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beclynn-herondale · 3 years

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Similarities that I see between Jace and Céline

(these are just my thoughts. Press read more to see them.)

↑ this chaotic energy. You think he got it from Stephen? Nah.

Her anxiety reminds me of Jace's. And like their thought process was similar in ways.

They both struggled with belonging.

Céline corrected Robert when he said "Just like a warlock. Always for sale."

And Céline was like "Always on sale."

Again Jace energy.

Céline knew Amatis, Stephen's wife. At least, she knew enough. Amatis was sharp-tongued and stuck up. She was opinionated, argumentative, stubborn, and not even that pretty. There were also rumors that she still secretly associated with her werewolf brother. Céline didn't much care about that—she had nothing against Downworlders. But she had plenty against Amatis, who obviously didn't appreciate what she had. Stephen needed someone who would admire him, agree with him, support him. Someone like Céline. If only she could make him see that for himself.

Jace's smile was as bland as buttered toast. "Go on, go after him. Pat his head and tell him he's still your super special little guy. Isn't that what you want to do?"

But he couldn't look at Simon without wanting to kill someone.

“And even back then, in that stupid coffee shop. When I saw you sitting on the couch with Simon, even then that felt wrong to me—i should have been the one sitting with you. The one that made you laugh like that. I couldn't get rid of that feeling. That it should have been me.”

↑ Their bitterness, anger, jealousy, and envy towards the person who had the person they wanted and in general has the same energy in my opinion.

They both were angry and jealous of people who had it better or they considered to be good—Like, that was why Jace hated Simon so much at first, because Simon was everything Jace thought he'd never get to be, he just didn't realize it.—And Céline was angry of the kids in the academy who had loving parents and good childhoods, and weren't damaged like she was—they both were angry because somebody was someone or had something they thought they'd never get to be or have. (In Céline's case she never actually got it, not really.)

They both like to wander around when upset.

They both aren't too fond of the Silent Brothers. And I think that has to do with their head being full of certain things they don't want others to know, and the Silent Brothers speak in your mind, almost like they're reading your thoughts.

They're both observant, which could be from growing up in abusive and toxic environments but could also just be they're observant people.

They both can tell when someone is off. We see this when Céline sees through Valentine's mask. Jace often saw through the lies of people in TMI and still does.

And the both hate being pitied. Like it angers them when people pity them, we see that with Jace quite often in TMI, but we see it when Dominique says this: “Every Downworlder in Paris knows about poor Céline Montclaire, wandering the city like a murderous little Éponine. We all feel a little sorry for you.”

And then Céline thought this: Céline lived with a steady, secret simmer of rage, but now she felt it boiling over.

↑ Again, the above reminds me of Jace. He lived with anger that he kept under control but would boil over when triggered.

They're both sensitive. And get hurt easily.

“I wish I could be more like you,” she admitted.

In what sense?

“You know, just shut off my feelings? Feel nothing. For anybody.”

There was a long pause, and she wondered if she had offended him. Was that even possible? Finally, his cool, steady voice spoke.

This is a wish you should dispense with. Feeling is what makes us human. Even the most difficult feelings. Perhaps especially those. Love, loss, longing—this is what it means to truly be alive.

“I think—my father was sorry he had a parabatai,” he said. “Now I have to go live with a man my father was sorry about. I don't want to be weak, I don't want to be sorry. I want to be the best.”

If you pretend to feel nothing, the pretense may become true, said Jem. That would be a pity.

↑ They both wished to feel nothing, and had Jem tell them that wasn't as great as they thought. But they both still desperately wanted to not feel.

When she was a child, her parents had often refused her iratzes after training sessions, especially when her injuries were caused by her own mistakes. Let the pain remind you to do better next time, they told her. All these years later she was still making the same mistakes.

“No! it's better for your parents not to know it happened at all. It was just bad luck that one of them got me. I'm a good fighter,” Jonathan protested sharply.

“It's my fault I got hurt,” said Jonathan. “I know excuses are for incompetents. It won't happen again.”

↑ this bit on making mistakes, or when getting hurt.

Céline always carried a misericord blade.

↑ Reminds me of someone else who always carries blades.

They both were aware of the consequences of putting a rune on someone that they weren't 100% sure were Nephilim, and it was different circumstances but they did it anyway. Jace gave Clary her first rune and Céline gave Rosemary her first rune (I think).

More furious at her own instinct for mercy. After all, her parents had never shown any to her. Her parents had done their best to teach her that mercy was weakness, and cruelty was strength.

Jonathan said the word "weakness" with horror. Jem wondered what a man who had drilled a boy to fight like that might have considered weakness.

↑ Mercy, kindness, gentleness, etc. Was taught as weakness to them both growing up.

They both hate being predictable. Kinda like when Rosemary knew Céline would keep her secret. Céline hated that she knew that. Remember in CoA when everyone was guessing that Jace said no to Valentine, and he hated it.

They both never really felt like they were ever a kid. Because again, the environment they grew up in forced them to grow up faster than they should have. Which is why Jace didn't think of himself as one when he threw himself into battle.

like Jace I don't think Céline liked to upset the balance of things, meaning they don't pry and don't pressure. Which often gets them labeled as "not too bright" or "unobservant" they're both observant, they just don't say it out-loud. Jace is definitely like this, but I see Céline as this too. Stephen said she always needed to be told what to do, but I don't think it was that exactly, I think she just didn't like to upset things. Which growing up in an abusive and toxic environment does that. But I think it's also just part of who they are.

That sweet and obedient daughter of the provençal countryside. They knew how devoted she was to her parents. Such a dutiful daughter.

↑ Valentine often called Jace his obedient son. I see Jace in this part as well. Sebastian called him Valentine's "sweet boy."

She could close the door on the past, start again. She could choose a life without pain, without suffering or fear.

But who would she be without pain?

This also reminds me of Jace. Obviously he did end up choosing to walk away from Valentine. But there are times he doubted, because in reality he himself didn't know who he was without the pain he'd experienced, without his past with Valentine. And they both believed that the pain and suffering had made them stronger. Jace later knows that isn't true, but I see the similarity there.

They're both said to have vulnerability about them that made you wan to protect them. To keep them safe. Jocelyn said you couldn't really hate Céline, and I think it's kinda the same with Jace.

Both of them refused to ask for help. Thinking they could do it all on their own.

Céline could tell how much it hurt—and how determined the woman was to reveal no pain. She knelt by her side. Rosemary flinched away. “Let me see—I can help."

“Tell me what happened first.” She tried to yank her wrist back, but his grip was incredibly strong. “I can help you.” — this is in Clary's pov.

↑ Their willingness to help the pretty stranger they didn't know.

They both often felt they didn't have a choice in some things.

They both felt achingly alone at some point. And very much misunderstood.

The thought of losing the only family they ever had scared them, and they were willing to do anything to keep them. Even if in Céline's case hers wasn't that real.

They were both said to be beautiful, and breakable. Fragile almost. These were Jocelyn's words. That beautiful things were easily broken.

They both grew up denied of love and care.

Céline had low self esteem in a lot of areas. We often see Jace as the confident character who doesn't have insecurities or low self-esteem. but he does. Jace didn't like himself, his looks don't play a part here, he didn't like himself. He actually didn't feel good enough or worth much, that's why he made so many superiority jokes, because he truly didn't feel good enough but had to make everyone believe he did. Céline didn't feel good enough either, but she tried not to let it show.

Their childhood gave them bad coping mechanisms and suicidal tendencies. They both self harmed in ways, believing that pain made you stronger is one of them.

We often look over the fact that while some of Jace's mental struggles did come from the trauma of his childhood and growing up around war, that he was already at a high risk with a mother who experienced similar things. Because if you have a parent who has mental illness the offspring are at higher risk of developing one. And his childhood didn't help with that.

And we know what they both truly wanted was to be loved and safe. Really. Jace always thought he wanted to fight all the time, but by the end of tmi he realized he just truly wanted to be happy and left alone, he just wanted Clary and his family. Céline wanted that too, but she never got it.

You all realize they would understand each other, right? Like if Cassie ever did something where they somehow met, Céline would understand Jace and he would understand her.

Céline would have never raised Jace with anything but love and care. She would have made sure he never knew a childhood like hers. But he did. He ended up knowing what that was like. And it would have broken her even more to know that.

But she would probably stab Valentine in the face, which I'd like to see.

Friendly reminder that Jace looks like her around the eyes (no I won't shut up about this.)

There's probably more but until we learn more we won't know. Just remember he may be a Herondale but Céline is also there.

@khaleesiofalicante I tagged you 😎

#celine montclaire #celine herondale #jace herondale #jace lightwood herondale #tsc #the shadowhuter chronicles #tst #the secret treasons

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y0itsbri · 3 years

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gallavich week 2021 - day 3 - travel au as always inspo from @ianandmickeygallavich // @gallavichthings

Stuck with You

Words: 5.5k

Summary: A winter storm strands a desperate-to-return-to-Chicago Ian at the airport with no car. A dark-haired mysterious man in an expensive-looking leather jacket and sunglasses seems to be his only hope. Ian grows suspicious of the man's true intentions as they embark on their road trip with some funky excursions. The two men find what need they most in each other.

"Fiona, I'm literally at the gate. I'm about to board now!" Ian was lying straight out of his ass as he was running through the bustling airport, dragging his bag as fast as the bent-as-all-hell wheels on the suitcase would allow him. He had not, in fact, woken up to his first alarm... or second. Maybe he was running extremely late despite Fiona's near-constant nagging to get there early in case something happens again.

Ian mumbled a quiet "Fuck" as his suitcase's wheel locked up again. He did not have time for this. His huffed cursing was apparently heard by Fiona's supersonic hearing. A woman in white capris glared his way. Okay, maybe it wasn't that quiet.

"Ian!" Fiona's voice rang through his phone. She sounded frantic and exhausted. She had every right to be, but Ian was not in the mood for an early morning guilt trip. "What happened? And you better stop fuckin' lying to me and get your ass-"

"Fi, I gotta go, love you, talk to you later, promise," he mumbled all the formalities as genuinely as he could muster before he hung up. He had tuned his attention into his surroundings and noticed an absurd about of people hovered around the rent-a-car station while the airport gates nearly empty, except for the occasional airport employees trying to reason with irritated passengers.

Sure enough, something did happen, as Fiona would have happily predicted. There was a massive winter storm and all flights had been delayed until further notice. Ian idly walked to his gate just to make sure he wasn't going to miss his plane like he had the day before. The gate was a fuckin' ghost town besides one man in an expensive-looking studded leather jacket and shiny dark hair to match. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of purple sunglasses, despite the fact that they were currently indoors.

