#Ones that I’ve read excerpts from but never read all the way through—

[dailyrothko]

No, the Popularity of Abstract Art is Not the Result of a CIA PsyOp

If you are unlucky enough to move around the internet these days and talk about art, you’ll find that many “First commenters” will hit you with what they see as some hard truth about your taste in art. Comments usually start with how modern art is “money laundering” always comically misunderstanding what that means. What they are saying is that, of course, rich people use investments as tax shelters and things like expensive antiques and art appraised at high prices to increase their net worth. Oh my god, I’ve been red-pilled. The rich getting richer? I have never heard of such a thing.

What is conveniently left out of this type of comment is that the same valuation and financial shenanigans occur with baseball cards, wine, vacation homes, guitars, and dozens of other things. It does indeed happen with art, but even the kind that the most conservative internet curator can appreciate. After all, Rembrandts are worth money too, you just don’t see many because he’s not making any more of them. The only appropriate response to these people who are, almost inevitably themselves, the worst artists you have ever seen, is silence. It would cruel to ask about their own art because there’s a danger they might actually enjoy such a truly novel experience.

When you are done shaking your head that you just subjected yourself to an argument about the venality of poor artists plotting to make their work valuable after they died, you can certainly then enjoy the accompanying felicity of the revelation they have saved to knock you off your feet: “Abstract art is a CIA PsyOp”

Here one must get ready either to type a lot or to simply say “Except factually” and go along your merry, abstract-art-loving way. But what are the facts? Unsurprisingly with things involving US government covert operations, the facts are not so clear.

Like everything on the internet, you are unlikely to find factual roots to the arguments about government conspiracies and modern art. The mere idea of it is enough to bring blossom for the “I’m not a sheep” crowd, some of whom believe that a gold toilet owning former president is a morally good, honest hard-working man of the people.

The roots of this contention come from a 1973 article in Artforum magazine, where art critic Max Kozloff wrote about post-war American painting in the context of the Cold War, centering around Irving Sandler’s book, The Triumph of American Painting (1970). Kozloff takes on more than just abstract expressionism in his article but condemns the “Self-congratulatory mood”of Sandler’s book and goes on to suggest the rise of abstract expressionism was a “Benevolent form of propaganda”. Kozoloff treads a difficult line here, asserting that abstraction was genuinely important to American art but that its luminaries, “have acquired their present blue-chip status partly through elements in their work that affirm our most recognizable norms and mores.”

While there were rumblings of agreements around Kozloff’s article of broad concerns, it did not give birth to an actual conspiracy theory at the time. The real public apprehension of this idea seems to mostly come from articles written by historian Frances Stonor Saunders in support of her book, “The Cultural Cold War: The CIA and the World of Arts and Letters” (New York, New Press, 2000). (I have not read this 525 page book, only excerpts).

The gist of Ms. Saunders argument is a tantalizing, but mostly unsupported, labyrinthine maze of back door funding and novelistic cloak and dagger deals. According to Saunders, the Congress for Cultural Freedom (CCF), an anti-communist cultural organization founded in 1950, was behind the promotion of Abstract art as part of their effort to be opinion makers in the war against communism. In 1966 it was revealed that the CCF was funded by the CIA. Saunders says that the CCF financed a litany of art exhibitions including “The New American Painting” which toured Europe in the late 1950s. Some of this is true, but it’s difficult, if not impossible, to know the specifics.

Noted expert in abstract-expressionism, David Anfam said CIA presence was real. It was “a well-documented fact” that the CIA co-opted Abstract Expressionism in their propaganda war against Russia. “Even The New American Painting [exhibition] had some CIA funding behind it,” he says. But the reasons for this are not quite what the abstract art detractors might be looking for. After all, the CCF also funded the travel expenses for the Boston Symphony Orchestra and promoted Fodor’s travel guides. More than trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, it was meant to showcase the freedom artists in the US. enjoyed. Or as Anfam goes on to say, “It’s a very shrewd and cynical strategy, because it showed that you could do whatever you liked in America.”

For what it’s worth, Saunders’s book was eviscerated in the Summer 2000 issue of Art Forum at the time of its publication. Robert Simon wrote:

“Saunders draws extensively on primary and secondary sources, focusing on the convoluted money trail as it twists through dummy corporations, front men, anonymous donors, and phony fund-raising events aimed at filling the CCF’s coffers. She makes lengthy forays into such topics as McCarthyism, the formation and operation of the CIA, the propaganda work of the Hollywood film industry, and New York cultural politics—from Partisan Review to MoMA to Abstract Expressionism. Yet what seems strangely absent from Saunders’s panoramic history, as if it were a minor detail or something too obvious to require discussion, is the cultural object itself: The complex specifics of the texts, exhibitions, intellectual gatherings, paintings, and performances of the culture war are largely left out of the story.”

Another problem with the book seems to be that Saunders is an historian but not an art historian. For me, I sensed an overtone of superiority in the tale she’s spinning and most assuredly from those that repeat its conclusion. The thinly veiled message of some is that if it were “Real art” it would not have had be part of this government subterfuge. The reality is very different. For one thing, most of us know it is simply not true that you can make people devoted to a type of art for 100 years that they would sensibly hate otherwise. Another issue is that it’s quite obvious none of the artists actually knew about any government interference if there was any. Pollock, Rothko, Gottlieb and Newmann were all either communists or anarchists. Hardly the group one would recruit the help the US government free the world of communism. Additionally, this narrow cold war timeline ignores a huge amount of abstract art that Jackson Pollock haters also revile and consider part of the same hijacking of high (Frankly, Greek, Roman, or Renaissance) culture. If you look at the highly abstract signature work of Piet Mondrian and observe the dates they were painted, you’ll see 1908, 1914, 1916. This is some of the art denigrated as a CIA PsyOP, 35 years before the CIA even thought about it. Modern art didn’t come from nowhere as many would have you believe to discredit its rise. There was Surrealism, Dada, Bauhaus, Russian futurism and a host of other movements that fueled it.

Generally, people like to argue. On the internet, “I don’t like this” is a weak statement that always must be replaced by “This is garbage” or my favorite, “This is fake.”

It’s hardly surprising that the more conservative factions of our society look for any government involvement in our lives to explain why things are not exactly as they wish them to be, given the (highly ironic) conservative government-blaming that blew up after Reagan. In addition, modern fascists have always had a love affair with the classical fantasy of Greece and Rome. Both Mussolini and Hitler used Greece and Rome as “Distant models” to address their uncertain national identity. The Nazis confiscated more than 5,000 works in German museums, presenting 650 of them in the Entartete Kunst (Degenerate Art, 1937) show to demonstrate the perverted nature of modern art. It featured artists including Marc Chagall, Max Ernst, Wassily Kandinsky, and Paul Klee, among others. The fear of art was real. It was the fear of ideas.

To a lot of people on the internet just the mentioning a “CIA program” is enough to get the cogs turning, but as with many things, the reality of CIA programs and government plots is often less than evidence of well planned coup.

The CIA reportedly spent 20 millions dollars on Operation Acoustic Kitty which intended to use cats to spy on the Kremlin and Soviet embassies. Microphones were planted on cats and plans were set in motion to get the cats to surreptitiously record important conversations. However, the CIA soon discovered that they were cats and not agreeable to any kind of regulation of their behavior.

As part of Operation Mongoose the CIA planned to undermine Castro's public image by putting thallium salts in his shoes, which would cause his beard to fall out, while he was on a trip outside Cuba. He was expected to leave his shoes outside his hotel room to be polished, at which point the salts would be administered. The plan was abandoned because Castro canceled the trip.

Regardless of your feelings on this subject or how much you believe abstract art benefited from government dollars, Saunders herself quotes in her book a CIA officer apparently involved in these “Long leash” influence operations. He says, “We wanted to unite all the people who were writers, who were musicians, who were artists, to demonstrate that the West and the United States was devoted to freedom of expression and to intellectual achievement, without any rigid barriers as to what you must write, and what you must say, and what you must do.” Hardly the Illuminati plot we were promised.

In 2016, Irving Sandler, author of the book that started Kozloff tirading in 1973, told Alastair Sooke of The Daily Telegraph, “There was absolutely no involvement of any government agency. I haven’t seen a single fact that indicates there was this kind of collusion. Surely, by now, something – anything – would have emerged. And isn’t it interesting that the federal government at the time considered Abstract Expressionism a Communist plot to undermine American society?”

