. You looked into his eyes with desperation which he either ignored or didn't notice. 

  He smelled like that drug, a vaguely herbal and smokey scent, it burned away and clung to him. You could also smell artificial cherry, and it must've been him. Though maybe you were hallucinating. 

  Could he hear your heartbeat? Was that a thing? Those ears of his had to be good for something. 

  You feverishly rummaged around your pockets, pulling out a small box. 

  "You want gum?" 

  He opened his mouth. Fangs. Your brain was melting. 

  "It's red."  

  He closed his mouth and held out his hand, eyes half closed and ears relaxed. You put one in his hand, careful not to brush it, as though it was toxic. 

  Was he pulling your leg? Was it just another joke you didn't get? He liked that, didn't he? Did he? He couldn't. But he was mean. At times. 

  You looked up at the sky. 

  It was quickly covered by his frame, hands now at the sides of your neck. You didn't dare move. Though you couldn't control the rapid rising and falling of your chest.

  "Nervous?" He asked breathily. 

  You frowned. 

  "Uh..." 

  His pupils grew round. 

  "Your heartbeat is so fast. I can see the moon in your stars."

  "You mean... eyes?" 

  "What did I say?" 

   "Stars." 

  "Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting..." He mumbled, and you searched for the meaning on his face. What was he going on about??? 

  He got off you in a swift motion you didn't quite see in the moonlit night. You sat up with an owlish glare. 

  "Are you alright?" Your voice was gentle. You kept your distance. 

  He sat there silently, sucking the red from the gum in a flash. 

  "Do you need any help?" 

 Clearly, yes. His eyes glazed over his palms.

"My hands are so cold." 

  With anxious delay you sat down close to him, taking his hands and wrapping yours around them. Your breath stuttered.

  His grip tightened around you. You felt warmer even though his ice-cold touch, colder than his rings, sent goosebumps across your arms. His finger brushed your inner wrist. You bit your cheek, transfixed.

  "Even though I don't need warmth, this is nice," Marshall said serenely.

  "You don't need warmth?!" You barked.

   "Oops?" He smiled innocently, ears pinned back. 

  "You're so cold!" You whined. 

 "Yet I still make you heat up." 

  You frowned, and he watched your face. His nails became claws and left tantalizing trails. You felt your face rise in temperature.

  "Aw, I wish I could blush."

  "You could've just asked to hold my hands."

  "And you could've asked me for a lift. Why do we do this?" 

  "Cause we're two traumatized shut-ins." 

He put his head on your chest. Your breath stuttered in your lungs. 

   "Very deep."

   "I guess it is- OW!" You flinched as you felt a sharp sensation against your wrist. Marshall leaned back and turned over your right arm with his left. His fingertips were slightly tougher on that side. Your thoughts were proven correct. 

  Your face filled with worry as you saw blood on your arm. 

  "Shit, is this from me?" 

  "Where else would it come from?!" Your voice rang out in barely contained frustration. 

  "I- I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you, I'd never want to-" His voice suddenly became panicked, his puppy dog eyes filled with remorse. He met your eyes desperately, but you were too focused on the injury. It didn't hurt too much... it was weird. The night was weird. 

  "This was a mistake," He said. 

  "You mean... us meeting tonight?" 

  "No- me scratching you. And offering you drugs. And everything else."

  "Like you straddling me? Or asking if you should beg?" You huffed. 

  "... Yeah. I should be more careful with you." 

  You looked pissed.

  You took your arm away from him harshly, taking a bandaid from a pocket on your jacket and putting it over the scratch. You'd have to disinfect it later. 

  "You carry around a bandaid?" He rose a brow.

  "And a pick." You took out a small guitar pick from your shirt. 

  "Is that it?" 

  "I have a tiny watermelon with a face on it." You showed the plastic watermelon briefly before chucking it back in.

  You smoothed down the bandaid. Your touch lingered. It was hard to focus on anything else.