Ian instinctively stepped closer to the man to maybe strike up a conversation. It wasn't something he was so fond of doing, but if he was trapped at an airport, he might as well make friends. Anything to distract his anxious thoughts about not making it back to Chicago in time for his interview. He couldn't even look at his phone, knowing Fiona was probably blowing it up right now about how he has to get his shit together. He knows.

In the midst of his inner debate, Ian oh-so-gracefully tripped over a chair -- the wheels of his suitcase coming to a halt, causing the bag to loudly clang against a nearby pole.

The man jumped up with a startle, yanking off his glasses and swiftly reaching into his boot and pulling out a small knife. He slowly took in the fact that there was no threat -- just a giant blushing ginger wincing at the knife pointed his direction.

The man sighed and tucked his knife away, "Shit, I thought you were trying to rob me or something."

Ian eyed a small black backpack tucked behind the man's legs. That bag was sleek and tiny compared to Ian's nightmare of a bag.

"Ain't look like you got much to steal," Ian joked, immediately regretting his decision to be witty after literally just being held at knifepoint. Maybe the mysterious man would appreciate his charm.

The man frowned. Okay, maybe Ian's humor wasn't for everyone.

"And how did you get that knife through security?" Ian asked in attempt to ease the tension a bit.

"None of your damn business." The man retorted shortly, but his eyes lingered over Ian for a moment longer, amused.

"Right." Ian replied after a moment. That was fair. He was a stranger, after all. But there was something about this man that was so intriguing. The man stood nearly half a foot shorter than Ian and clearly had the personality to make up for it. Ian was most definitely not in the mood to almost get stabbed again so he decided to lay off the talking, making an obvious show of adverting his gaze from the gorgeous leather-clad man in front of him.

"Uh.. hey," the man spoke up again as he looked around the terminal. "Did I miss the flight or did everyone just get abducted by aliens or some shit?"

Ian was amused at the aliens bit. Who even was this guy?

"It looks like all flights are delayed. Some freak super-storm coming in, don't want any crashes or anything."

"Buncha pussies," the dark-haired man grumbled as he stood up.

"Where are you going?" Shut up, Ian, shut up shut up shut up.

"Rent-a-car? Is that okay with you?" The guy pulled his bag over his shoulder, but turned his gaze back to Ian.

"Uh, yeah, I mean -- sorry, never mind." Nice going, Ian.

"I'm just busting your balls, man. Just gotta get back to Chicago before the weekend. Can't just sit around like a little bitch and wait for a storm to pass like some people." The enigmatic man teased him.

Ian rolled his eyes, but followed him like a lost puppy. "You're not the only one. I have an interview in Chicago in two days and I really can't miss it." Ian pointed back towards the rent-a-car area when the man didn't question him any further. "Don't think you'll have much luck with that, by the way. They looked almost sold outta cars when I walked past here earlier."

"So you walked past the rent-a-car instead of actually getting one? Real smart, Stumbles."

Ian cringed at the nickname. So much for first impressions. The man pulled out his phone from the tight pocket of his pants and stopped abruptly, Ian almost losing his balance to keep from stumbling into the guy. Again. Ian was literally swept up off his feet by this dude. He had to get himself in control before he lost what remained of his dignity.

"Ey' Dimitri, I need a car." The guy said into the phone. Ian awkwardly waited around. It wasn't like they made any plans of travelling together but they were in the middle of a conversation, he couldn't just leave. It wouldn't be polite. Not that much about this guy was polite to begin with. But they had something going at least. The phone conversation got heated very quickly. Now Ian could very clearly see why he was the type of person to have a knife in arm's reach at any given notice.

"I know you have fuckin' plenty. I'll drop it off next time I see Yevgeny, you know I'm good for it. I gotta job this weekend- It is your fuckin' business when your bitch of a wife- Oh c'mon, you can admit she's a bit of a bitch. Whatever- Or do you wanna tell Svetlana that your incompetent ass is the reason why she ain't getting her payment- or do you plan on paying for that shit? Didn't think so. Black cat. Red one."

There was definitely a lot to unpack and as curious as Ian was, he was definitely not gonna ask... yet.

"Red, you comin'?" The dark-haired man called over his shoulder as he started heading towards the airport's exit.

"Me?" Way to play it cool, Ian.

"No. The other giant ginger standing behind you. Yes, you."

"My name's Ian, by the way."

"Don't care."

"Where are we going?"

"Chicago."

Together but not together, they waited for... Dimitri, maybe? The shorter man beside Ian was tapping around on his phone and hadn't said a word about their plans beyond the simple 'Chicago.'

Right as Ian got the nerve to ask, a sleek black jaguar came to a halt on the street in front of them. Ian only knew a bit about cars because his brother liked fixing them up -- and man, was this a sick car. Lip would be jealous. Ian fought the urge to take a photo of the car -- unsure what the boundaries were in situations like this.

Ian's mystery man sauntered over to the driver's seat, exchanging a loaded handshake before switching places with the driver, who was apparently not Dimitri.

The passenger side window rolled down, revealing a bright red interior. "Coming, princess?"

Ian placed his suitcase in the backseat before hopping in the front himself.

"Do I ever get to know your name, princess?" Ian teased back. But he was genuinely curious.

The guy smirked, "Buckle up. I ain't slowing down for anything." And true to his word, they sped out of the parking lot, earning a few well-deserved horns from cars that they had cut off. Ian cringed.

Ian waited until they were on the interstate to speak again, not wanting to be the cause for an accident with this guy's hectic driving and the snow lightly falling on the road in front of them. Maybe he shouldn't be getting into cars with mysterious strangers. Maybe he should have thought of that before he did, in fact, get into a car with a mysterious stranger.

Ian decided to try again, "Ya know, if you don't tell me your name, I'm just going to start calling you something real stupid, like Bob or Cookie or Raven."

"Raven is actually kinda badass." The man replied, not taking his eyes off the road, but the side of his mouth quirking upward.

This guy was impossible, "Ugh."

"Ya know, you're kind of annoying for a passenger who should be grateful that I'm saving your ass. I could dump you on the side of the road, make you hitch hike all the way to Chicago or wherever the hell you end up. Probably some real weirdos out there wanting to pick up a pretty boy like you."

"Didn't ask to be saved." Ian blushed despite his best efforts to play it cool.

"No? So you were just following me all around the airport, why?" He glanced at Ian this time.

Yeah, he had a point. "Like I said, I got an interview I can't miss. My sister set it up for me and she would actually have my ass if I fucked this up. I'm talking like this-is-the-final-straw." Ian sighed, running his hands up and down his face.

"Hmm. You'll make it. I'm a good driver." He smirked. He lifted his hand off the wheel as if he were about to touch Ian's shoulder or something, but decided against it at the last second.

"Good and fast are not equivalent." Ian's breath hitched.

"Says you." The guy drummed his fingers.

"Says most people. And probably the cops." Ian was not about to spend a night in the slammer.

"Fuck the cops." He said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yeah."

The conversation died down and a rock ballad lulled over the car's exquisite sound system. Damn, this was a nice car.

"Mickey." The guy murmured, barely audible over the bass.

"What?" Like the mouse?

"My name's Mickey, by the way." He glanced over at Ian.

Oh. "Kinda badass." Ian returned with eye contact a smirk.

Mickey smiled at the road ahead of them.

"Mornin', Sleeping Beauty." Mickey called out from the driver's seat, patting Ian's shoulder. Ian could have sworn Mickey's hand lingered a bit longer than necessary, but maybe he was just reading into the interaction.

Ian must have fallen asleep sometime during the drive, because now they were parking in the parking lot of a diner. Red neon lights highlighted the exterior, giving the place a sultry vibe. Odd vibe for an off-the-road diner, but Ian supposed it could be weirder.

Mickey hopped out of the car and shoved his hands into the pocket in his leather jacket, searching for something.

After a moment, Ian slowly stretched his legs out as he crawled out of the car and found Mickey smoking a cigarette while leaning against the hood of the car. It was picture perfect. Mickey hadn't noticed him emerge yet, so Ian decided to give into his urges as he snapped a picture of the beautiful man in front of him -- all black shadows and glowing red.

Ian closed the car door and Mickey stubbed out his cigarette and led them inside. "Usual table," he said to the hostess, who led them to a table set for two towards the back of the establishment.

Yeah, this was weird. Who the fuck had a 'usual table' at a joint off the highway in the middle of nowhere?

Inside hung the heads of exotic animals that Ian hoped were fake. Once they were sat across from each other, Mickey ordered a short stack of pancakes and Ian ordered a hamburger and fries -- the first thing he saw on the menu.

"So, brunch and tigers? What is this place?" Ian mused, curiosity and now suspicion overtaking him.

"Cool, huh? Got connections." Mickey went back to rearranging the condiments and sugars on their table.

"Mhm." Ian was skeptical, but didn't want to pry. He seemed to be on this guy's good side for now.

Ian spent the better part of their stay just taking in everything around them. The walls were lined with playing cards, posters from bands he's never heard of, bizarre news articles, lights swung and tacked up with a casual precision, literal jewelry and crowns under display cases, and he could've sworn there was sparkles mixed into the red paint covering the walls. It was like a goblin's cave or something.

Occasionally, he would look up at Mickey, who would look away almost instantly -- like he'd been caught in the middle of something. Planning something? Ian couldn't tell if Mickey's cheeks were actually blushing red or if it was just the lighting. Probably for the best because Ian blushed like a motherfucker whenever he held Mickey's eyes for too long.

Luckily, the waitress brought over their food before Ian could say something stupid. Ian's hamburger and fries were places in a classic red boat with black and white checkered paper. The burger was massive and had a flamingo pick placed in the center of it. Mickey's pancakes were covered in bananas, blueberries, and powdered sugar. The waitress also set down a glass elephant bottle filled with, what looked like, maple syrup. The waitress just smiled at them and walked away without another word. This place was strange. And Ian couldn't shake that feeling.

About halfway through eating, Ian had enough of the odd vibes and promptly excused himself to go to the bathroom. He had to get out of here, forgo his luggage in the fancy ass car. He didn't care if he'd have to hitch hike at this point. He washed his hands in the bathroom sink, planning when to make his escape, when the door swung open.

"Ian." Mickey looked genuinely concerned. No stupid nickname. Ian. "What's wrong, man? You looked pretty sick back there. Is it food poisoning? I'll give Anakin a fuckin' piece of my mind if he didn't cook that fuckin' burger. He knows better than to fuck with me." He rattled off.

Ian felt flighty and tried to take off during Mickey's rage-induced ramble but an arm gripped his bicep, stopping him in his tracks.