This blog post contains information and quotes sourced from The Piper Played to Us All: Orchestrating the Cultural Cold War in the USA, Europe, and Latin America, Russell H. Bartley International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, Vol. 14, No. 3 (Spring, 2001), pp. 571-619 (49 pages) https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20161004-was-modern-art-a-weapon-of-the-cia https://brill.com/view/journals/fasc/8/2/article-p127_127.xml?language=en https://www.guggenheim-bilbao.eus/en/learn/schools/teachers-guides/the-dark-side-of-classicism https://www.artforum.com/features/american-painting-during-the-cold-war-212902/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/modern-art-was-cia-weapon-1578808.html https://www.artforum.com/columns/frances-stonor-saunders-162391/ https://www.artforum.com/features/abstract-expressionism-weapon-of-the-cold-war-214234/ Mark Rothko and the Development of American Modernism 1938-1948 Jonathan Harris, Oxford Art Journal, Vol. 11, No. 1 (1988), pp. 40-50 (11 pages)

[sgiandubh]

In Jake Norton's words...

Among domestic clearer political skies (yes, thank God, it's improving greatly!), it is with much interest that I read Jake Norton's first blog entry about the Everest trek with S and team. You can find it here: https://jakenorton.com/reflections-on-hunku/

Here are the excerpts I found most telling, but I do encourage you to read it all. It is genuine, it is honest and it is real. This guy does not need to sugarcoat anything, indeed - not that mountaineers were this particular type, either.

'An adventurous soul with a heart of gold', who 'rose to it all, never flustered or bothered, always interested and engaged and inquisitive.' Remember (ROFLMAO), this is not Tash, the Twitter Sparkle Lounge madame, speaking from her fangirling mirador at a random OL con. This is what a man with a 30 years experience of high-altitude trekking has to say about his unlikely, but enthusiastic travel companion. And to make the unintended (but honest) Slap-an-Idiot operation even more resounding, he then proceeds to explain why this is not even remotely an indulgent judgement of the character. He could not be clearer about it:

'And, to be honest, my little coffeeshop meeting was both to suss out his interest and let him meet me (and judge me) in person, but also, more importantly, to feel him out. Guiding for me is not simply an economic thing, transactional, but about time and people and experience. I’ve done too many “off-the-shelf” trips in the past to have zero tolerance for sharing the mountains with people whose goals and values are misaligned with mine. It took but minutes with Sam to know our worlds, while vastly different, were built upon similar ideas and ideals and approaches.'

He guided S the only possible way one must travel through Asia: with an open mind and an even more open heart. They deliberately ran away from five-stars accommodation (this blogger always combines the humble and the glam, with a noted preference for the genuine 'humble') and graciously responded to the local people's enthusiasm - something that will always be the most beautiful surprise to any traveler who successfully unlearned how to behave like a tourist:

'Unfortunately for Sam, I don’t really believe in the sugar-coated version of Nepal; fancy hotels and windowed views of life are little more than television with smell. I want people to see the real Nepal, wander the back streets, immerse in the smoky incense of dawn on cobbled streets, bells chiming and dogs barking, ambling through the visceral reality that is Pashupatinath, taking in the respite of Bodhanath, embracing the comforting chaos of alleys and backways of Lalitpur.'

Reading this made me both feel nostalgic and itchy. For even if you might find me enjoying high tea, in the Bangkok Mandarin Oriental's Author Lounge, my heart will always, always fondly remember the magical nights in a humble Hmong thatched hut at Ban Somsavath, somewhere midway from Vientiane to Luang Prabang. But that is personal and I wouldn't dare mix it up with someone else's experience, so I won't insist. What I can tell you, though, is that I absolutely believe S is honest when he says he will be back: for it is not the traveler that chooses Asia - it is Asia that carefully, deliberately chooses the traveler.

These sounds are mine. They will always resound loudly in my soul, for too many reasons to list here in tearing haste. Why did I add them, though? Because once your plane crosses the Everest, the magic begins in earnest:

[toorumlk]

Hi I'm so freaking obsessed with your twitter.

Also what's your favorite Romione moment in the books and why?

ohohoho thank you, friend, i’m quite proud of some of the stuff i’ve posted on there B)

and as for my favourite romione moment in the books, when i read the question i first blanked out for a couple minutes, thinking of a bunch of smaller, sillier scenes. but then i remembered that i do have a favourite and it’s from chapter 11 of DH, when remus visited the trio at grimmauld place and filled them in on he goings on of the war -including the implementation of the muggle-born registry. ron’s response upon hearing this (after his immediate outrage) was

and it’s not just the hand holding and the “‘you won’t have a choice’ said Ron fiercely” that played out so vividly in my head like this:

but this scene demonstrates so perfectly the political weight of this pairing (muggleborn/blood traitor) which i think is the immovable narrative foundation of romione. all of their silly moments and idiosyncrasies aside, there is genuine narrative purpose behind this love. ron has always had an astute understanding of the blood supremacist politics of the wizarding world (need i remind that he was ready to curse shitco at the ripe age of 12 for calling hermione the in-universe slur) and just how wrong it is. ron is a pure-blood wizard and by design has so much privilege in this society bc of it, but by virtue of having parents like arthur and molly, he’s grown up knowing the importance of fighting against blood supremacist ideology. always.

so, after hearing about the completely horrifying muggleborn registry ("People won't let this happen," said Ron. "It is happening, Ron," said Lupin.), he immediately turns to his muggleborn best friend and love of his life and says “i’m making you a family member, i’m going to use the protection my family-name has and use it to protect you from the awful injustice of our situation, no you won’t have a choice but to let me help you”

i remember having such a… visceral reaction while reading this scene like holy shit .. these kids, THESE KIDS!!!!! this is the bone-marrow-deep love that makes me feel insane. this dynamic of the blood traitor/muggleborn always there, from CoS all the way to the epilogue. We get to see that romione is the story’s pure blood/muggleborn that finally made it (rip jily and tedromeda :(). we see it in hermione keeping her muggle last name after they get married (oh my god these two actually got married) and we also see it in the hyphenated Granger-Weasley (granger being first!) in their kids’ last names (oh my gof these two had TWO kids). they are a true symbol of change and progress in their world.

also this is one of those moments where i’m so glad that our only window to romiones relationship development is through harry’s narration because it so brilliantly shows the readers this blossoming love story instead of just telling us about it because harry obviously doesn’t have access to the inner thoughts of his two best friends, he can only witness them fall deeper in love. showing the audience acts of love is always more powerful and my god is this an act of showing your love to your beloved.

(and not to go on an unrelated tangent, but this is exactly why i could never ship my girl hermione w any DE or DE-adjacent character. no fucking way. not when the concept of a muggle-born registry exists in this universe, not when the antagonists in this story wish to eradicate people like her from their society. idk about the rest of y’all but im going to keep taking the narrative seriously bc the worldbuilding obviously has real world ties/implications and i like engaging with the canon. tangently to the tangent, i saw someone (a ron basher) on twitter say that ron, OUR RON FROM THE ABOVE EXCERPT, was “one bad day away from becoming a death eater” ohhhh ohhh i ought to beat you with sticks bc HUH? this is the same kid who said he would’ve boarded the train back to kings cross if he got sorted to slytherin, the house notorious for birthing DEs, at the tender age of 11)

anyways, all this to say is that romione is incredibly, realistically, materially romantic and i love them and i love their love <3

[waxingrunes]

Ghostface Thriller

This was supposed to be my original fully fleshed out Halloween gig but I changed my mind at the eleventh hour to something else. I only have these very rough shallow sketches to offer that started the whole thing. Read on for a little texting excerpt of their conversation from this moment.

And for one single (quite tame?) Ao3 continuation.

Sirius: you know, this whole conversation is just proving more and more disappointing ghostie

Ghost: Why’s that.

Sirius: well

Sirius: the more you talk the more you

Sirius: this is gonna sound weird but you know when you can grow attracted to the way someone sounds without ever seeing their face? the way they hold themselves like through the screen, the way they talj

Sirius: talk*

Ghost: Are you about to tell me you’re crushing on me, pretty?