  "Again, I'm sorry. I just haven't been this close to anyone in ages."    You sighed. 

  "How long is ages, exactly?" 

  "There was a girl three years ago. And some... guy... hundreds of years ago." 

  You couldn't hide the surprise on your face. 

  "I assumed you had a lot more exes. In hindsight, it doesn't make sense knowing you. Still, feels wrong." 

  You kept talking for quite a while. 

  The moon was slowly drifting away, the horizon brightening. Heavy clouds rolled in and it seemed like it would rain. 

  "It's been fun, but I should probably go. I'm getting sleepy." You stretched as you began to get up. Your legs were falling asleep. Your eyes felt dry and your voice began to creak and deepen. You were thoroughly wasted and your common sense was drifting off with the moon. Your arm also hurt to move in the wrist area. You were over it though. 

  "Touché. Not long 'til the sun rises." 

  Marshall floated up. You almost forgot he did that.

  He began to float along you. You left soft dents in the grass. He left nothing. 

  "Aren't you gonna take that cloth?" You pointed back to the spot you had sat in all night.

  "Oh, that? It's not mine," He said calmly.

  "WHAT." 

  You blinked, face twisted in concern. 

  The ground beneath your feet was plush and the green was ridiculously vibrant even in the dark. You nearly fell over as you stopped at a fork in the hills, one towards Marshall's cave cottage and one towards your place. Your heart nearly lurched out of your body, suddenly set into a faster pace. You didn't notice that Marshall was ready to catch you. The treehouse would've been visible if you turned around. 

  "And this is where we say goodbye," Your voice broke the silence of the landscape with exhaustion-caused softness. 

  "C'mon, let me help you get back home. You're falling asleep," Worry and what you wanted to be care laced his voice. You crossed your arms with a lowering of your brows. 

   "I don't see how you could do that," You said skeptically.

   Marshall's knee-high sneakers touched the ground. He transformed into a giant bat in seconds. 

   "Oh, right." You felt your face flush. 

  His eyes were the same, but rounder and more upturned, with the black scleras much less visible. His ears had the same color but were like that of a bat. They retained their piercings, but were less noticeable. His nose was highly boopable, upturned even more. He was covered with black fur and his arms were wings, the skin fading from its usual hue to black at the claws. He must've been way over 4 meters tall. 

  He picked you up and placed you on his back. You yelped as you gripped his fur for stability. You were startled by how soft it was. The strands were like satin. You couldn't help but run your hands over it, lost in the sauce. 

  "Whoa..." 

  "Uhhh. What are  you doing there?" Marshall's voice took you out of your fixation. You flinched at it. 

  "Sorry!" You held your hands close to yourself. You heard him laugh faintly in response before you took off without warning. You couldn't even scream in shock as you felt like you were being yanked up and down simultaneously. 

  The ground shrunk beneath you and the gusts of wind that had been intensifying became an advantage to Marshall's flight. His wings moved quickly at first, and then he began to glide. Your heart began to slow as the pace evened out. You still looked, and were, utterly terrified. You had to move your jaw to pop your ears from the sudden rise of altitude. The prospect of being so high up was enough to kill you. But the clouds looked pretty, and your vehicle was calm. 

  After a while of undisturbed flight, you stopped caring about the past or the future or what could be or would be- you just cared about this moment. 

  It smelled of fresh petrichor. There was nothing interfering with the fresh air. It was a feeling like no other, and nothing would ever compare to it. If you could fly you'd never complain about anything. Why was Marshall such a dick if he could do this at ANY POINT?! Maybe it was only special to you because you experienced this rarely (never). Like you looking at the stars or at him, he had grown used to the wonders of flight, and it was just another thing, another automatic thing. 

  "Where do I go?" 

  You grimaced. You hadn't even told him where you lived. Oh shit. 

  "To the right! Over the river and forest! Behind the Candy Kingdom and Mountains, overlooking water," You yelled to the best of your abilities. 

  "I can hear you! I have bat ears," He replied. 