"Hey, Ian, look at me." That was the problem. Ian couldn't stop looking at him. He would probably do anything he asked. And that was fucking dangerous. He was a stranger with connections. That couldn't lead to anything good.

Ian finally made eye contact and the grip on his arm loosened, gently sliding towards his wrist before falling back to Mickey's side.

"Promise me you won't kill me." Ian blurted out.

Mickey's eyebrows nearly flew off his face, "Kill you? Where the fuck is this coming from? You think I hate you or something?"

"Well, maybe, I don't know. This is weird."

"Maybe." Mickey paused, actually making an effort to see this whole strange situation from Ian's perspective. "But I like weird."

Ian stayed silent.

"I promise I'm not going to kill you. I promise that I'm going to get you back to Chicago for your interview. I promise we're all good, okay?"

The tension in Ian's shoulder's visibly relaxed and he released a breath he didn't know he had been holding. But that confession still doesn't explain this weird excursion.

"Why does everyone here know you?" Ian finally asked, swallowing his nerves.

This was not a conversation for the men's bathroom, but here they were anyways.

Mickey looked a bit embarrassed. "Used to live a few towns over with my ex-wife-"

"Ex-wife?" Ian nearly choked.

"Svetlana. Fuckin' disaster. But I used to come here with my son, Yev, on special occasions when his mom was out. He always loved it -- thought he was the king or some shit."

"Oh."

"Don't see the kid as much anymore, but this place still has the best fuckin' pancakes so we go when we can."

"So this isn't a sting operation to kidnap me?"

Mickey rolled his eyes, "You're an idiot. I actually happen to like you."

"Yeah, me too."

"So glad you like yourself, champ."

"Oh, fuck me." Ian groaned.

"Maybe later." Mickey smiled too sweetly for someone who had just insinuated what they had.

They returned to their table, finishing off what they could. Mickey had insisted he pay for both of their meals -- reparation for nearly giving Ian a heart attack and fleeing off to fucking Mexico or something. The waitress collected their tab and walked away with a wink, "Have fun tonight, boys."

"See ya 'round, Geneva." Mickey called, "Always in my fuckin' business." But Ian could tell it was meant with nothing but fondness.

Mickey held gave a two finger salute to the hostess on his way out before holding the lion-studded doors and turning to face Ian, "We're in this together, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Ian didn't fall asleep in the car this time. Instead, they played the license plate game and carried impersonal conversation in between stops at gas stations and fast food restaurants.

"Books or movies?" Ian read from his phone.

"What kind of fuckin' question is that?"

"From the online list you made me look up!"

"Yeah, because you suck at coming up with questions!"

"Whatever. Books or movies?"

"Movies, duh."

"Aw, c'mon, you don't like books? When was the last time you even read a book?"

Mickey flipped him off, "What about you, smartass? You prefer books over movies?"

"Well, no..."

"Well, exactly."

"Cats or dogs?" Ian asked. "I've never had either, but dogs are cool."

"Yeah, 'cause you act like one."

Ian gasped, mocking an expression of hurt. "I bet you're a dog person, though."

"Yeah, why're you so sure about that?"

"They're all tough and shit."

"I got a cat back home. She's tougher than any dog I know."

"What's her name?"

"Indy."

"Aw, softy."

"It's short for Indica, clearly we're cool."

Ian gave an even more exaggerated "Aww."

"Shut up, next question."

They had missed the worst of the winter storm that had threatened their flight and gotten them in this situation to begin with. It was starting to get dark and while Mickey assured Ian that he could drive through the night, Ian insisted they could stop at a hotel and still make it back before his interview. Truthfully, he didn't want to be involved in a luxury car crash with a maybe Russian mobster. He couldn't pinpoint Mickey, but that's what he had currently decided on.

They had pulled off into the lot of a pink hotel. Mickey had gotten them two rooms, side-by-side. Instead of going up to his room and passing out like Ian had expected, Mickey headed straight towards the hotel bar -- ordering a mojito and a vodka tonic and making friendly talk with the waitress in a very low cut red shirt like they were old friends. Mickey was nothing like Ian expected.

Ian headed up to his room to drop off his suitcase and call Fiona back, sure she was going to disown him right then and there for avoiding her calls all day.

Ian opted against going down to the bar and instead watched reruns on the hotel tv. Alcohol didn't really mix well with his meds and he didn't want a hangover if they were going to be in a car all day tomorrow -- especially a nice car like that. Yeah, he wasn't puking in that anytime soon if he could help it.

He took a long, hot shower, indulging in the hotel's eucalyptus-scented body wash before settling in for the night.

Ian was resting peacefully until he heard a blood-curdling scream next door. Mickey was next door. Mickey.

Ian leapt out of bed, grabbing nothing but his shirt before frantically knocking on Mickey's door. C'mon Mickey, don't be dead. C'mon. C'mon.

Mickey swung open the door rubbing sleep from his eyes, "Ian?"

"Uh, hi. I heard screaming. Just making sure you're not being murdered."

"Shit, yeah. I get night terrors sometimes. I meant to mention that to you, but it must have slipped my mind after a few drinks. Didn't see you down there?"

"I called it an early night," Ian replied guiltily. He felt bad if Mickey was waiting for him. But he didn't know.

"Yeah... anything else?" Mickey looked Ian up and down. Ian was suddenly hyper aware he was standing in front of Mickey in only his boxers.

"Um, no." Ian glanced around nervously.

"Great." Mickey shut the door. Whatever. Ian turned to open his door, but it wouldn't open. He searched his pants for the key card only to be reminded that he was not, in fact, wearing pants. Fucking great indeed.

Ian knocked on Mickey's door again.

"What?" He grumbled with a tooth pick between his teeth. "'m not fuckin' screamin' anymore."

"I locked myself out."

"Of course you did." Mickey rubbed a hand down his face, "You ain't goin' down to the front desk in your underwear and I'm not goin' down there either so it looks like you can either come with me or sleep in the hallway, your choice."

Some choice.

Ian followed Mickey into his room, the same layout as Ian's -- just mirrored. Mickey tossed a blanket at him and then collapsed back into the pillows himself.

Ian tried to make himself comfortable on the ground but all he was going to do was bruise his fuckin' spine and freeze his ass off because apparently Mickey likes to sleep in Antarctica.

"Fuckin' cold." Ian mumbled, cocooned in his one tiny hotel-grade blanket that hardly covered his long body.

Mickey didn't open his eyes, but he lifted the comforter on the bed, "Get in here, Frosty."

Ian hesitated. But he was really fucking cold. He made sure not to touch Mickey at all as he crawled under the covers, laying as still as he could on the edge of the mattress. Mickey sighed and scooted his back into Ian's chest, grabbed Ian's arm, and draped it around his waist. "There."

Ian was still for a moment before settling into the warmth.

"Mickey." He said softly. He wasn't even sure if Mickey had heard him.

"What?"

"Is that your real name? Mickey?"

Mickey sighed, "Mikhailo."

"Hmm. I like Mikhailo. It's like Mick-halo, like you're an angel."

"Baby, you've met me. There ain't nothing good about me. I'm more like the devil."

"Why's that?"

"Dude, I almost knifed you when we first met."

"I had that coming, though."

"Maybe so."

"Is that all?"

"Fuckin' terrorized my neighborhood as a kid."

"Me too, you ain't special. Got anything else?"

"I'm a raging homo."

Ian rolled his eyes. "Me too. Anything else?"

"Can't do enough for my own kid."

Ian was quiet so Mickey continued.

"Svet won't keep him in Chicago where my job is. I don't wanna be the asshole to choose work over my kid, but I can't just up and leave, either."

"Yeah, but it sounds like you visit him a lot. He must know you love him, though. Bet you're a better father than mine."

"Yeah, mine too. Ain't hard to beat. He's a real dick. I don't wanna be anything like that piece of shit."

Ian squeezing his grip around Mickey's waist. "You're not. I'm still betting you're all things good."

"Hmm."

"Guess we'll just have to see."

"Guess so."

A moment passed before Mickey spoke again.

"Go to sleep, stupid."

"Goodnight, Mick-halo."

Ian nestled his head into Mickey's hair, smelling the eucalyptus on his as well. The two not-strangers drifted off together.

Ian woke up after Mickey, who was already packing up his oddly tiny back pack again. And Ian's suitcase. He took a moment to recall last night's events.

"How the fuck did you get that?"

"Morning to you, too." Mickey tossed a prepacked muffin at Ian's half asleep body. "Went to the front desk for a spare key after continental breakfast, duh. Eat up, we're leaving in 10."

Ian groaned and pulled the covers over his head. He felt a weight on the mattress beside him. He peeked from behind the blanket to see that Mickey had sat down and was currently staring at his legs? Ass? Who knew. Turns out 'thighs' was the correct answer as he set his hand on the outer part of Ian's right thigh. Just resting it there for a moment before getting up.

"Fine, we're leaving in 15."

Satisfied, Ian closed his eyes for a few minutes, feeling the ghost of Mickey on his leg. He was so warm. It was like his heart was on fire.

They ended up leaving 10 minutes after Mickey's initial 15 were up. But it wasn't Ian's fault that there was a hold-up at the front desk. Something about a scheduling conflict between a drag show and a speech contest. Hell, Mickey thought they should combine the two events and call it a day.

Back in the car, Mickey had some upbeat indie music playing this morning while they circled around the old town to find a gas station.

"Ya want anything?" Mickey asked before he turned away from the pump and towards the building, patting down his ass to make sure he had his wallet.

Ian was distracted by the patting for a moment before replying. "Uh, maybe a Gatorade or something?"

Mickey tapped the hood of the car twice instead of replying verbally, but the message was received nonetheless.

Ian pulled up the picture he had taken yesterday of Mickey in front of the bizarre diner, moments before he thought he was being hunted for sport. It was beautiful. He was beautiful.

After a moment, the driver's side door swung open, "Whatcha lookin' at, Smiles? Texting your girlfriend?" Mickey teased as he closed the gas tank and hopped in with a coffee balancing in one hand and three different flavors of Gatorade in the other.

"Nothing." Damn, Ian. Like that ain't an obvious lie.

"Ain't nothing, lemme see." Mickey took Ian's phone and dropped the Gatorades on his lap.

"Ouch! Well, thanks -- for these -- but give me my phone back!"

"Is that me?"

No sense in lying now. He was literally looking at it. "Uh, yeah. Thought it looked cool."

"That's dope as fuck, man. Send that shit to me, I wanna post it on my Instagram."

Ian certainly hadn't expected that response. But when had Mickey ever been what he expected?

"I don't have your number." And he wasn't asking for his number like some school girl. Mickey had literally requested he send him something. Ian had no idea why he felt so ridiculously nervous.