Sirius: i mean

Sirius: im telling you i think the way you talk is attractive and despite the damning circumstances you’re actually kinda smart

Sirius: you have to be to get away with the sick shit you do :)

Ghost: Mm, nobody’s made me blush before.

Sirius: me calling you a sick shit made you blush?

Ghost: And sent a jolt straight to my c*** little pretty.

Sirius: romantic

Ghost: Struggling to understand what’s disappointing about any of this.

Sirius: oh right

Sirius: well it’s just you sound hot but obviously you’re not actually you know

Sirius: hot

A moment passes where Sirius swaps the phone between one clammy palm to the other, doubting his turn of phrase with the radio silence that’d been dealt.

Staring at the bottom of the screen he waited another whole minute for the three dots to appear, which was excellent restraint in his books, before huffing out a breath through his nose and yielding.

Sirius: no ten wears a mask

Sirius: if you were as attractive as your fancy words make you sound you’d make it known

Ghost: You’re trying to unmask me through the phone and here I was thinking I was the pervert.

Sirius: doesn’t pretty get at least one photo

Sirius: of something? anything? to aid my crush :(

Ghost: Ask nicely.

Sirius readjusted, looking up to the ceiling as if he was going to find some sort of resolve there. What wasn’t yet clear, was whether it was the weight of the situation that was getting to his head and making his tummy swoop with this roleplay he’d voluntarily landed himself in, or, he really had a fucking crush.

Wetting his lips, he swallowed and was already blindly tapping out his response before his eyes fell to it again.

Sirius: please ghostie

Moments passed. Deadweight moments where Sirius convinced himself his shadow was moving on its own accord. In reality it was a handful of seconds but it felt like minutes, ticking by with the faint feeling of something hot dripping down the back of his throat.

Ghost: I don’t make a habit of sending selfies to my toys.

Sirius stared at the photo. It was his time to go quiet now, for reasons he planned to take to the grave; an event which may end up closing in sooner than anticipated if he plays his cards wrong.

Ghost: Tick-Tock, pretty. What you looking at?

The bastard.

Sirius: not much apparently

Sirius: i mean nothing i haven’t seen before apart from your legs

Sirius: never seen those out before

Ghost: You a leg man?

Against his will, Sirius giggled. Flushed in an instance from shame and shock and the feeling of very sudden self-awareness, but still had to swallow the tail end of it.

Sirius: am i going to get anything else more

Sirius: motivating

Sirius: i’ve been good all week and followed your orders

Sirius: i haven’t argued

Ghost: Oh, pretty. Come on now.

Sirius: okay but

Sirius: wouldn’t you get bored if i made it easy

Ghost: Clever boy.

Sirius squeezed his legs together, sinking further into the cushions.

Sirius: then reward me

Sirius: please

Sirius: please please please

Ghost: You’ll get what you want soon, but for now…

Another picture came through and for a sharp second, Sirius hesitated. It wouldn’t be his face, surely. He knew that and yet the moment felt pivotal either way as he hovered his thumb over the attachment and tried levelling his rattling heart.

He opened it, simultaneously losing feeling in his fingers and gaining it elsewhere.

Ghost: I wasn’t kidding about that jolt, not that hard yet but you’re doing a good job pretty.

Picture no.2

[cheeseplants]

Let Me Tempt You: Fic

Art by @and-his-hands-were-24-crows!

Happy Holidays @and-his-hands-were-24-crows. This was written as part of the @goodomensafterdark Secret Santa exchange.

Prompt: Roman Ineffables

Inspired by their art above.

Chapter one - a lot of gratuitous oyster-eating.

Rating: E

Word count: 4,160

Read here on AO3

Summary

Aziraphale takes Crowley out for oysters. They are known aphrodisiacs after all.

---

Excerpt

“So, oysters?” Crowley clicked his fingers, and a waiter in a long white toga appeared as if from nowhere. He placed a large metal plate in front of them both. It was piled high with oysters, shimmering like silvery half-moons under the lamplight. Next to it was a huge yellow sliced lemon and piles of salt, sought after in Rome. “I’ve never had one before.”

“They are a fine delicacy, not much on the eyes, but it’s like tasting the depths of the sea. Most people try to chew them but you need to swallow them whole.” Aziraphale said, thankful for some time to draw the demon’s attention from himself.

“Is that so?” said Crowley, though Aziraphale couldn’t miss the way his throat bobbed when he said the word swallow. He ignored the pulse of desire that swept through him. They were here to eat. If he had spent more than one night with his eyes shut, imagining the demon spread out before him like a buffet, that was no one's business but his own.

“Mm-hm.” Aziraphale picked up the hard shell, a creamy casing with speckles of black and brown. The smell took him back to the first hit of salt in the air after days of tracking Adam and Eve through the endless sands beyond Eden. The sound of an unknown surge, a noise more powerful than any stream in Paradise, like a thousand waterfalls falling at once. Then he saw it, a blue expanse that went on forever, birds flying and diving into the spray a few creatures large, almost like monsters slicing the edge of the sea with blades, and disappearing below. So much wilder than the babbling brooks he had become accustomed to. He had dropped to his knees and wept, only comparable to seeing the stars burst into life, not that he would tell Crowley that.

He squeezed half a lemon slice onto the oyster and lifted it to his lips. Crowley’s gaze pierced him like an arrow. He wasn't used to being looked at in this way. Aziraphale had become so used to blending in – with humans, with other angels. Acting as a chameleon, standing by to appease whoever he was near. It was rare that he was the centre of attention.

Aziraphale raised the shell and opened his mouth to swallow it whole. It hit the bottom of his lip, and it tasted of salt and crashing waves. Crowley daring him to jump in, ever the tempter, as the cold sea lapped against his chest for the first time. Curling up in the pitch-black cabins of the Ark, hearing the roar of water smashing along the sides, and a hundred animals braying night after night. A hand, long and slender on his shoulder, a calm that rode with him to the first rainbow, to a world renewed. 

It slid down his gullet, and he heard a gasp. He opened his eyes, and Crowley was bent forward, pearl-white fingers contrasting with the deep ruby of his wine. Even behind those ridiculous glasses, Aziraphale saw hints of pupils blown wide.

“Was it good?” Crowley rasped.

Aziraphale wanted to ask him the same question, as their knees had edged ever-closer, soft fabric brushing below the table.

“Very.” Aziraphale’s breath was shallow and hoarse. He dabbed a little of the salty residue from his lip. 

Thanks to my lovely betas and cheerleaders @on1occasionfork, @happynachohologram, Sensible Squirrels, Yes_its_unholy & NooRose93.

[loungemermaid]

Excerpt from the next part of my Even Days series, which I’m calling Chartreuse. The excerpt is rated teen, maybe mature? Just fluff and the lead up to smut :), nothing scary

Katniss murmurs a little purr of sleep grumpiness, reaches for my hand and puts it around her ribs. Hush. Go back to sleep. It’s fine.

Except it’s not fine, because it’s morning and there’s a woman I’ve only ever kissed pressed against me. I do my best to preserve any remaining propriety and wriggle back away from her but she is having none of it. I cringe, she in no doubt feels it, but. A new memory slots in, clicks in place like a tape. She’s never been upset with it before. With me pressing against her leg. She wriggles and a whine escapes my lips. “Katniss.”

“Mm.”

“Katniss, baby. My darlin’. That’s. Quit moving like that.”

“Sensitive?” She asks.

“Uh….yeah, you could say that.” Focus on breathing, not letting my hips move.

“Would it be easier if I left? Do you need me to git? Or do ya want to. Um.” She clears her throat. “I’m sorry, every way in my head sounds like a biology lesson. I don’t. I’ve never been.”

“Can ya look at me, baby?”

A fluttery little laugh, rustling like wings. “Mm hmm.” She turns over, eyes half open, face flushed. Cheekbones like apples, full and red. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I smile, stroke her hair. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do. I’m just. It’s. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” She rubs at the ribbing of my shirt and I bite my lip.

“Um. Heh-heh. Just.” I’m too embarrassed to say it. I’m so much more awkward in my own body now. I used to be confident flirting but now. Maybe now that I know something could actually happen…that all my late night dreams from another lifetime ago might come true. The ones I’d wake up to gasping, not from fear but from pleasure. Terror and malnutrition have killed so much of that. But I guess life goes on. And I’m still trying to not be indecent around her. I’m too clear headed to not worry, too battered up to let this be easy. “It’s not a like. Demand. You know? The um.” The hard cock pressing against you.