  "Great, because my throat hurts," You rasped. The good thing about him being old was that he had to know where that was. You hoped so. 

  You really didn't want to get off Marshall. He was fluffy, and you sneaked one last pet. Glob damn him for being so cute in that form. Not like he wasn't cute in his usual form. But that thought was gonna stay in your vault for the time being. 

  As you got into your house you struggled with the lock. As soon as you entered, you rushed around the house. 

  "I wasn't expecting anyone, so it's a mess in here," You muttered as you shoved stuff and junk under furniture with your shoe. You did so rather lazily, half-conscious. 

  Marshall followed you and spooked you with his lack of footsteps. He flicked on the lights, for your sake. The light assaulted your eyes and you groaned. 

  You dragged yourself to the couch and crumpled onto it, sighing at last, the familiarity of your house coercing you into that good night. Marshall was being uncharacteristically quiet and helpful. You felt unbelievably comfortable as you nuzzled into the smooth fabric. The world began to fade away. You felt a cold pressure on your shoulder, tugging. Your name was repeated several times. You hummed.

  "You gotta get to bed." 

  You opened your eyes minimally. You made incoherent noises. You were too comfortable and too tired.

  "I could carry you-" 

  Without letting him finish that sentence you shot up with a bewildered gaze.

  "NoImgood and suddenly feel veryawake," You interrupted. Marshall squinted at you suspiciously.

  As you were walking to your room you passed by a doorway. Marshall peeked in, disappearing in its darkness. You followed him in, turning on some lamps. Marshall floated over an instrument, pointing to it. 

  "What's that?" You swear you saw his eyes sparkle as he stared at it.

  "Omnichord." 

  "Can I try it?"  

  You nodded.

  He looked around the various buttons, the glinting strum plate catching his eye. He clicked the on button and pressed on A minor. He touched the strum plate. As soon as it made a warm shimmering sound his ears stood straight, gaze mystified. He did it again, dragging his finger against the strum plate. He looked over the plastic buttons and letters, clicking on some until he found a chord progression. 

  It was novel seeing him mess around. You leaned against the doorframe as a smile found its way to your tired face. You had that beautiful bastard in your house, in your music room, playing with this ancient shit like a kid. It was probably from around his time, too.

  "Where did you find this magical machine?" He looked over his shoulder. 

  "Gumball helped me get it." You flipped your wrist. He slowed his playing. 

  "Gumball." His tone wasn't happy. The atmosphere did a 180, but you didn't notice. 

  " Yeah, we're vaguely friends, without him, I probably wouldn't be able to find all this old tech." Your hands found their way around your body. You closed your eyes for a second.

  "Cool," You vaguely heard Marshall's faux chill tone. The darkness behind your eyelids was fuzzy. For a second, you'd just close them for a second...

  Your name resounded in your head. Again, and again, a chorus echoing in the dark. Cold on your shoulders and cool air around your face. Snowing? Was it snowing? Ice Kingdom? Ice cream? You scream? We all scream for her? 

  Your name close to your face. A familiar, melodic voice. You opened your eyes. Blurry. You looked around, neck movements slowed. You looked straight ahead. 

  "You fell asleep."

  You blinked, groaning. You blinked once more- the face- Marshall. You had never been so close to him. You could see his smudged eyeliner set with eyeshadow and his dark lashes, the furrows and crypts in his iris, all his glinting black metal piercings, the texture of his black lips. His brows lowered and you saw every hair. His hair, was it as soft as his fur? You reached up but stopped.

  "Oh shit. This isn't a dream?" You muttered as you froze. 

  Marshall instantly unhanded you. 

  "No." He looked at your hand, raised to the ends of his hair. He silently asked you what you were doing. You hummed in thought, dropping your arm. 

  "Just dreamed... of something... sorry," You mumbled. 

  The walk to your room was short. A minute at most. But now, it was like your body was in water, and everything was spinning in a washing machine inner drum. Your room smelled familiar, woody, a slice of nature. 