"Gimme." Mickey made grabby hands for the phone and began to plug in his number before Ian realized that this definitely counted as distracted driving in a very nice car. "Done."

Done.

The morning and afternoon went by pretty quickly. Mickey sang along to some pop songs while drumming his hands on the steering wheel. Ian took some photos of the inside of the car, earning some light teasing from Mickey. Shut up, this might be my only time in a car worth more than ten grand.

Ian watched the highway and the grass blurring past his window when he suddenly remembered the small notepad and pen he had swiped from Mickey's hotel room.

Mickey looked pretty distracted, so Ian took it out and began to sketch his profile. The man was too beautiful. He couldn't help himself. With a burst of confidence, he added a note to it before ripping the page out and sticking it in the side pocket of Mickey's back pack. If Mickey saw him, he didn't say anything -- for once -- and Ian was glad for that.

They were nearing Illinois state lines, so they had to get into travel specifics. Ian gave him the address to his apartment. Both being Southside, Mickey knew the area well enough that he wouldn't need directions until last minute.

Ian figured now was as good as time as any to ask, "What are you doing in Chicago?"

Mickey made a face like he was thinking about how much he wanted to explain to Ian. "Well, for one, I live there. Second, you've seen my tattoos right?" He held out his knuckles reading FUCK U-UP. Ian nodded and Mickey relaxed one hand back onto the steering wheel before continuing, "Tattoos were a family ritual. I help my brothers on runs when they need it -- those idiots can't plan for shit by themselves. Makes good money though. I also work part-time at this high-end restaurant downtown. Satisfies my sister that I have a legit job. Ain't too bad either. Lotta sketchy shit goes on, though, but they know I'm good to look the other way for a low low price." He grinned.

"Damn, you sure are something," Ian mused.

"Yup yup. What about you hot-shot? What's the whole deal with this interview?"

Ian sighed. "Never finished high school and uh, I have a mood disorder thing so a lot of places won't even consider me. Got fired from my last job for snapping at the dickhead manager --which was well-deserved by the way -- but still stupid. My sister, Fiona, got me this interview with the magazine company she works for -- she thinks I'm so sick like our mother and that if I don't have a job to keep me stable that I'll just fuck off. But the job would be really cool because I've been into photography and shit since like forever. I don't know, it's stupid. But I really just can't stand to let anyone down again, because I am better. They just don't always believe me."

Mickey frowned, and Ian worried he shared too much. But then Mickey rested his hand on Ian's thigh, "Hey, man. That sounds cool. But it's okay to not be okay. Just be honest with me, and I believe you. Promise?"

"Promise."

Ian's apartment was in sight before he knew it. It was starting to get dark out, but he would still be able to get a good night's sleep before his interview in the morning. Mickey's car definitely did not belong in his neighborhood. It stood out like a sore thumb. He couldn't stay for long if he wanted to leave with the car in tact.

Mickey helped Ian get his suitcase out of the backseat and then leaned against the car, watching Ian with a strange look in his eye. Before Ian could ask, Mickey stalked over to him and leaned up, and pressed his lip's against Ian's. He smelled so sweet. It wasn't the eucalyptus shampoo either -- that had long faded. This was just pure Mickey. Mikhailo.

The moment was over too soon and Ian groaned. Mickey gently patted his cheek, "Don't worry, big guy, you ain't gettin' rid of me this easy. I'll see you soon."

"Soon." Ian repeated back, still a bit dazed in the head.

Mickey smirked as he hopped back into the jaguar and sped off to wherever the fuck it is that Mickey goes.

Ian lugged his bag upstairs, unlocked his door, and plopped down on the couch.

Soon.

After texting Fiona one last time, Ian had turned his phone off to avoid any distractions. Giving in to the urge to text Mickey would definitely be a distraction. He needed routine. At least for tonight.

It was a relatively quiet night in terms of activities. He had microwaved a frozen dinner and watched a couple episodes of Schitt's Creek before taking his meds, brushing his teeth, and heading to bed.

No matter how chill of a night he was planning on having, his mind kept racing with thoughts of Mickey with everything he did. That man was so cool and funny and kind, even if he didn't believe it himself. Ian didn't know what exactly had caused such a reign of self-doubt over him, but they would talk about it someday. Ian wanted him to see how good he was. Mickey just brought long-vanished excitement to Ian's life again. He trusted him and cared for him. And he missed him. They had only spent two days together, but Ian couldn't imagine sleeping without him. He drifted off to sleep thinking about what Mickey would look like in his bed with him.

Ian had gotten up at his first alarm for once and arrived to the interview 15 minutes early. He was genuinely passionate about this job so it was easy to turn up his charm. He would hear a call back later that afternoon, but given that he was pretty sure Fiona was sleeping with his would-be boss's boss, he was almost certain he would get the job.

Ian finally turned his phone on when he got home. One message from Fiona -- reminding him of the interview. But more importantly, three from Mickey. He immediately clicked on Mickey's name, absolutely no use in playing it cool anymore. He couldn't get him out of his head.

Mickey (9:27pm): *image attachment*

Mickey (9:27pm): found this in my bag, i wonder how it got there🤔

Mickey (7:32am): good luck at your interview! hope it was worth literally dragging your ass across the country for

Ian smiled.

Ian (10:06am): I have absolutely no idea how that drawing got there. Maybe trolls? 😇

Ian (10:07am): And your luck helped! I think the interviewer liked me :)

Mickey (10:07am): hopefully he didnt like you too much

Ian (10:09am): SHE liked me a very healthy amount.

Mickey (10:10am): gonna keep it that way

Ian (10:12am): 🙄 Oh Mick. Can't be jealous over something you don't have.

Mickey (10:15am): i have you right where i want you dont you worry your pretty little head

Ian (10:17am): So you think I'm pretty is what I'm hearing?

Mickey (10:18am): i think your annoying go away

Ian (10:19am): I thought I couldn't get rid of you that easy?

Mickey (10:19am): changed my fucking mind

Their texting banter came to a halt when Mickey picked up a shift at his legitimate job. Ian unpacked his ratty old suitcase and cleaned up his apartment while he waited for his phone to ring. From the job... from Mickey.

Right when he was switching loads of laundry, his phone rang. It would be a lie if he said he didn't drop everything and run.

It was his new boss him on his new job. He couldn't hold back his grin as he immediately texted Mickey, then Fiona. He was proud of himself.

Fiona called and they chatted about the job -- omitting the part where he assumed she was sleeping with the boss -- and Ian's road trip -- omitting the part where he kissed his once assumed kidnapper -- and then about Fiona's kids and Carl's lately stunt. He was so invested in his little criminal brother that he almost didn't hear the knock at his door.

"Fi, I gotta call you back. I think I have a delivery or something." Ian wasn't expecting anything.

Ian nearly leapt backwards when he cautiously opened his door (there were no damn peepholes in his building) to find Mickey waiting on his doormat with a grin on his face. "Congrats on the job, man!"

"Oh my God. You're here?"

"Yeah, I told you I would see you soon. I'm a man of my word. And I brought cupcakes." Always the unexpected. "Well minus one. I didn't know which apartment was yours and I went to your neighbor's first and he wouldn't tell me where you lived without a fuckin' cupcake. Greedy asshole." He murmured, quietly smiting the old bastard.

"Mickey." Ian smiled, eyes crinkling with it. "You're good. You're so good."

#gw2021 #gw2021day3 #gallavich week 2021 #shameless #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #my posts #shameless fanfic #shameless fanfiction #gallavich fanfic #gallavich fanfiction

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lukasthemedic · 3 years

Text

Property Brothers Fic

Original posting date - 2016 A03 works

Renovation Hell

Chapter 1

Jonathan gently rubs his fingers against his temples, leaning down on the counter above his barely touched chicken and fruit salad. His hands and arms are covered in particles from this current reno, his legs ache to the point he can barely stand it. Actually, all of him aches. He's been working so hard, so many late nights into early mornings. The unbelievable requests of these homeowners, more additions the further into the already crunched timeline they gave him. Barking orders, stalling the installation of most of the lower level of the house still. He is generally pretty calm, easy going. But he can barely continue to take the filming with this couple.

Jonathan's phone rings, a vivid reminder that he isn't off work, even when he is. "Hey, this is Jonathan." He says as professionally as he can manage into the speaker, keeping one hand leaning against his now throbbing head. He already knows who it is before he even gets an answer back on the staticky other end. "Yeah, I know it looks like it's not coming together as quickly as you had wanted it, but I can assure you--" He's cut off by more hasty, obnoxious comments being spewed from the other line of the husband and wife duo.

The door creaks open quickly and Drew is careful to shut it quietly, with ease. He knows how difficult this renovation has been on Jonathan, how much work he has had to put into it. How much work it has been on all of them, the whole crew.

"I understand, and I know that you'll be the ones living in the house, seeing it for the rest of your lives. But I can assure you, I am going to make the deadline and ensure all of your requests have been met. How about I bring over some new options for the kitchen backsplash and countertops tomorrow morning and you can meet me there and take a look." He blankly explains, as calmly as possible. He gently taps his fingers against his fork, regretting the portion of his salad he already consumed. The insults and stabbing remarks about his work make his stomach turn. He's hates this aspect of trying to be a helpful person to everyone. He should have known, this evening like all the rest, wouldn't come without an interrupting, hellish phone call.

Drew takes a sharp, shaky breathe and makes his way towards his twin, careful to keep himself quiet when he grabs wine glasses and pours them both extremely large servings, sitting down across from Jonathan at the kitchen bar.

Jonathan's face turns a deep scarlet, rolling his eyes as he continues to keep himself from snapping under more demands of the clients on the other end. His palms are sweaty, and Drew can tell he is getting more and more frustrated by the way that his brothers hand tenses up under his when he tries to slide it over his while he taps it against his fork, silently pleading with him to keep his cool.

"Yes, I completely understand. I'll be there as early as you need me to get my work out of the way. I'm sorry there have been so many inconvenient steps for you. I appreciate the opportunity to be able to work with you on your dream home."

"Yeah, dream home is an extremely shit description for having to work with your incompetent crew. I can't believe we have to deal with all of this bullshit. You better be there in the morning when I get there!" Drew hears the guy on the other end of the line yelling at his brother, putting no ease into the way he slams into Jonathan's. Drew is thankful when the guy decides to hang up on him, abruptly ending the phone call, allowing Jonathan to put his phone down and rest his hands against his temples again.

"Hey, don't listen to that." Drew quietly offers to his brother, pushing the drink closer to him. "You know you're the best. They always just get a little frustrated when they can't see the bigger picture until it's finished."