Katniss’s eyes widen in understanding. “Right. I know. You said that before. On the train. That it’s just part of it. It don’t mean nothing.”

I blink, suddenly feeling like there’s three of us in the bed. Me, her, and it. Him. Me. I want to evaporate. “Well, I mean, it’s automatic, and it just happens in the morning, but it ain’t a demand.” Even if it does feel like it. Even if it hurts a little, I'm not telling her that. I don’t want her to think she’s causing me pain because she doesn’t want to touch me. “It’ll go away.”

“But do you want me to” she stumbles over her words again. “I’m sorry, I. I read about this, didn’t nobody tell me. I don’t know how to sound sexy. But I’d like to touch you. I wanna kiss you. I want to be close. I want to do things people in love do.”

I cradle her head in my hands. “Oh baby. I want to too.”

“But…” she slips her lips up in an understanding and uncomfortable smile, then sighs.

“I just. I feel. Exposed, here. And.” Broken. Battered. Weak. “I don’t want you to look at me.”

“You didn’t mind before….” And she sounds so sad, so dejected.

“I know it, but. That was.”

She kisses me and it rolls through my body. It’s water after days in the jungle. I moan, deep in my soul. Automatically, like the next line of a song, my arms and legs are around her, my left bit of leg shaking with the effort of getting her closer to me, the nub of flesh at the end of my knee hooking around her thigh.

“I wanna see you.” She says, rocking slowly. “And I want you to see me. I don’t mind.” She places my hand at her shirt hem. “I want to do what lovers do.

[electricalhuzzah]

hey folks,

this is a lengthy and more serious post under the cut. i try not to do this often, but i humbly ask you read anyways.

i’ll be honest— for all the times i’ve fucked up the blinking cursor on a blank page, i’m not quite sure how to start this.

if any of you folks are artists, writers, individuals with exceptionally good music taste, or just generally people who interact with my stuff, you might’ve seen the user jellyfishing07 floating around and spreading positivity with reaction images, gifs, and so many positive words it makes tumblr glitch out.

recently, jelly has had some things pop up in her personal life, and made the decision to leave online fandom. from the limited messaging i’ve received from her, this is looking like a permanent change.

she has assured me that she’s okay! but i do feel the need to acknowledge her absence in order to appreciate her presence. there’s a jellyfish shaped hole in my heart and in my blog— i can’t count how many times her overwhelming positivity gave me that kick in the pants i needed to write like a madlad.

though i won’t share her last message to me (as it is quite personal), i will share one very short bit of it.

jelly, if you happen to lurk here sometime after leaving, please do forgive me for sharing an excerpt from something so personal. but i felt it necessary to say that it will never be “as if she was never here.” i know i cant speak on behalf of others, but her positivity has had a profound and permanent impact on me— not only as a writer, but as a person.

as much as it sucks that i’ll never get to exchange silly gifs with her again, or giggle as she freaks out in real time about stanley pines, or have the joy of posting something and waiting for her reaction, i do know these things happen. i know she has her own life to take care of, and i wish her all the best.

you may see this and think i’m being melodramatic, but i was close with jelly (as close as one can be through a discord chat across the ocean), and it does feel like i’ve lost a good friend. for any of you who might feel the same way, my dms are always open if ya wanna talk ❤️

raise a glass of straight liquor, energy drink, or mabel juice to jelly— one of the few who’ve clawed tooth and nail outta this hellsite, and made it somewhere the sun shines and the grass is within touching distance 🥂

⬆️ via infinity train.

[estrellami-1]

Keep You Company

So this happened because 1) I was babysitting and the little girl wouldn’t sleep until I laid in bed with her and my heart has NEVER been more full and 2) my dad’s an audio engineer with a home studio and my mom will just???? Sit in there with him????? He’s got a couch for when clients come over but 90% of the time if I can’t find either of my parents they’re both in there. I love my mom but I swear she’s tone deaf. Not to mention if any of you have heard someone else work on pitch correction you KNOW how annoying it can get after roughly .3 seconds. But she sits in there completely content because they just???? Want to be near each other????? After close to 30 years of marriage????? Where can I find someone who loves me the way my parents love each other. And the way Steve and Eddie love each other. Please.

Also side note if any of yall read Little Love I’m tempted to make this a future excerpt 👀 different name bc who knows if anything’s gonna come of this. and Joanie’s name comes from Joan Jett anyone who got that gets a gold star ⭐️ also Joanie is either 4 or 6. Idk which. But she’s one of those ages. Which if you know anything about kids you know there’s somehow no difference and yet every difference in the world between those two ages.

“Night, Daddy,” Joanie says, moving into Eddie’s studio to drop a kiss onto his cheek. “Love you.”

Eddie startles away from the computer screen, blinking as he realizes just how late it already is. The clock on his desk blinks 9:08 in red, incriminating flashes.

He smiles at his daughter and throws his arms around her as he stands, hugging her to himself and whirling them around the space, careful around the low coffee table. “Goodnight, my little rockstar!” He crows, peppering kisses to her cheeks and forehead, feeling laughter bubble up inside him in response to Joanie’s giggles.

“Daddy!” She shrieks, but doesn’t try to pull away. He laughs and finally puts her down, pressing one last kiss to the crown of her head as he kneels in front of her.

“Night, Joanie-bug,” he murmurs. “Sorry I’ve been stuck in here all day. I wish I could just play with you all day instead.”

He boops her nose and she giggles. “What are you doing?”

Eddie hums and picks her up, moving closer to the computer to save his project. “Well, y’know how Daddy’s in a band?”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Well sometimes, Uncle Gareth gets a note wrong.”

Joanie giggles. “Only Uncle Gareth?”

“Only Uncle Gareth,” Eddie agrees in a super-serious way that they both know he doesn’t mean.

“And sometimes Daddy forgets how not to be a perfectionist,” Steve adds from the doorway with a smile.

“Also very true,” Eddie nods, putting his computer to sleep. “But I did a lot of work today, so hopefully I should be done soon. How about for now, I do bedtime clean-up routine, and Papa can read you your book?”

“M’kay,” Joanie says happily, because she’s a heathen and prefers Steve’s storytelling skills over Eddie’s. Eddie wants to bite her cheeks, she’s so cute, so he does, takes a big chomp and makes a dinosaur noise that has Joanie shrieking and laughing.

“Okay, munchkin,” he says, swinging her around onto his back and trotting through the house, purposely jostling her. “Beddy-bye time, which means it’s time for teeth brushing!”

“Can you sing the song?”

Eddie fights back a groan. Somehow, he’d forgotten this was coming. “Sure thing, Joanie. Let’s get some toothpaste on that brush, alright?”

They do, and Joanie looks at him expectantly. “Sing it, Daddy! Sing it!”

“Brush your teeth, up and down. Brush your teeth, ‘round and ‘round. Brush your teeth from left to right, brush your teeth in the morning and night.”

He goes through the entire song, helpless to the smile that grows as Joanie bops happily along to his singing. “Okay, baby bug,” he says finally, standing behind her with a brush. “How d’you want your hair tonight?”

Regardless of the rat’s nest it will be in the morning, Joanie refuses to sleep if her hair is at all in her face. Steve and Eddie started with simple braids until she discovered the magic of YouTube tutorials, which makes the bedtime routine both longer and less mundane.

“Two Elsa braids,” she says, resolutely not learning the proper name and instead using the one Eddie had jokingly said once.

“Two Elsa braids, coming up,” he says, because it’s cute and he’s not going to dissuade her.

“Can we do beads?”

“Beads are a daytime hairstyle, ‘member, munchkin?”

Joanie pouts at him in the mirror. “But they’re pretty!”

“They are pretty, but they won’t stay while you sleep. They’ll fall out, and then you’ll wake up in the middle of the night ‘cause you’re laying on beads, and you’ll wake us up, and then we’ll all be cranky.” Not that that exact thing had happened.

She narrows her eyes at him, trying to find a way around it, then finally huffs and agrees. “Okay.”

“You’ll look pretty even without the beads,” Eddie promises her. “And Elsa doesn’t have beads, remember?”

“Yeah, but Daddy, Elsa’s got magic powers!”

“That she does.”