  You were about to close your door.    Marshall stopped it with his arm, startling you with the ease of his resistance to the pressure you put on the door. 

  "Wait-"

  You hummed in question. 

  "The sun- the sun is rising and it's raining. Can I stay the day?" He looked down at you with pleading eyes. You would've agreed to anything at this point. Sea lard in your bed? Sure. Cactus in your hair? Sure. Whatever you want, man. 

  "Of course. Take the couch," You forced out dryly, head nodding sleepily. You hoped he wouldn't steal your couch, literally taking it. Anything was possible with Marshall.

  "Sick-" 

  You shut the door and closed the lock, walking around your room as you discarded your clothes. All you wanted was the sweet embrace of the void, for a little reprise.       - Bonus!

-

  After you awoke, feeling like a corpse, you fixed yourself and with immense willpower, opened your door. You were mad hungry. The sun outside was setting. You must've slept for over ten hours. 

You found your kitchen empty of any vampire demons and ate anything you could get your hands on. 

  You carefully crept into your living room, looking around the corner. You saw a bat hanging off the chandelier. You frowned. 

  "What the what is a bat doing here?!" You clutched the couch, wondering how you'd get it out. 

  The bat flew down and turned into Marshall. You pursed your lips. 

  "Good morning to you too."

  You gulped. Oh glob.

  "... Good morning." 

[kimberly40]

July brings a joy all its own. Despite the intense heat and humidity we often experience in the south, we reap the abundant benefits of healthy gardens, miles of newly formed hay bales, and the sounds of the tractors out in the fields. We see kids on tire swings, splashing in wading pools, and eating ice cream in a rush before it melts. We harvest our first batch of honey from the hives and have bowls of fresh blueberries for breakfast. We travel to mountains and beaches, with luggage in tow, so we can have a vacation from the demands of the working life. We celebrate the red, white, and blue, and hang out our flags to show our patriotism.

*Pictured- North Cove in McDowell County, North Carolina

[markiafc]

to fulfill my promises to @ananeiah and to expound on @seventh-fantasy's post, there are many conceptions of enlightenment. because buddhism is a massive and old religion with a very robust canon, enlightenment goes by many names, it's articulated and imagined in many different ways. let's play the game of how many of them are adopted by the show...

popular metaphors that embody enlightenment include a refuge, a flame going out, or a firm island - because this world is often described as an ocean. all human beings are floating in the 生死苦海 sea of rebirth and suffering. to escape it, one must make their way to the island or to get on a boat. mahayana buddhism (aka. chinese buddhism) is literally named 大乘 the great vehicle, the primary idea being that enlightenment = to board a vehicle of transport, it will take you away. however, buddhism doesn't just envision this as an ambiguous vehicle. 乘 the vehicle specifically refers to a 船 boat.

the mortal world and the cycle of suffering is a sea and the way out is enlightenment, envisioned as a boat.

an extension of this is the concept of 彼岸 the faraway shore (alt tl: the further shore, the distant shore, the other shore, or at times the opposing shore). it draws on the same notion of 苦海 the ocean of suffering. to achieve enlightenment is to swim to shore, where there is finally safety and stability, free from suffering. this is why the euphemism for enlightenment is to 度到彼岸 reach the faraway shore.

此岸 this shore, is this ever-changing world full of agonies. you wade across the 苦海 sea of suffering, and reach 彼岸 the faraway shore. this is enlightenment.

as @seventh-fantasy depicts in this post, the final shot of ep 40, and as seen in the bonus ep 40.5, this is where llh is. ep 40 ends with the camera moving further into the distance, moving further into the sea. and the bonus ep 40.5 makes it clear again that lxy/llh has found his way to a different beach. llh has crossed the sea to another beach. he is on another shore, the 彼岸 faraway shore, far from 东海 the east sea where everyone else is.

let's look even closer at this.