"Yeah, a little." Jonathan scoffs, pushing the wine glass away from him. "I'm not in the mood."

Jonathan finally looks up, Drew melts in his deep green eyes glaring across the room. Drew can tell he is hurt, knowing he is looking at everything around them, avoiding the contact of his own eyes.

Jonathan downs the glass of wine he slid across from himself earlier and stands up, cleaning off his plate and putting it away.

Drew carefully watches him, finally seeing his brother relax a little, and hopes that the rest of the evening can be less tense. Jonathan grabs a bottle of whiskey from their bar and downs a good amount, nearly finishing off what they have left of it. "Do you remember what you said in that interview yesterday." Jonathan asks his brother, not allowing it as a question, rather as a cold statement. He puts the whiskey back, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and facing back to stand with his brother, now face to face with him.

"What do you mean?" Drew sighs, trying to plead with his twin to turn his mood around, not wanting to focus on anything else that could come between them at this point.

Jonathan scoffs, " you don't remember when you gave a tour of the house and told the reporter about how we sleep in separate rooms. How we're not even allowed to come in one another's." Jonathan says coldly, looking back at Drew with daggers in his warm eyes. Drew can see the hurt and confusion on his brothers face, realising just how much he's already had to deal with today, and then bring this back up.

"Jonathan, you know I didn't mean that. She was suspicious. I had to redirect her, you know how much all of this means, for our personal life to stay private and separate from our shows." Drew takes a step closer to his brother, trying to grab for his hips and slide him closer in. "I can only imagine what will be said at the Google interview this weekend for our book." He whispers into Jonathan's ear. "Fanfiction, if we're lucky." He gently kisses his jawline and laughs into his neck.

The master bed room wasn't shown in the tour of their house. In fact, the two rooms that were staged as their own are two of the guests rooms. They have a lot of traffic during shows that are shot in the area, generally having enough rooms in the house and space for the crew to stay, either with them or their parents.

"I'm sorry I'm snapping at you. This renovation is just really difficult. I'm so tired of everyone else feeling like they're the contractors here and not me. Telling me how to do my job, all the extra steps." Jonathan sighs, letting Drew pull him closer. "I missed you today. I didn't see you." He mumbles, hoping Drew will want to stay up for awhile and relax with him even though they have a long day of shooting tomorrow. Two shows, and an interview in the evening. Plus they have an early flight at the end of the week for their Google interviews, which means nights spent in uncomfortable hotel rooms and very little sleep, if any. They always get things booked so tight together when they have to leave the state, so they can accomplish so much in such a little time.

Drew leans in, pulling him as close as their bodies will allow, sculpting to one another. He runs his hands down the sides of his brothers body and bites on his lip, leaving Jonathan shivering with the release of finally having his twin there with him.

Jonathan pulls Drew closer, almost falling into him, completely exhausted and enveloped into his brothers arms, "let's go take a shower and find something to watch." Drew pulls Jonathan's chin up to plant another quick kiss on his lips, pulling his brother along with him up the stairs to the bathroom.

Every stair is another painful reminder to Jonathan that he has so much to finish tomorrow and each step he takes towards the bathroom puts another step in his head about the project. "That guy is such an asshole." He mutters, following suit of his brother towards the bathroom at the end of the hall.

"I know, but don't let it bother you. Soon this reno will be over and we will be on to bigger and better things. Surely with nicer people." He calmly says, hopeful that he is right, because he knows that Jonathan can't take much more. He always has the bulk of the work, and the weight of the projects on him. No wonder he is always at his end.

Jonathan sits on the edge of the bed, plopping his head back and resting his arms under his neck. He could fall asleep so easily right now if he wanted to. But he really needs to stay up and work on some designs for the house, some of the "finishing touches" that the couple has emailed him, adding to the list. "Are you good?" Drew questions, placing an uneasy hand on his brothers thigh, leaning down, towering over his face.

"Yeah." Jonathan sighs. "I just have so much to catch up on now. I'll have to stay up all night toying with these new designs and have to be there really early in the morning. I'm just worn out. I do this for a living. I shouldn't feel this way." He mumbles, arching his back and tossing his hands over his eyes, shielding them from his brothers wondering looks.

Jonathan is a little bit tipsy from the drinks he had earlier, but not enough to feel any better about the situation.

He feels his brothers warm hands travel closer into his thighs, hearing the bed creak as he uses it to get on his knees and feels him rest his head between his legs, face planted in the comforter. "This reno sucks." Drew mumbles, muffled by the bed. He takes a deep breath and brings his head back up to rest on his twins warm legs

Chapter 2

"I know just what you need." Drew says with a sly smirk on his face, peering up at his twin from between his thighs, eyes traveling up his chest. Drew pulls himself up to hover over his brother and adjusts his legs on either side of his twin's hips, gazing down at him. "How bad do you want me?" He mercilessly grins, grabbing a fistful of Jonathan's drywall covered flannel, drawing his lips closer to his face.

Jonathan can't help but melt under the dark stare that Drew is giving him, peering down, grasping his shirt so tightly that his knuckles are beginning to turn white. Just when Jonathan thought that this day was a definite drag down. He knows his brother is always going to be there for him, in more ways than he ever imagined. "Bad, please." Jonathan whines from under his grasp, from the weight of his body grinding down on him. He can't help it when Drew plays him like this, because his brother knows that when he can't have what he wants, he desires it more. Drew loves making his brother beg for him, and Jonathan grows evermore excitedly every time he has to wait for what is coming. "Please, Drew. I want you so ba-" Jonathan is cut off from his twin's mouth, grabbing down and biting hard on his lip, moaning into his brother's mouth. He runs his mouth, slowly along his lips, giving deep tender kisses, careful to keep watching. He loves when Jonathan squirms under him from his touch, head arching back against the bed, eyes closed with anticipation building. "God, yes. Mhmm." Jonathan groans, his brother tracing his lips down his cheek, his jawline. He runs his hands down his sides, pulling his shirt up to expose his bare skin. Jonathan's muscles ache even more from the cool air hitting his exhausted body and he grinds his teeth together, letting out a slow roll of breath between his locked jaws. "Give it to me, Drew." He begs as his brother continues to run his hands and mouth over his chest, looking up to meet his brother's glare only for a second before he continues to trail his mouth down his stomach to his jeans.

"You have to be patient, haven't you learned anything?" Drew chuckles, reaching to unbutton his jeans and slide them carefully down to his ankles, so Jonathan can successfully kick them off onto the floor where his wrinkled and dirty shirt is already piled and waiting. Jonathan knows that Drew will wash him carefully and slowly in the shower, cuddle with him in bed and watch Chopped, or something ridiculous that he loves watching and Drew can't stand, just to make him happy. He knows that even after he's asleep and warm and content, that Drew will grab all of his dirty clothes and wash them before coming to bed. He knows that he will go back and clean up the mess in the kitchen that Jonathan makes when he's so exhausted from coming home and working that all he can think about is something quick enough and a drink to dull the previous hours pain so that he can crawl into bed and manage to get an hour or two of sleep before he hauls back to the renovation site. Jonathan knows that his brother will do this for him, because he loves him.

So, Jonathan is patient, with his brother's touch and his games. Because he knows how Drew enjoys their evenings together. It is rare when they have time together during renovations, shows, flights, etc. He knows that being at home with his twin's touch and his full attention is something he should be patient with. He knows that this game of head now will follow with a blissful shower. That Drew will come back upstairs after cleaning and making some late business calls to producers and emails to interviews and hopeful homebuyers for the show, to cuddle into his brother's warmth while he sleeps and carefully weave himself into his body, trying to wake him and get his attention. That he will want to make him wake up, aroused, and begging to have sex from the touch of Drew. That he will fall back asleep in the arms of his finally equally exhausted brother and they will sleep until the morning draws them up for a quick shower before being dragged back into the hell of this renovation. Jonathan remembers how much he dreads going to the site in the morning and his face becomes less relaxed and content with his brother's touch and he feels Drew stop moving over him.

"I know that look." Drew sighs, pulling himself back up to look into Jonathan's eyes. Drew's eyebrows furrow and he leans down closer to his brother so their mouths are almost touching, Jonathan works at cramming the thoughts back because he hates to think of anything else besides Drew when he is this intimate with him. "Just relax." Drew mumbles, placing one quick sloppy kiss on his twin's lips and travels back down to his briefs. Drew pulls at the tight band with his teeth, grabbing Jonathan's hard cock over the fabric separating them from touching. Drew moans, a deep and intense feeling of pleasure washes over him as he feels his brother throb under his grip. "Please, touch me. I want more." Jonathan begs, grabbing for his underwear. He feels his hand restrained to his side, Drew grinning down at him. "You don't get to decide when it's time. Don't threaten me to make you wait longer." He chuckles, releasing his brothers hand, and going back to his work. He kisses Jonathan over the fabric and shivers, hearing the moans work out from his brother's mouth. Deep growls starting at the back of his throat and escaping every time Drew breathes more hot air onto Jonathan's hard cock. He can barely contain himself any longer, and Drew must know that he is getting more and more restless, because he swiftly pulls his briefs off and tosses them down into the pile with the rest of the clothes.

"I've been waiting all day for you." Drew smirks, slowly drawing his eyes up to meet his brother's desperate stare. He gently kisses his twin on either side of his warm thighs, gently grabbing his balls with one cupped hand, and holding the other under his thigh, careful to be too rough. He knows that Jonathan likes it when he's rough, but after today he just wants to give him something to relax to. Drew finally slides his brother's twitching hot cock in his mouth, already feeling the precum on his tongue as he lets it dance against his brother's skin. He gently slides his fingers against Jonathan's thigh and back to his ass, feeling him arch against his touch, watching his body beg for more. He carefully inserts a finger into him, running his mouth hot down the full length of his cock over and over, making sure Jonathan is getting what he wants. He works his finger against his brother's grinding, begging and ready for more. "God, fuck, please. Yes, Drew, yes." Jonathan is barely able to get the words out of his mouth at the expense of the work his brother's mouth is doing on him. Jonathan places his hands in either side of Drew's head and pushes him downwards onto himself more. Drew loves it when Jonathan has to force him to be more rough. He knows that his brother can barely contain himself without his touch. Drew adds a second finger, slipping his mouth off of his cock and biting down on his thigh. Drew can feel his own skin brushing up tight against his slacks, his cock throbbing so hard he can barely keep the pulsing in his head drowned out, making his eyes weak and his body hungry for more.