Joanie pretends to shoot Eddie with her Elsa powers, and Eddie freezes in the middle of the first braid. “I can’t move,” he says, not moving his lips. “You froze me!”

Joanie giggles. “Unfreeze, Daddy!”

He dramatically relaxes and sighs. “Oh, good! Thank you!”

He finishes doing her hair and chases her into her room, where she picks out her pajamas: a pink shirt with ballet-dancing kittens, and a neon-green pair of leggings. “Bold choice,” Eddie comments. “You wanna do it yourself? Or do you want me to help you?”

“I wanna do it,” Joanie says, just like Eddie knew she would.

A few minutes later, she huffs, frustrated. “Daddy, help,” she asks, just like Eddie knew she would.

He helps rescue her from her shirt that had somehow become sentient long enough to wrap around her head, then gets her pants on and tucks her into bed before pressing a long, loud kiss to her forehead. “Nighty-night, Joanie-bug,” he murmurs. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Joanie giggles. “Only Joanie-bugs allowed in my bed!” She declares, and Eddie chuckles. “That’s right.”

He moves toward the door where Steve’s waiting to press a kiss to his husband’s forehead. “Sorry I was so busy.”

“You were working,” Steve murmurs. “It’s fine. I’ll come join you when I’m done, m’kay?”

“I’m gonna be in the studio for at least another hour tonight, babe,” Eddie says apologetically.

“Then I guess I’ll come keep you company.” He presses a quick kiss to Eddie’s lips before shoving him out the door. “Go work, I’ll be there in a bit.”

“Sir yes sir,” Eddie salutes, marching back to his studio.

The next time he surfaces, it’s to a tugging at his sleeve. He blinks, glances at the clock—10:37—and turns, ready to apologize to Steve, only to see Joanie.

A quick look reveals no Steve anywhere in the studio, so Eddie thinks he’s probably in bed. “Hey, munchkin,” he murmurs, picking her up and setting her in his lap. “We put you to bed an hour ago, what’s going on? Bad dream?”

Joanie shakes her head before resting it on Eddie’s shoulder. “Papa’s snoring.”

Eddie blinks. Steve does snore, but not loud enough she should be able to hear it from her room. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Did he fall asleep before finishing the story?”

Joanie nods against his shoulder, and he sighs as he cuddles her closer, once again saving his project before completely shutting the computer down for the night. “M’kay, Joanie-bug, let’s go get Papa into his own bed.”

“Daddy?” She asks on the way to her room.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Why’s Papa so tired?”

Eddie sighs. “He’s a teacher, sweet pea. He does a lot all day. And he loves his job, but it is very tiring. Then he comes home and cooks, ‘cause he’s better at it than I am. And there’s a lot of stuff that needs to be done around the house.”

Joanie’s quiet for a second. “And me?” She finally asks.

Eddie’s heart stutters painfully. “No, baby,” he murmurs. “Your Papa and I love you, so much, okay?”

“Okay,” Joanie agrees, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I love you too, Daddy.” After a few seconds of thought, she says, “Are there cooking videos on YouTube? Like for hair?”

Eddie blinks. “To learn how to do it? Yeah, I think so.”

Joanie nods. “You should watch those. And cook for Papa.”

Eddie chuckles. “Maybe I will,” he agrees, stopping short in the doorway to smile at the sight in front of him.

The bedside lamp is on and Steve, glasses askew, is halfway on the bed, on top of the covers. The book is open in his lap, hands still holding on to the sides. He is, as Joanie had said, snoring.

Eddie kisses Joanie’s forehead and puts her into bed beside Steve before taking the book from Steve’s lax hands, shutting it and putting it on her bedside table before kissing Steve’s forehead. “Stevie, baby,” he murmurs. “Wake up.”

Steve’s eyebrows scrunch and his eyes flutter beneath his closed lids before he takes an extra-deep breath and his eyes open. “Eds?” He murmurs. “What’s wrong?”

“You’ve gotta get up,” Eddie murmurs. “This isn’t your bed.”

He watches as Steve processes his words then looks around. He sees the confusion morph into understanding when he sees Joan. “Oh,” Steve murmurs. “Sorry, Joanie.”

“‘S okay, Papa,” Joanie answers. “You should go to bed.”

Steve chuckles tiredly and kisses her forehead. “I am, right now,” he promises. “Night, Joanie.”

“Night, Papa. Night, Daddy!”

“Night, Joanie-bug,” Eddie answers, wrapping his arm around Steve’s waist, half as a hug and half to help his husband stay steady.

“Sorry, Eds,” Steve murmurs. “Meant to join you.”

“It’s alright,” Eddie promises. “How about tomorrow I take Joanie out early for breakfast and let you sleep in?”

Steve frowns. “But you have work.”

“I’ve done the majority of it already,” Eddie answers. “You could take her out tomorrow afternoon if you want. Or just have a movie marathon here. I’ll finish up what I have to do. Tomorrow’s Saturday, right? So I’ll finish tomorrow, then Sunday I can make waffles for all of us. How’s that sound?”

Steve hums. “Good, ‘sides the you cooking part of it.”

“Oh, you little shit,” Eddie says delightedly, pressing a kiss to Steve’s temple. “Just you wait, you’ll understand the power of YouTube tutorials.”

Steve chuckles, quiet, tired, but no less full of love. “I can’t wait.”

Permanent Taglist (which I’ve been COMPLETELY terrible at I’m so sorry I promise I’ll try to do better): @justforthedead89 @ilovecupcakesandtea @madigoround @bookbinderbitch @suddenlyinlove @nburkhardt @artiststarme @paintsplatteredandimperfect @i-less-than-three-you @alyelf @quarble @messrs-weasley @littlewildflowerkitten @vankaar @starman-jpg @bornonthesavage @steddie-there @goodolefashionedloverboi @andienotannie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @platinum-sunset @just-ladyme @steddiestains @swimmingbirdrunningrock @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @martinskis-lydias @notaqueenakhaleesi @sleepyboosstuff @bestwifehaver @m-owo-n @thatonebadideapanda @finalmoondragon @velocitytimes2 @callmeanythjing @ajeff855 @ilikeititspretty @knitsforthetrail @sillysparrow @that-one-corvid @ace-is-bored @muricel @harpymoth @weirdandabsurd42

[dem-obscure-imagines]

Merry Little Christmas

Druig x Reader

Fandom: MCU

Prompt: @the-sunflower-room “can’t stop thinking about druig and have yourself a merry little christmas- so cozy 😭🙏🏻”

Note: This was actually requested last year, I believe, but I’ve always wanted to write it. I’m sorry it took me so long to get around to it, but I hope you like it! Happy Holidays, everyone <3

Warnings: None! Just cozy Christmas celebrations <3

Word Count: 1.6k words

Reader Is: Gender Neutral!

Druig was never one for holidays. He wasn’t a scrooge, per se, but, as an Eternal, the seasons came and went so quickly. Years were mere blinks to a being who was thousands of years old. However, the look on your face as you put the ornaments on the tree made something stir around his heart, he had to admit.

He was sipping cocoa from a mug with a snowman on it, one from your vast collection. Kingo was in the kitchen, mixing up beverages, which was why he sensed a bit of liquor in the chocolatey beverage. It was still good, obviously, but he definitely blamed that for the rosy hue his cheeks had taken on.

Definitely not the cute little reindeer antlers you were wearing. Definitely not the way your laughter sounded from across the room.

All of the Eternals were there. A rare feat, but with the danger defeated, for now at least, it was cause for celebration, a time to be with family. It was your house you were all celebrating in, a large place tucked away in Northern Michigan, which, at this time of year, was absolutely covered in a thick layer of snow, more and more fluffy flakes coming down as the moments passed.

You spent your time as a writer. One of the most prolific of your time, the reviews said. But then again, you did have a thousand year head start on the rest of them.

Druig would never admit to it, but he had read them. All of them, every single one. He’d borrow them from libraries, read excerpts in bookstores, but Makkari had a collection of them, too. She was your most loyal beta reader. Therefore, when one went missing, she always had a pretty decent suspicion of who the culprit was.

And he wasn’t positive, but he was pretty sure most of your love interests shared a certain resemblance with…well, him. He didn’t like the way it stirred around in his chest, the way it made him feel so warm and…hopeful. But then again, he’d never asked you what you felt.