enlightenment is also conceived as a place: 淨土 the pure lands, 极乐世界 the realm of greatest bliss, and so on. one of the geographical markers of this idea is 西 the west. this "land" accessible only to the enlightened (佛 buddhas, 菩萨 bodhisattvas, and 阿罗汉 arhats) is also dubbed 西方淨土 the western pure lands and 西天 the western heavens, etc.

enlightenment is imagined to be westwards. the opposite direction and away from 东海 dong hai = the east sea. where the story began and lxy famously plunged into; he fell into the 苦海 sea of suffering located in the 东 east. from this starting point, llh makes a meandering journey to his final location in the show. he makes his way 西 west, towards enlightenment, and reaches a 彼岸 faraway shore, the enlightened "after" and what is beyond.

now that we're on the topic of the pure lands, it's worth mentioning that this concept is furnished with a lot of descriptions in buddhist sutras. it is a beautiful, glorious land brimming with lotuses. because, of course, the lotus is yet another ubiquitous image that represents enlightenment.

the lotus position is crucial to the buddhist practice of prayer cultivation, especially in 禅宗 zen buddhism that is built around the central practice of prayer. lotuses are motifs in buddhist art, and buddhist myths (the legend goes that lotus flowers bloomed under the buddha's feet when he took his first steps as a child). people practicing buddhism are referred to as 莲友 lotus friends, 芬陀利花 the white lotus is a synonym for the buddha. lotuses are also integral to buddhist canon; the pure lands are detailed to have seven 宝莲池 treasure lotus ponds. every buddhist has their own lotus waiting for them in the pure lands; it is believed the more you cultivate, the more your bud in the pure lands grows/blooms.

of note, every living thing residing in the pure lands are made from lotuses. in fact, buddhist canon states that the enlightened are reborn inside a lotus bud, similar to an incubation. their new body is reconstituted from lotuses and they emerge anew when the bud blooms. crucially, it is also stated that every enlightened in the pure lands will have 莲花座 a lotus seat. this is a vehicle of transport, usually likened to the magic carpet from one thousand and one nights. it is described as 随心所欲、飞翔自在 something that acts after your heart's desire, something that flies free. the lotus seat is about boundless, freeing travel.

this isn't comprehensive at all, there are tons of other ways lotuses come up throughout buddhism. but the connection to the show is straightforward and self-explanatory. the primary motif in 莲花楼 mysterious lotus casebook is the lotus - a famous marker for buddhism itself. one of the dominant illustrations of enlightenment, the cultivation process to achieve it, and enlightened entities themselves.

the buddhist notions of rebirth are similarly heavily intertwined with the lotus. it is your body; you become it, it becomes you. from then on, you are surrounded by its image and its presence. you even have a lotus vehicle that becomes your main method of travel, a mode of travel defined by carefree contentment. sound familiar? llh's identity and his living carries major markers of enlightenment. it is one of the primary concerns of his character arc.

quick detour. a prominent moniker for enlightenment is the setting of the sun, as yet another epithet utilized by the drama.

detour over. crazy connections time.

discussions of death and suicide is, to my knowledge, particularly prominent in japanese buddhism. but as a whole, a significant portion of buddhist canon and a good number of buddhist media deals with this too. dying as a means to get closer to enlightenment, equating death and enlightenment, the subject of suicide itself. characters seemingly pass away and become enlightened, or characters strive for death with this express purpose as death is connected to enlightenment. this is true. one does not necessarily cause the other, but the concepts are interconnected in buddhism. it comes hand in hand, dissecting one means dissecting the other and vice versa.

most buddhist texts and masters do not condone a direct correlation, suicide is not the way to enlightenment. there is no buddhist value to killing yourself. but the key exception lies in one of the most important buddhist texts: the lotus sutra.