Drew carefully laughs, nervously, looking up at his brother. He keeps his hands moving so that his fingers are in sync with Jonathan's grinding body. "I can't wait. I was going to wait, but I can't do it." Drew exclaims, pulling his fingers out from his prepared twin. He is met with the same running thoughts from his brother, when Jonathan quickly leans up, unbuttoning the dress shirt his brother is in, throwing tie, shirt and undershirt all on the floor as hastily as he can. "If you're too tired, we can wait. I don't have to." Drew suggests, facing his brother.

"Shut up." Jonathan rolls his eyes, pulling Drew closer in for a kiss. "I'm never too tired for my time with you." He mumbles into his mouth, grabbing for his slacks and popping the button undone and quickly sliding them off. Drew topples over his brother again, grinding his briefs against Jonathan's hot bare skin, his cock begging to release from all the pressure and teasing. Drew can't say he already doesn't feel the same tension in his own body.

Drew quickly pulls off his own briefs, leaning down for one more quick kiss on Jonathan's neck, hot air makes Jonathan shiver again against his brothers touch. "I love you so much. You know that right." Jonathan's face becomes a deep red, shying away from his brothers fleeting glance as he waits for his comment. Drew pulls Jonathan's face up to look at his by the chin, cupping his jaw. "It's okay." Drew smiles, placing another kiss on his lips. Drew knows how Jonathan feels about talking about love with his brother. He knows that he loves him just as much, but he's always so hesitant to say it when they're having sex. He always assumed that it's connected to the act and not his real emotions, so most of the time Drew just assumed he knows he's being honest and takes the fact alone that he knows Jonathan loves him even if he doesn't say it back often during these times. Jonathan is much more reserved about showing his emotions, especially after how rough it was for Jonathan in his childhood. He's never came right out and said it, but Drew knows. Regardless, Drew can feel his brothers love radiate from him, and that's enough.

"Spit." Drew demands, holding his hand out for Jonathan to take, and he does as he's told. Drew grabs his hard, throbbing cock, running his hand with Jonathan's saliva down it and gently thrusts into Jonathan. "Goddamnit, you feel so fucking good." Jonathan groans, pumping his body to meet the rhythm of his twin, begging for more. Drew continues to thrust harder and harder as Jonathan moans with pleasure while he grinds his body back against Drew's. Drew slides his free hand that isn't helping to balance between his brothers legs and smoothly runs his hand against Jonathan's hard needy cock. He can feel the anticipation building, knowing that Jonathan has had so much foreplay that he can barely contain himself. Drew's thrusting with his hand sliding against Jonathan won't let the him last much longer under the pressure. Drew doesn't think he can last much longer himself at how tight and perfect Jonathan feels under him.

"God Drew, harder, please. Make me come, I'm so close." Jonathan pants, his brother sliding his hand against his shaft quicker and quicker, pounding harder into him. His own eyes are becoming steadily more heavier with the weight of his own orgasm quick approaching. "Fuck Drew, I'm gonna come, I'm coming." Jonathan grabs the comforter around him, gripping fists of whatever he can reach. He throws his head back, spilling warm all down his brothers quick moving hand, down onto his stomach. Drew can barely continue to thrust after watching the pleasure he entertained on his brother, working in harder and harder each time he slams into Jonathan. "Fuck, fuck, Jonathan." He moans, slamming into him a final time, thighs shaking hard from the instant release he feels, soaking up the bliss from the orgasm. Drew slowly pulls out from his brother and lazily hovers over him, licking what Jonathan left for him on his stomach snd twitching cock. "You're always so good." Drew exclaims, sheepishly biting down on his lip, giving his brother a look of lust and hunger. Jonathan pulls his brother down for a sloppy, exhausted kiss before Drew slides off the side of the bed and drags Jonathan behind him towards the shower.

Jonathan is so exhausted, he could fall asleep right now, but Drew turns the steaming water on and Jonathan is instantly enveloped with the warm droplets of water hitting him as his brother adjusts the shower temperature just right. "Come on, I'll wash you." Drew motions for his twin to step into the shower, under the hot stream of water and Jonathan is instantly in heaven. He keeps his eyes closed and focuses on staying awake as Drew hums, massaging shampoo and working it into his hair. He is concerned when Drew stops, but is again relieved when he runs the sponge all over his body with soap, careful to relax every sore muscle that had to deal with the crazy couple on the renovation today.

After Drew finishes washing Jonathan off, he washes himself and dries them both off, padding warm and clean feet towards the bedroom again so he can find them something comfortable to get into. Though they haven't ever discussed it, neither one of them is particular to sleeping without clothes on, even together. Drew slides on some warm flannel sleeping pants and a shirt and hands Jonathan some shorts and a t-shirt as well to throw on while Drew searches the channels to find the chopped marathon Jonathan is so obsessed with every night they get together. Drew is the cold blooded one, it seems, and Jonathan is always so hot when he sleeps, so he can barely keep shorts on, let alone flannel pants to keep him warmer. Drew secretly thinks that Jonathan assumes he will pick up more recipes to make for him, since Drew is the cook of the two, and thinks about teasing him about it, but doesn't. He sees how's relaxed and calm Jonathan finally is, heading towards the bed to greet Drew who has successful found the right channel and pulled back the comforter enough for Jonathan to cuddle up close to him.

Jonathan snuggles up next to his brother, Drew throwing an arm over him. He knows he should be working on the stuff he needs to take to the site tomorrow, but he just wants to relax and enjoy his brother's presence while he falls asleep. He knows that Drew will get up after he falls asleep and work on some stuff for him while he's checking emails and whatnot. Drew is always there to catch the remainder of what Jonathan doesn't get done in a day, and he is so thankful that his brother is there for him when he can't be there for himself. Jonathan tries to stay awake while they're starting the dessert round on this episode, because he doesn't think he has seen it before, but Drew's hand rubbing circles in his hair softly is becoming too much to keep his heavy eyes open. "I do love you, Drew. More than you could ever imagine." Jonathan mumbles into his brother's side, quickly drifting off between powdered sugar, raw shrimp, and the quiet chuckle of his brother as he realizes that he was finally answering him back from earlier. And no; Drew thinks, as he begins to open his laptop to work on emailing, you don't love me more than I could ever imagine, because my love for you is unmeasurable.

#writeblogging #excerpt from a story i'll never write #writeblr #writers on tumblr #free write #writer #lgbtq #lgbt writers #gayass #gay men #gayhot #property brothers #ao3 #ao3fic #ao3 writer #also on ao3 #fanfic #fandom

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impalementation · 4 years

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I think your take on Doublemeat Palace is interesting because to me it's emblematic of all the things that make Season 6 (particularly the back half after "Tabula Rasa") not work for me. It's relentlessly grim and unpleasant and I can feel the writers twisting the plot to make sure every character is as miserable as possible. I'm not opposed to seeing protagonists in a low point or even outright failing. Season 3 of Game of Thrones is some of my favorite TV ever. (1/2)

(2/2) But at a certain point the grim and gritty, if it's not well written, and broken up with some moments of lightness (like Buffy was previously known for) the audience gets numb. It also doesn't help that no one has any agency. (Magicrack, the not!wedding, Dawn doing zip) Again, I'm not opposed to dark plotlines. I'm opposed to incompetent writing.I don't think you can call an episode or an arc "objectively" good if it doesn't work for the majority of the audience it's been written for.

you know, i’m going to disagree about the “grim and gritty” thing. doublemeat palace actually stands out to me as being really funny. and for having a lowkey positive ending. true, the episode is about the soul-sucking prospect of having to do the same dreary work every day. it’s about how much it sometimes sucks to work, which is why you have willow dealing with the fact that recovery is a difficult thing that you have to decide to commit to every day, xander and anya facing the fact that marriage is also a lifelong daily commitment, and buffy taking an unpleasant and mechanical job in order to put food on the table (and the episode plays up that the managers have been doing it for five or ten years). but like, names like “manny the manager”? the weirdo robotic people? the exaggerated camera angles? the swirling cow and chicken? buffy’s constant attempts at jokes? “hot delicious human flesh”? a little old lady with penis monster on her head? this stuff is totally absurdist. i think of doublemeat palace as almost the opposite of episodes like once more with feeling and tabula rasa, where things superficially seem fun but are actually quite dark. doublemeat palace seems superficially unpleasant but actually has a wicked sense of humor. and i say that the ending is positive because it involves both willow and buffy committing to doing work. they’re faced with the opportunity to “cheat” at life like the trio, who steal money instead of having jobs, but ultimately decide to do the right thing. willow doesn’t accept amy’s magic and buffy doesn’t blackmail the company.

that goes for a lot of season six, in my opinion. even late season six. people say there was less humor, and i think that’s true to an extent, but honestly i think it’s more that the tone of the humor changed. it got more sardonic and absurd, but was definitely still there. eg people think of seeing red as the episode where the two Very Bad Things happened, but outside of those scenes a lot of the episode is like, fascinatingly (to me) slapstick (the whole jetpack bonanza? “say goodnight bitch” “goodnight, bitch”). and has that really lovely conversation between buffy and xander at the end. in general, i think a lot more season six episodes have positive endings than it gets a reputation for. i already mentioned the ending of doublemeat palace. but the end of gone has buffy saying she doesn’t want to die, the end of older and far away has buffy deciding to stay home with dawn, the end of as you were has buffy deciding to break up with spike, and the end of grave has buffy, willow, and spike all making important changes for the better. as in, season six can be very dark, yes. but i would not call it a hopeless or cynical kind of dark. it’s about the characters clawing their way out of that dark place. not just a statement that “adulthood sucks.” you can argue that the season didn’t pull off its attempts at lightness, but i very much think they’re there.

at any rate, i agree to an extent that if a work of art isn’t working on most people, that’s probably a sign it’s doing something wrong. but i’d offer the counterpoint that you might also say that if a work of art really works on some people, even if not everyone, it’s probably doing something right. as far as the season as a whole goes, i’d actually take issue, on a basic factual level, with the claim that it didn’t work on the majority of people. not to validate IMDB’s ratings for buffy’s episodes, but it does have an n=~2000 sample size and if you average out the ratings by season, season six doesn’t rank starkly lower than any other season. it’s on the less popular side, but it still hovers around an 8.0 average like most of the other seasons. moreover if you go by the big r/buffy polls (n=~120-310), season six ranks in the top three favorite seasons every year they did one (2011: 3 > 6 > 2, 2012: 6 = 3 > 5, 2013: 6 > 3 > 5, 2014: 3 > 6 > 5, 2017: 5 > 3 > 6). you can see the data for yourself if you scroll down to where it says “surveys”. perfectly possible that there’s data that paints a totally different picture. this is just what i had on hand. that ranking also doesn’t mean the majority of people liked the season, but it does act as evidence that there are a lot of people whom it really worked on. basically, i wouldn’t say that season six is disliked so much as it’s divisive. people seem to either love it or hate it. with a smaller percentage that likes it, but for whom it isn’t a favorite. or who appreciate what it was trying to do but don’t think that it succeeded.