“(Y/N), where are your Christmas records?” Phastos asked, standing over with his husband, Ben, as they dug through a crate of records.

“Oh! I forgot to bring them down, I think. I’ll go grab them. I needed to get the topper anyway.” You stepped down from your stepladder and handed the ornament in your hand to Sprite, who was sitting on the floor under the tree, shaking gifts. Typical.

Druig watched as you left, eyes glued to you. Which was why he didn’t notice when Sersi had joined him, standing right beside him.

He gasped, mug rattled, but not to the point that he spilled any on his sweater. He cursed and looked over at her. “What?”

“You look rather festive, Druig. I thought you didn’t care for holidays.”

“I thought so too…” He muttered into his mug, taking a long sip.

“Right. Well, I think I saw some mistletoe in that box of decorations. I can put it up if you’d like?” She asked, that glimmer in her eyes that she got when she wanted to meddle.

Druig thought on it, as he heard your footsteps coming back down the stairs. He met her eyes and that was all that was needed. She nodded and set across the room, plucking it out of the box, along with a length of fishing line.

“I found it! The Muppets and John Denver!” You said excitedly, presenting another crate of records, this one all Christmas. “And some other stuff.”

“May I?” Phastos asked.

“Yeah, of course.” You handed them over and walked back over to the tub of ornaments, searching for a very special one. It was a large mug of cocoa with eleven marshmallows in it, each one etched with the name of an Eternal. You smiled softly and tucked it into the branches of your artificial tree, curling the fake pine to support its weight.

“Where did you find one with so many slots?” Druig found himself asking as he crossed the room to stand behind you.

“Had it custom made.” You replied, turning to face him.

“It’s beautiful, (Y/N).” Ajak complimented warmly from her seat by the fire.

“Thanks. Thought we needed something like that.”

“What are these?” Sprite asked, digging through the other box and pulling out a stocking with Thena’s name embroidered on it.

“Stockings.”

“You had those made, too?” Ajak asked, getting up to see for herself.

“Well, I did them. The embroidery, at least.” You admitted with a shrug, motioning to the hooks under the mantle. “We can put them up, if you want.”

Makkari nodded and grabbed the stockings, putting them all in one clean row in a blur of red and green. She stood next to Druig, elbowing him and tilting her head towards his stocking, which she’d put on the end.

Right next to yours.

He nearly choked on his cocoa. So did everyone know, then? Sersi, Makkari, who else? Kingo, no doubt.

“You alright there, Druig? Looking flushed.” Ikaris jabbed, that wicked gleam in his eyes.

Alright, then, yeah, it was everyone. Everyone but you, it seemed.

It was as if a stormcloud manifested above his head. He shook his head and stalked off towards the kitchen. He didn’t know much, but he did know a cookie would make him feel better. Snacks always seemed to. And there was no shortage of them, especially now, when you and Gilgamesh had baked nearly twelve dozen batches of them. Gingerbread, snickerdoodle, sugar cookies shaped like trees, chocolate chip, oatmeal no-bakes.

He reached for a sprinkle-covered tree and bit off the tip of it, the frosting sweet. The oven started beeping and you rushed in, arming yourself with an oven mitt before reaching in for what he assumed must be one of the last trays. Oatmeal raisin, it looked like.

“Do you need any help?” He asked, staring as you straightened up and brushed the hair out of your face.

“Oh! Thank you, Druig. I’m all set, though. Are they good?”

“Are what—” He looked down at the half-eaten tree in his hand. “Oh, yeah. They’re great.”

“Awesome.” You grinned. “New frosting recipe.”

“Well it’s perfect, whatever it is.” He leaned against the counter, that boyish smirk on his face. He wasn’t sure what came over him, then, but he had to get it out. “It’s great, by the way. That new book of yours.”

“You read it?”

“I read all of your books.” He confessed. “I think this one’s your best.”

Your heart raced as you met his eyes. Surely he knew, right? He had to. That you’d been writing about him for centuries. When he’d left all those years ago, hundreds of years ago, he’d taken a piece of your heart with him, a piece you’d only found in fiction, it seemed.

“Thank you. It…it means a lot to hear you say that.”

“Can’t wait for your next one.” He winked, plucking up a second cookie and leaving the kitchen before his tongue got him in any more trouble than it already had.

***

Later in the night, when almost everyone had gone to sleep, you were up, wrapping presents in front of the fireplace, folding the paper neatly, complete with name tags and perfect little bows.

You’d switched records. It was an older one, the Rat Pack.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas…Let your heart be light…

The words were smooth, glided right out of the speaker. Snow was still coming down in droves. It was good you had nowhere to go, otherwise you’d be snowed in. Well, if your family didn’t have every superpower known to man, you would be anyway. You were glad they were there.

You were glad they were home.

“Can’t sleep?” Druig’s voice startled you from your reverie and you turned around, grateful his present was already wrapped and under the tree.

“Not until I get these wrapped.” You told him.

“Christ, you really do go all out, don’t you?” He chuckled, crossing the room and sitting on the floor beside you, yet another cookie in his hand.

“I think I’d lose my mind if I didn’t. Keeps me…in synch. The routine of a year, you know?”

“Mmm.” He hummed, nodding, face alight in the warm oranges of the flames. “I didn’t see it that way until…recently.”

“Until right now?”

“Yeah, something like that.” He chuckled, watching as you carefully wrapped the last one, taping every edge perfectly and putting a tag on top, printing Sprite’s name with a pen. “What’d you get her?”

“You’ll have to find out tomorrow morning.” You told him, shifting to slide it under the tree with the others. “What did you get her?”

“It’s a surprise.” He grinned as you settled in next to him.

“Is it a surprise to you, too?”

He gasped, offended. “I got presents for everyone!”

“I believe you.”

“Sure you do.” He shook his head, laughing softly. “Say, ehm, (Y/N), I’ve been wondering…”

“Mistletoe!” You gasped, staring straight up at the ceiling where, sure enough, a string of mistletoe hung, glittering in the low light. “Who put that up?”

“Well I’ll be…” He breathed, staring up at it, too, heart racing faster than it had in any battle. “What…do you suppose we do about that?”

“I have a few ideas.” You slowly brought your gaze down, meeting his eyes.

He may have been the telepath, but you could tell the only thing on his mind was you as he leaned in, thick eyelashes fluttering shut as his lips met yours, pink and plush and warm. You kissed back, not leaving a single doubt in his mind that you wanted this, wanted him. Your hand rose to his flushed cheek, holding him close as his arm wound around your waist.

The grandfather clock struck midnight, and he pulled away to rest his forehead on yours, noses flush, eyes on you, glimmering with a million words unspoken. He did have a few, though. “Merry Christmas, (Y/N).”

“Merry Christmas, Druig.”

[dancingontheblades]

The Tale That Never Ends - Sneak Peek

Only two weeks left until the first chapter of my post-canon YOI fanfiction goes live, and that's why today, I want to share with you the first of two little previews.

Summary (not finalised, though):

After Yuuri broke Viktor’s world record in Barcelona, he and his coach and fiancé move to St. Petersburg to get ready for their season together. Determined to win gold before their wedding, Yuuri hopes to benefit from the training conditions of a five-time world champion. However, adapting to the life in a foreign country brings unforeseen challenges, and so does getting back in shape after a long hiatus. And if that wasn’t enough to worry about, a throwaway comment that was supposed to be a joke threatens Yuuri’s stay and awakens his old fear of not being enough. Brace yourself for domestic Viktuuri, an even kinkier Eros, and lots of fantastic figure skating.

I wrote this story in 2021/2022, followed by an insane amount of editing and doubts (which I still have to some extent). That I'm finally at the point where I dare to post it, I owe to my dear friend @cecebeanie, who did an alpha+sensitivity reading to soothe my impostor syndrome, and my beta-reader of this story, the great @zeco5000, who provides me with more insight into a figure skater's life than I could ever have.

Now please behold the sneak peek at a wip of what will become the cover image, done by another friend, the talented @cosmiclion:

Excerpt Chapter 6:

“This one is cool!”

Viktor threw the dishcloth onto the counter and hurried to the bedroom. Yuuri had sorted the clothes he had brought with him into his half of the wardrobe. Even though Viktor knew more clothes were on their way, the remaining empty three-quarters of Yuuri’s half left him wondering whether it was normal to own as many clothes as he had owned until recently.