"These include several themes dealing explicitly with death, such as how suicide was committed to speed up rebirth in the Pure Land based on the sanctioning of voluntary death as a superior form of sacrifice in Chapter 23 of the Lotus Sutra ..." [1]

the chapter 23 in question talks about a bodhisattva who turns himself into a human candle and burns himself up, in offering to the buddha. there is more to the story, but it mainly functions as a lesson about cultivation and enlightenment.

in the canon about buddhist suffering, there lies a subset dedicated to physical pain and torment. there is a heavy focus on our 5 senses, specifically (that's a whole separate topic i won't go into here). very briefly, to suffer is to experience the world through our 5 senses. to live as a human being is to suffer in a sensory way.

buddhism aspires to transcend this flesh and blood suffering. so annihilation of one's body is an essential step to achieve enlightenment. usually, this theory centers natural death and decay. you accept that you are always aging, your senses will lose their edge, your body is always subject to illness, injury and other failings. let the body waste away, it will do so regardless.

hence, the human body is set on a course of gradual deterioration. this suffering is processed through our 5 senses and is defined by them. in the face of this, the lotus sutra is the only notable buddhist text that looks kindly upon "voluntary death" to transcend it.

similarly, llh accepts the effects of bicha on his body. it mimics the natural decline of the human body, accelerating the degradation of his senses, his immune system, and his physical capabilities in general. his experience of this form of suffering is also emphasized through a period losing his sense of sight. it is a very buddhist torment. but at the end of the day, it is still a man-made, unnatural cause generating this effect. accepting this is not the same as accepting 生老病死 death via age, sickness and other natural processes.

llh embodies the sentiments and themes in the lotus sutra when he consciously chooses to let bicha run its course. he chooses to die, it is a "voluntary death". let this destroy his body. let this suicidal choice (though its more nuanced than simply suicide imo) free him from buddhist physical suffering. thus bringing him closer to peace, a version of himself that will be happier.

finally, enlightenment is about ambiguity.

凡人 the common people are incapable of comprehending enlightenment. it is understood that the human senses and the human mind is too inept and unrefined, too clouded by illusions, to grasp it. there are a million ways to express it, depict it, and name it. but there is a consensus across buddhism that these are simply aids for the common student of buddhism, and they are not accurate to the truth. at the core of enlightenment is an abstraction, an inherent unknowing.

it is, by definition, a departure and a continuation. it is a removal from this world and a transition into another place, another realm. all at once, the phenomenon straddles a greyness between an ending and a beginning. it is unclear whether the enlightened has left, or is it the common man who is so lacking he cannot recognize or even perceive the enlightened? in the theory of enlightenment, buddhism accounts for both factors. but we will never know for sure.

where do the enlightened go? where are they, where have they gone? these are questions buddhists often ask and explore, and it is also the question that the remaining cast engages with. what is enlightenment, exactly? there is a suspicion, some notion of what must have happened. it might be death, it might not be. only the enlightened can answer this, everyone else is left without clarity.

in the end, the seekers get close to the answer but there is no real fruition. and so the search lasts indefinitely.

that, too, is part and parcel to enlightenment.

as for how enlightenment narratives function, i leave you with this.

"Nirvana provides the full stop (period) in the religious story; it gives what one might call, to use Frank Kermode's well-known phrase, "the sense of an ending" - that is, a real ending and not a mere breaking off. Such an ending is only possible within a narrative.

[...]

Nirvana, I want to suggest, is a moment within a discursive or practical dynamic, a formal element of closure in structure of Buddhist imagination, texts, and rituals. One might say that nirvana has primarily a syntactic rather than semantic value: it is the moment of ending which gives structure to the whole. The fact of narrative structure and closure provides a meaningful and satisfying resolution, although in itself nirvana has merely the formal value of a closure marker.

[...]

Earlier I called nirvana the full stop (period) in the Buddhist religious story; now I can add that it is a full stop in an eternal story, a full stop which brings closure to individual lives in a master text which itself can have no final ending." [2]

Sources:

Tragedy and Salvation in the Floating World: Chikamatsu's Double Suicide Drama as Millenarian Discourse by Steven Heine ↩︎

Nirvāna, Time, and Narrative by Steven Collins ↩︎