as far as doublemeat palace goes i notice a similar phenomenon. people either really hate it or they really relate to it. either they think the style is bizarre and annoying or they think it’s delightfully surreal. so it really seems like it’s up to the individual whether they want to lend more credence to one audience reaction or another in order to assess quality.

which is why i tend to use my own rubric. when i ask myself whether something is good or bad, i pay a lot of attention to (1) is the work trying to do or say something specific? (2) how unusual or challenging or astute is the thing the work is saying? (3) how coherently is it doing that, and on how many different levels? (4) on a formal level—dialogue, cinematography, costuming, acting, pacing—how fluently was it executed, and how well did the formal choices contribute to the ideas in (1)?

for the record, i don’t think that doublemeat palace is the best episode ever. i just think it’s solid, and fits nicely into what i think the season as a whole was doing. but the reason i say that it’s “objectively” solid according to my personal rubric—which granted, you’re more than welcome to not share—is that (1) it has a pretty clear idea that it’s exploring. the drudgery of work stuff that i mentioned in the first paragraph. moreover i think that idea is really relevant to the season-long topic of “what makes it feel like adulthood sucks”. buffy having to take a menial food job fits into the season’s food motif that i talked about once, which in turn fits character-wise with buffy’s ambivalence about being alive. a somewhat grotesque/humiliating job fits with the mood of material existence being unpleasant. (also, xander impulsively chowing down on food speaks to him probably not being ready for commitment) (2) i think this whole subject was just hella daring for the show to do. having been a poor and suicidally depressed 22 year old in a fucked up sexual relationship while working a menial job, season six and episodes like doublemeat palace just ring true to me as something for a show about growing up to depict. sometimes real life really is a grind, and sometimes it really does feel profane, absurd, surreal, etc. (3) i really like the way that buffy, willow, and xander and anya’s stories all fit the theme of episode but in different ways. i wouldn’t say the episode is a super nuanced take on drudgery, but it does have layers thanks to the three different storylines, and it comes off as clearly conscious and oriented around its theme. there are other parallels like amy, spike, and halfrek each being influences, too. (4) there’s some cool formal execution. not all of it. willow’s story, like a lot of her mid-season-six arc, is kind of tediously on-the-nose. but i enjoy pretty much every second of buffy’s part of the episode, because the direction is so in control of it. and i like the absurdist and genre-conscious playfulness. the soylent green riff, etc.

i also disagree on your assessment of agency in the season but this post is long enough as it is. regardless, i certainly don’t begrudge you your opinion. it’s an often clumsy season. it also sounds like we enjoy things in different ways--i genuinely don’t care too much about writers contorting things in the interest of theme. i’m mainly trying to push against the implications (1) that the season was obviously just trying to be dark and grim, and just for it’s own sake or something. instead of for deliberate and interconnected artistic reasons that one could analyze and talk about, and (2) that there is some monolithic opinion on and response to it.

#s6 #sigh i tried to add a tag and the read more got messed up #man tumblr code is fucked #fyi people are welcome to respond to this but i probably don't have more bandwidth to respond back #also if it wasn't clear from like 70% of this blog i adore season six and it means a lot to me #so at a certain point 'why season six is bad' discourse just kind of makes me sad #even if i respect why people think that and agree with various criticisms

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iffyswriting · 5 years

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Neighbors (Jay Park)

Paring: Jay Park x Black!OC

Genre: Smut, just straight up smut.

Summary: There are ways to compromise with an annoying neighbor.

Word Count: 2064

Note: This is my first imagine on this account, yay!

Waking up out of her sleep, there were loud bumps on the other side of Tiana's wall. Groggily, rubbing the sleep that creased her eyes her initial confusion soon turned into anger when the noise continued, the banging hurting her ears.

She threw her head back onto her pillow, pushing the sides to her ears hoping they would drown it out but to no use. Tiana got out of bed grumbling with irritation as she slid her feet into her slippers, throwing her loose silk robe over her body.

With her hand in a tight fist, she knocked on the door of the offender. Tapping her feet annoyance as the minutes passed, finally the door opened and an attractive man covered in sweat and tattoos, leaned against the frame, his boxers clearly looking hastily thrown on as they hung from his waist, leaving little to no imagination.

"Can I help you?" He licked his plump lips as he spoke and Tiana tried her hardest not to eye his body. She had come there for business and she would state her problem with enough dignity to not let her eyes wander.

"You can actually. You realize it's 2:00 at night and some of us have fucking work in the morning. It'd be appreciated if you could keep it down." Tiana barked heading straight for the point, her arms crossed over her perky bosom.

"I can try and do that but I won't make any promises," Jay responded shrugging his shoulders in such a nonchalant way Tiana was tempted to punch him. She didn't dare look him in his eyes and since she couldn't look upward her only option was the opposite direction, which resulted in her seeing some very interesting developments. "Hey uh, I know I'm cute or whatever but don't think you should keep up eye contact when you're having a conversation with someone?" His tone was teasing and smug, Tiana's fists clenching as the words rolled off his tongue.

"Yeah, well I'll try not to let the landlord know about you being so inconsiderate. Fucking prick." Tiana spoke her ears beginning to burn. Didn't she just say she wouldn't let her eyes wander? She never ever could keep her word. Finishing her piece, she flipped him off and slammed her door behind her fuming slightly.

Things didn't get much better between the neighbors. Jay persisted in the constant noise making and Tia made it known that she wasn't here for it, often slamming her fist on his door or catching him in the morning to work to personally curse him out. Her threats to tell the landlord seemed empty and she would never ever admit that sometimes she wished she was in his bed causing all the noise. Every once and a while Jay would chill out, trying to show he wanted to make amends with Tiana but the girl flipped his endeavors right back in his face constantly reminding him of before.

The two communicated with petty insults and minor arguing, other tenants calling them the married couple who lived in separate rooms. They'd both scoff at the nickname, stating that "I couldn't be with someone so whorish." "I couldn't be with someone so stuck-up." More arguments would come from their mean words and the arguments would constantly be thick with tension.

"Aw, do you miss me so much you have to follow me everywhere? I'm flattered but I'd prefer if I could get just a little breathing room to wash my clothes." Jay spoke strolling into the laundry room, where Tiana happened to be.

"You actually do your own laundry? At least you aren't an incompetent asshole." Tiana offered him a fake smile, unamusing to Jay.

"I do more than just my laundry." He spoke with a wink.

"I'm sorry, but if you're insinuating what I think you are, I'm not interested in a guy who's constantly literally and figuratively drowning his sorrows in pussy," Tiana confessed with a sarcastically sweet shrug taking satisfaction in the twisted up face, Jay made.

"Ohhh that's clever, you got any more insults other then me being a slut?" His stupid smirk never left his face, it's presence agitating even more.

"I mean." Tiana sounded out, slowly seeing that she had to get to his level of comprehension.

"Tia-” He started off, Tiana raising one of her hands to automatically cut him off.

"Don't call me Tia." Tiana responded with an irritated scoff, stuffing her clothes into the washing machine.

"Like I said, Tia-" He repeated once more, Tiana slamming down the top of the washing machine as she whipped towards Jay with an agitated glare.

“All of this disrespect you keep throwing my way, I don’t take lightly so you need to find some fucking chill.”

“You can talk to me in any way you want and treat me like shit but you can’t take it back?”

“I’ve only given you the energy you’ve given me, stop acting surprised.”

“Your hypocrisy is barking in volumes!" Jay answered with a humorless laugh, putting his basket on the floor.

“Hypocrisy!? I feel like the pot is calling the kettle black right now." Tia argued in return her back facing Jay as she turned the button to warm on the washing machine.

"So you know what you’re doing is wrong but you keep doing it?" Jay asked stepping closer to her making Tia lean against the machine for support.

"Huh?" Tia choked out.

"Don't fucking huh me. I'm sick of your mouth, I try and bring the noise down be cordial but you stay on my fucking neck, continuing to be fucking rude. What do you want me to fuck you or something?" His rant ended and Tiana's mouth had drawn closed into a line unable to answer his claims.

That dangerous smirk replaced the frown on his face, his eyes becoming hooded with lust as he looked down at her, boring into her dark brown eyes. Gulping Tiana, pulled up her t-shirt using it as a makeshift fan, reveling in how hot everything was beginning to feel all of a sudden, how claustrophobic she felt.

Inching towards the woman with a new objective in mind Jay tilted her head upward in a swift motion, Tiana taking the hint, immediately smashing her lips into his her hands twisting themselves in the confines of his white tank top.

As things began to escalate, the tension growing in the room, Jay roughly pushed Tiana into the cool metal making her gently gasp into his mouth. Her free hand, that wasn't resting on the back of his neck, slithered down to his jeans rubbing the fabric teasingly. His fingers pressed hard on her hips, easily plopping her on top of the washing machine

"Is this going to make you lose that fucking attitude?" He grunted, snatching at her black leggings tugging them down roughly. With ease, he picked her up and plopped her on top of the tool, his fingers would only brush the front of her panties, going no further than a boundary he set.

"Let's see how well you impress me. Then I’ll think about it." Feeling bold- Tiana, caressed the bulge in his shorts, looking him straight into his eyes. His fingers hooked onto her panties, slipping them off with ease.

Every time he teasingly touched her throbbing clit, her body would shiver and she would attempt to buck back into him hoping a finger or some sort would slip in her efforts futile as she was left provoked with no relief in the end.

“If you’re just going to tease me I might as well get the fu-” She was interrupted from finishing as two thick fingers plunged deep inside of her. She mugged at him and his amused smirk, her frown opening into a large moan as he twisted the fingers inside of her, finger fucking her fast. Before she came, Tiana pulled his fingers out of her, they were dripping with her essence.

“You forget whose pace we’re going at.” She stated simply out of breath, the rush of euphoria on the tip of her tongue.

Tia smacked his hand away from finishing, unbuttoning his pants. She slithered her hand inside of his boxers, rubbing at his erection. Her thumb swiped over his pink tip, his shallow breath pleasing her.

She brought her hand up and down at a rapid unforgiving pace, jacking him off with a devious look. Dribblets of his cum flew onto her hand, his groans trailing into her ear.

They collectively moaned together as he slipped in, Tiana wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck to actively bring him in closer. She caught his lips, immediately slipping her tongue in as he moved forward.

His thrusts were filled with passion as all the pent-up frustration he had for the girl was taken out on her pussy. Jay fucked her roughly, slamming her against the washing machine with force.