Convince Yuuri to buy proper evening attire well before it will be required of him, Viktor made a mental note.

“Show me what you found, Yuuri,” he said.

Yuuri held up a light grey hoodie, a feverish gleam in his eyes. It was one of the articles of clothing Viktor had not yet cleared out in case Yuuri might like them.

“You have some nice T-shirts too, and I’ve been thinking that wearing these will feel like I’m wearing a part of you, but this hoodie is so cosy.” The words came out in a fast staccato. “And it feels so warm. It would be like you were hugging me when you’re not hugging me. I could wear it next time we go outside. Or at the rink.”

Viktor’s heart leapt. I wish I had known him when I was still in juniors. I would have loved him back then already. I would have felt complete.

He blinked away the sudden moisture in his eye. “Try it on, Yuuri.”

Yuuri shrugged into the hoodie. His head came out with his messy hair all tousled and his glasses askew.

“Perfect.” Viktor spun Yuuri towards the mirror. “Is it as warm as you thought?”

Through the mirror, Yuuri beamed up at him and nodded. Viktor hugged him from behind, inhaling Yuuri’s musky scent. “Which hug do you like better, Yuuri? Mine or the hoodie’s?”

“Yours.” Yuuri’s mirror image blushed softly. “But now I feel hugged twice, and that’s even better.”

His heart growing wide, Viktor hugged Yuuri tighter. “What about the woollen sweater? It would look cute on you.”

“Too itchy.” Yuuri shrugged out of the hoodie. “I only wear cotton. But it feels warm, too.”

Viktor filed that information away. It seemed like just another adorable quirk of Yuuri’s. He opened his mouth to enquire whether other kinds of wool were compatible with Yuuri’s skin, when Yuuri pressed the hoodie into his hands.

“Put it on.”

“Huh?” Viktor asked, his mind still half occupied with the grades of itchiness of different kinds of wool, and half surprised about the sudden change in Yuuri’s voice from fannish joy to commanding fierceness.

“I want your scent on it. Put it on.”

*~*~*~*

Next Sunday, I will share an excerpt of Yuuri and Viktor training at Viktor's rink with the hoodie as a special guest. And I will show the complete illustration.

[michanvalentine]

I'm quite a selective person. I enjoy writing stories, but I almost exclusively do so within the Final Fantasy VII fandom. Not every character or plot from the comics, anime, video games, films, or TV series I follow inspires me. So you could say my inspiration is even pickier than I am. And I both love and hate it for that.

Baldur's Gate 3 hit me like a freight train; it’s been such a looooong time since I felt this kind of overwhelming obsession for something (or someone, considering Astarion in particular). It’s amazing how it’s reignited my creativity in so many ways. Unfortunately, I can’t draw—at least not as well as I’d like—but who knows? Maybe I’ll attempt some messy sketches. For now, I’ve started writing a fanfic, just on a whim and without any particular plan. I don’t know where it will take me, but I’ve put Astarion in an unusual situation just to see what might happen. Alongside him, I’ve paired two characters who, in my opinion, provide the perfect contrast to him: Karlach and Halsin.

The premise is this: Halsin asks Astarion and Karlach to help escort a caravan of refugees to the nearest safe haven in the former Shadow-Cursed lands. The caravan is attacked by a group of bandits, and Astarion ends up reacting in a way he never expected: like a hero. Lol. With all the disastrous consequences that implies.

It’s not an adventure story, far from it. It might fall into the comedy genre, perhaps, with a touch of introspection and romance—who knows? Maybe even a little angst, but just a tiny bit. As I mentioned, I don’t know where all of this will lead me… or if I’ll manage to see it through! Because, of course, I’ve hit a roadblock just as things were getting interesting, alas. How do I get that lazy, stubborn cow that is my inspiration moving again?!?!

In the meantime, here’s an excerpt from "The Day Astarion Found Himself Saddled with Parenthood." ***

As if it had read his mind, the little one’s body suddenly tensed for an impossibly long moment before relaxing again. Its tiny lips curled into a satisfied smile. Then, the stench of excrement tickled Astarion’s finely tuned senses. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it!

“Oh, come on! This thing crapped itself… correction, it crapped on me! For all the gods above and below, what do I do now?! Oh gods, I’m going to vomit. This… this… I don’t even know what this is, but I’m going to vomit! It’s disgusting, I think… I think… I am going to vomit!”

“Stop yelling, or you’ll wake it up,” Karlach snapped from the other side. “What’s a little steaming dung anyway? For starters, when we trudged through the Illithid colony, our boots stepped in way worse. And then—”

“Gods, grant me patience because if you give me strength, I’ll massacre someone,” Astarion growled in return, torn between several equally unappealing options: drop the baby and claw his way out of the rubble; rummage through his pack for something—anything—that might serve to clean the little terror’s bottom; or, alternatively, solve the problem at its root by biting into the brat.

Damn it, Halsin was the expert in snot-nosed, piss-soaked orphans!

The chaos abated slightly when Astarion noticed his personal plague had opened its eyes and was staring up at him intently, its tiny fists clutched to its chest and its little mouth sadly turned downward. He froze. Oh, no.

And yet, yes. After a brief pause, the whelp scrunched up its face, opened its mouth wide, and let out a scream with all the force its tiny lungs could muster—and Astarion couldn’t comprehend how something so small could make such an earth-shattering noise.

“There, I knew it,” Karlach muttered.

“You’re not helping,” Astarion retorted, clutching the now howling, flailing infant against his chest as he shuffled toward his pack. ***

Will I ever manage to finish writing this little madness of mine? How do you guys unlock the keyboard? I need support!

[irb-pascalito-99]

Let Me Paint You

Pairing: Joel x f!reader

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 3.7k

Summary: After posing for a painting Joel decides he needs to do some painting of his own.

Warnings: oral f!receiving and m!receiving, edging, unprotected p in v sex, riding, sex on a canvas

A/N: This is an excerpt from chapter thirteen of my fic Always an Angel, Never a God. To read more please visit a03.

After dinner we wash the dishes and settle in the living room to pick a movie for the night. Joel is thumbing through our collection of DvDs when a knock sounds on the front door. Both of us freeze, unsure of who could be stopping by right now.

We exchange a look as the visitor knocks again. I go to the door while Joel makes his way up the stairs. I wait until I hear a door close upstairs before I open the one in front of me.

On the front step Maria stands with her hands in her pockets. The evening sun casts an orange glow upon her as it starts to sink in the sky.

“So you are alive,” Maria jests, a smirk spreading across her face. “I’ve been texting you all day. I was trying to see if you wanted to hang out since Ellie is off on that school trip, but I got worried when I didn’t hear anything back. Why haven’t you responded?”

My chest tightens. I haven’t even looked at my phone since I got home last night, abandoning it with my purse and keys in the doorway the second I got home. I try to think of an excuse as to why I couldn’t respond while Maria peers into the house behind me.

“I’ve just been really busy with things today,” I say, fiddling with my fingers. I pull the door closer to me so she can’t see inside. “I’ve been cleaning and painting. Just enjoying the alone time, totally spaced my phone I guess.”

Maria’s eyebrows scrunch together. She tries to look behind me again and then looks back at my face as though she’s trying to decipher whether or not I’m lying.

“So there’s nobody else here?” Maria asks. I try to keep my reaction small so she can’t catch on to anything. “Because normally your car is in the garage but it’s in the driveway now, and you’re acting kind of strange…”

I see my car in the driveway behind her. We had moved it out there to make room fit the truck in the garage. I put a palm to my forehead and feign a reaction as if I’m just now remembering it’s out there.

“I must have forgot to move it back. I was cleaning the garage earlier and had to move it out there.” I can tell Maria doesn’t buy the lie.

I don’t know why I’m trying so hard. Out of anyone Maria is probably the one person I can tell about us, but there’s something I like about hiding it. It’s like in keeping this secret, I keep a piece of Joel for just myself. Keeping it a secret may have started as a way of protecting Ellie, but it feels as though I’m protecting Joel and I as well.

From my experience, love is hardly ever simple or kind. Love is heartbreak, and the outside world can only break what we have. I like our secret, and even though it’s just Maria on my doorstep I will do whatever I can to keep our small piece of the world separate.