“If we’re going to fuck on a washing machine, let’s make it fun.” The first wash cycle was turned on as the machine began to vibrate, causing jolts to flow through both of them

He flipped her body over pressing her into the washing machine as they began to fuck Doggystyle, unknowingly denting in the machinery.

Tiana’s chest heaved up and down as she met him each time he pounded into her, throwing her ass back. He stopped for a moment letting his entire length sit inside of her before sliding out and ramming back into her rocking her forward.

"Oh fuckkkk-" Tiana moaned out, crossing her ankles together as her thighs slapped into the cold metal, Jay's relentless strokes digging her out in the most pleasurable way. Tiana rested her head on the top of washing-machine trying to muffle the whimpers that echoed from her mouth. Jay's hand wrapped around her throat pulling her backward so the whimper she released could be heard clearly.

"No, I want to hear from you. This is loud enough right?" He growled into her ear slamming into her with such precision, Tia's soul was close to escaping her body. He kissed the side of her face, a groan seeping out of him as his dick twitched inside her walls.

“Oh Daddy, I’m about to cum!” She whimpered, her walls clenching and releasing around him as the pressure in her stomach built up, the neverending pleasure overwhelming.

Tiana tried to move away from Jay as her orgasm soared through her body but he pulled her back, she tightened her walls milking him well. Tiana purred as she came, the sweat that had formed on her brow slipping towards her breast.

His strokes became increasingly sloppy, as Tia helped him meet his own end grinding slower on his dick, popping her butt as she maneuvered, Jay let out a throaty moan.

Tiana slipped off of him getting straight on her knees. She held his manhood in her hand, jerking it a bit as his cum splattered across her face, staining the top of her sports bra. She gave a devilishly satisfied smile, his nut dripping down her lip, as she stuck out her tongue to give it a taste.

“You owe me some washing powder.” She said jokingly, licking her lips of his kids.

After what happened in the laundry room, things changed. Noise no longer came from Jay's room anymore and with no reason to keep fussing nor a reason to talk to him, Tiana could only look from afar too afraid to speak.

"We ever gonna talk about- what we did?" Jay finally asked, breaking the game of avoiding they had been playing.

“Is there anything really to talk about?” Tiana replied, unable to look at him in the eye. He took her hand into his own, shrugging his shoulders as he began to speak.

“I just thought we could-” “Hi, Mrs. Garrison!" Tiana spoke to their elderly neighbor, interrupting Jay from finishing. She wasn't sure where he was going with his words, and fear etched into her heart, nervous about what he would say.

"Hello, baby!" The sweet woman responded before turning towards Tiana."I just wanted to mention that you shouldn't use the washing machine for a while. Someone dented the damn thing in and it's been working funny ever since. I'm guessing it was that delinquent Rodney who did it but Jermaine's cheap-ass ain't gonna find the culprit."

“Is that so?” Tiana glanced at Jay, who had a soft blush on his cheeks. Looking at each other knowingly, they snickered quietly to themselves an inside joke being born.

#jay park smut #jay park #smut #khiphop #ambw #thebabymama

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secular-jew · 5 years

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Zio Upbringings and Kvetchings in the Trumpian era

Zio Upbringings and Kvetchings in the Trumpian era.

I'm an American Jew who has does not suffer from moral wavering. I'm also an American Reform Jew that is neither Kashrut nor Kosher-observant.

My synagogue growing up was located in the the Boston suburbs, nestled amidst Protestant communities and dotted with Jews who somehow landed a port shy of Ellis Island. Attended shul almost exclusively during important Holidays and Hebrew school weekends through Bar-Mitvah.

At the age of 10, I remember the start to the Soviet-armament-supplied multilateral Arab-state war against Israel, a Pearl-Harbor style event lasting three harrowing weeks and almost wiping Israel off the map.

Word spread fast to reach North American Jews some 5,500 miles (8,800 kms) to the west. I remember hearing the tragic news Saturday morning during Yom Kippur services. The attack occupied 100% of the Sermon delivered by our Rabbi, who was known as Moses because he actually looked and spoke like Moses. He worried aloud that this could portend the end of our homeland, but concluded that the spark of Zionism was eternal: something that could never be extinguished by modern would-be colonizers. This thought that resonated deeply inside my soul.

This was thankfully a war that Israel survived, but was also a battle that Golda Meir ultimately lost, as she resigned just 1 month following her Labor Party's 1974 election win. Remember her final words as Israel's leader: "I have reached the end of my road."

My first physical intersection with Israel occurred in my late teens and early 20's, when I visited extensively what was the modern chapter of an 4,000-year old ancient Jewish story. Exploring 1979-1982 Israel meant stints to some obvious places; Jerusalem, Tel-Aviv, Haifa, Jaffa, Tiberius, and Eilat, Sinai (including a climb up/down Mt Sinai), the northern Golan Heights, the donut-hole known as Hebron, and the Dome of the Rock, the Jew's oldest extant relic. This is the place where Abraham is said to submitted to God's request that he sacrifice his son. Strange how this shrine has now submitted to a colonialist Islamic overlord.

Then came the Kibbutz experience, which meant living the communal lifestyle in Lower Galilee, sleeping on cots in the international guest quarters, up at 4:30am transported out to the fields, and picking pears until it got so hot, you felt like you were standing on the side of the sun.

All well worth the effort as the work day ended around lunch, at which point, we ate a lot of hummus and squeezed copious quantities of ruby-red Israeli grapefruits chilling in large stainless steel refrigerators. After lunch, we cooled down in the community pool, and in the evenings, hung with our Israeli contemporaries while listening to Bob Marley or the Doors, and smoking hashish for the first time. These are two experiences that transcended culture. I felt so at home, and even gained a Sabra girlfriend by the name of Rachel רָחֵל‎ (pictured).

In short, what I considered to be a typical Reform Jewish-American upbringing. (Or American-Jewish?)

Fast forward to present political leanings. Raised a JFK-liberal (liberal in its true meaning; rooted in idea-tolerance and acceptance of diverse views).

As a middle-schooler, I recollect being enamored by McGovern, although not sure exactly how or why. We were all indoctrinated into believing Nixon (one of the greatest friends to Israel, not something I had any clue about) was innately evil. Looking back at that period now, my political stylings appear to have been crafted mainly by academia, the news media, and my peers - all who seemed driven by a sanitized, 1980's version of TDS that could have been called: 'Nixon Derangement Syndrome.'

Once legal age, I was a 'de rigeur' Democrat, which thankfully lasted only a few short minutes. Not able to cast a vote in the 1976 election, I remember nonetheless favoring Jimmy Carter, a folksy down-to-earth ex-peanut-farmer who seemed very popular in the state of Massachusetts where I grew up. Carter morphed into nothing less than a clueless and spineless "progressive" who oversaw the dismantling of principled American leadership.

In high school, a few of us in the dormitory got to stay up late every night to watch "The Iran Crisis–America Held Hostage: Day "xxx" (where xxx represented the number of days that Iranians held the occupants of our U.S. Embassy hostage). The only TV in the building was located in the dorm-masters living room. I watched sitting next to my hall-mate Abdullah Hussein, the same person who became the King of Jordan and who sits on the Hashemite apartheid throne today. We had many discussions in which I defended Israel and lauded her accomplishments in defeating Arab imperialism, while Abdullah retorted with accusations of Jewish occupation and bloodlust at Deir Yassin. I did not have enough knowledge of the incident or of earlier examples of Arab genocide (such as the Hebron massacre and other Jewish genocides) to counter-punch effectively.

During my college years, I tended towards Democrat "moral" policies and candidates, until that goofy Georgian came along. At first, I naively admired Carter's straightforward folksy persona. But eventually, the President’s peanut incompetence drove me to #WalkAway from a party-lone Democrat.

I was proud of myself for making an independent decision (pun intended) and have little idea if any of my peers followed suit, but suffice to say, I have voted forcefully against Democrats up and down the ticket pretty much ever since, with a few exceptions. I consider Trump an pragmatic Independent masquerading as a Republican, not dissimilar to Democrat Bloomberg - who as Mayor of NYC masqueraded as a Republican.

Much as my odium for Carter drove me to #Jexit and advocate for Reagan, my contempt for Obama's virulently anti-America values drove me to become a self-assertive 'deplorable.' Between Reagan and Trump, every other voting-booth decision appeared to present itself as largely a Hobson's choice between a lesser of two evils.

Although Trump possesses virtually no tact and represents the antithesis of my personal style, I appreciate the skill and speed with which he accomplishes things, from building tall luxury residential condos -- to creating a global brand, to the refurbishment of Wolman's Rink in Central Park. His support of Israel, unlike his predecessors, is legion, documented, and consistent. Trump not only moved the Embassy to its rightful place, not only installed an incredible Ambassador, not only praises Israel at every turn, he constantly rebukes Israel's enemies (who should be everyone's enemies). I love that Israel renamed the Golan Heights in his honor. It's almost better than getting the Rec Room in the Ft. Lauderdale condo named after someone rich in your extended family.

Today? There's no political party for me. The Democrats are a shrill hodgepodge of looney-tunes and ill-tolerant blabbermouths who are given way too much airtime on CNN and what I now call MSLSD (aka, MSDNC).

In terms of policy, On social issues like marriage equality, I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Liberal. On local/national fiscal issues, I'm a decided Conservative. On international affairs, I'm a Hawk who majored in International Relations while attending Sciences-Po in Paris (an excuse to massively inhale croque-monsieurs) and firmly believe the US had relevant ethical global leadership responsibilities, a mantle given up by Europe. This meant leading from the front, not from behind. My philosophy became characterized by the notion that appeasement of tyrannies led by autocrats or theocrats was a policy doomed to failure, proven again and again throughout every civilization. Appeasement in the face of aggression has led to more death and destruction, and more insecurity, not less.

It's becoming evident, sadly, that history promises to repeat. Why? This seems to happen in a matter of a few generations. Case in point: Millennials (aka snowflakes) who are too far removed from the trauma of warfare to comprehend evil. Millennials steeped and indoctrinated in re-written and falsified academic narratives. Millennials who virtue signal intolerantly through the lens of victimization. The generation that seems to have lost a sense of moral courage and severed any emotional ties to the 'never-forget' tragedies that are meant to not be forgotten.

My thoughts on our homeland:

I'm a devout 2-state (Israel-Jordan) Zionist as per the 1917 Balfour Declaration and affirmed by the 1920 San Remo Conference (attended by Chaim Weizmann). I see Israel as an inherently Jewish state in its DNA, but which is secular in its jurisprudence.

Next year in Jerusalem.

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