“Well, I’m sorry you drove all the way out here but I’m kind of in the groove right now with this painting,” I say.

Maria’s eyes flick up to the stairs. She doesn’t ask any other questions though. She nods, says her goodbyes, and drives away. When her car disappears I close the door again. Joel is silent upstairs.

I go to my bedroom first, expecting him to be laying on my bed or standing by the window, but he isn’t there. I check the bathroom as well. When I find no trace of him I make my way to the art studio.

I find him standing there, observing some artwork stashed away in the closet. His fingers gently brush against the top of the canvases as he moves from one to the other. I tread lightly across the room and brush my hands softly against his back. He jumps at the touch, quickly putting the paintings back in their place.

“You’re being nosy,” I say playfully as I wrap my arms around his chest. He stiffens under my touch, clearly feeling guilty for being caught snooping through my stuff.

“Sorry, saw Maria through the window and then the closet door was open so I was just curious. Figured you’d be talkin’ for a bit.” I peek my head around his shoulder to see what he’s looking at.

The first painting in the stack is a woman in a rowboat with a faint lantern glowing in the distance. I forgot this is where I chose to store my mother’s work. I still have a hard time looking at it.

“Did you do these?” Joel asks. I shake my head.

“Those were my mom’s actually.” I bury my face in Joel’s back, trying to seem as unbothered as possible.

Joel hums in response and looks at the paintings again. I suppose this is Joel’s first interaction with who my mother truly was. He knows she died in the accident. He knows she was an artist and Frank’s friend, but I never really talk about her life.

“She was really talented,” Joel says.

“Yeah, she was,” I say. I rest my chin on his shoulder, looking for a way to change the subject.

Joel ponders a thought for a moment as I admire the way the evening sun casts a beautiful glow on his tan skin through the open window.

“Can I paint you?” I ask. I feel Joel’s body jolt as he chuckles beneath me.

“You already have,” he says with a smirk. He points to a couple of paintings hidden in the back of the closet.

Anything I paint of Joel has to either be obscure, or hidden so Ellie doesn't find it. I’ve been able to paint him from memory, but it would be nice to have a visual for once.

“No, I want you to model for me.” Joel shifts uncomfortably as I run my hands along his arms. “Please, just for a little bit. The lighting is so good right now.”

Joel huffs, but nods his head. I happily grab the chair from Ellie’s desk and place it in front of the window. He grumpily sits down and allows me to position him the way I want. I put one of his arms around the back of the chair and the other resting on his knee.

He stays still as I pick out my colors and get the canvas ready. It isn’t until after I’ve painted his form and begun to work on the details that he starts to get antsy. He moves slightly in the chair, apologizing when I shoot him a look. His eyes wander the room as I paint the highlight of the golden sun on his cheek.

“What was she like?” Joel asks, breaking the silence in the room.

“Who?” I ask, keeping my focus on my painting.

“Your mom,” he responds. I freeze with the brush against the canvas.

It’s not that my mom was a bad person, but I find it hard to talk about her now. Talking about her is a reminder of what I’ve lost, and I hate to dwell in those feelings for long which is why I’ve been avoiding the topic.

This time there’s no way out. Joel waits patiently for my response, not moving from the position I’ve sat him in. I shift in my seat and clear my throat as I try to think of a way to explain who she was.

“She was really creative,” I start. “She never found something she couldn’t make herself. She was funny, and smart, and very supportive of Ellie and I in whatever we wanted to do.”

I smile at the memories of her, picturing the way she would pick Ellie up after a fall and sweep her into her arms.

“She loved deeply,” I continue. “She was strong in whatever she did. Which also meant she felt emotions really strongly, whether that was love or sadness or anger. I saw a lot more of that when I got older. After Ellie was born, her and my dad started fighting a lot more…”

My throat begins to become thick with emotion, so I clear it and focus on the light again. I work on getting the shadows correctly on his jaw, trying to ignore the way his eyes linger on my reaction.

“What about your dad?” I drop my paintbrush on the floor as Joel speaks again. I curse under my breath as I go to pick it up.

Talking about my mom is hard enough, but I wouldn’t know where to begin with my dad. I don’t know how to understand, let alone explain the two versions of him that exist in my mind. When I was small he was kind and playful, gone a lot but always present when he was there. Later in life, after he stopped traveling for work, he was irritable and withdrawn. He wasn’t mean, but he dampened the mood in the room.

“Can we just,” I take a breath as I stand up to paint again. “I’m sorry, I’m trying to focus right now.”

Joel’s eyes soften, noting that the mention of my father must have been too far. He remains silent as he watches me work for a little longer, but something is off now. The art becomes more mechanical and methodical than before. The brush doesn’t flow as it did. Joel must notice the difference too, because he shifts in his chair.

I begin to protest when he stands up from the chair I’ve sat him in. The lighting will be gone before he settles again. He tunes me out as he grabs the biggest empty canvas he can find and lays it flat on the ground.

“What are you-“ Joel grabs my palette from my hands next, placing it on the cart next to my easel. He cuts me off by placing a gentle kiss to my lips as his hands grab the hem of my shirt.

“It’s my turn,” he says. “Let me paint you.”

He pulls my shirt over my head, sucking in a breath when he exposes my bare chest and stomach, and then continues to undress me. His fingers grasp the waistband of my leggings. He pulls them down my legs, waiting on his knees for me to step out of them.

He puts my leggings in a pile on top of my shirt before kissing up my bare legs. I throw my head back and sigh at the feeling while his fingers climb up to my hips. He pulls my underwear down as well, leaving me completely bare in the middle of the room. Something about this feels more vulnerable than when we were on the stairs or in the kitchen. I’m suddenly aware of how exposed I am.

I shiver as he kisses his way back up my body. When he’s standing again he kisses my lips and then pulls back to look me over. His eyes gleam with desire as they graze over every inch of my body.

Joel is still wearing all his clothes. My hands reach forward to grip his shirt. I need us to be even. I can’t have everything focused on me right now, but that’s what Joel has decided.

He pushes my hands away and picks up a paintbrush. I watch him anxiously as he dips the brush in the bright yellow paint on my palette before turning back to me. I pinch my eyebrows together as he walks behind me.

My body jolts at the feeling of the cold liquid trailing down my skin. I can’t see what he’s doing, but I can feel the tickling sensation of a paint brush against my skin. He spends a while doing it, coating my entire back in an assortment of colors. When he’s done he walks me back to the canvas he placed on the floor.

“On your knees darlin’” he says, the paintbrush in his hands. I follow his instructions embarrassingly quickly.

Once I’m on my knees he delicately directs me backwards so I’m laying on top of the canvas on the floor, then he stands again. I begin to pant as I watch him load the palette up with colors again. He glances back in my direction quickly and then takes his shirt off. A tension builds in my pelvis as he takes off all of his clothes except for his boxers.

He brings the palette and brush back over to where I lay on the floor, putting them on the ground before kneeling in front of me. His eyes wander slowly over my body again. He mutters something I can’t quite hear under his breath while he picks up the paint brush again.

Gently he strokes the brush down the middle of my chest. I squirm at the feeling, the paint on my back smearing along the canvas as I do. A devious look appears in his eyes as he continues to run the brush along my chest and stomach until it runs out of paint. He loads the brush up with red next then starts with my left breast.

The bristles brush along the top of my breast until he reaches my nipple. I let out a whine as he swirls the brush along the sensitive nub. When he’s satisfied he chooses another color for the other breast, bright purple illuminating my skin as my chest begins to heave. I can feel the slick collecting between my thighs. I desperately need his hands on me which only makes him go slower.

When I’m completely covered in paint Joel puts the brush back down on the palette and sits on his knees to admire his work. I squirm again and desperately attempt to squeeze my legs together to ease the tension. My desperation only seems to darken the lust in his eyes. I try to sit up and reach for him, but he grabs my wrists and pins them above my head.

“Joel, please,” I whimper. His face hovers above mine, a cruel smirk spreading across it.

“Stay there babygirl,” he whispers and releases my hands.

I watch with heavy breaths as he moves back on the floor. His hands push my knees apart to expose my core to him. He groans at the sight of my glistening center.

“So fuckin’ wet baby,” he growls. He swipes his thumb across my folds causing me to jump. “You keep your hands up there sweetheart, don’t move ‘em or I’ll stop.”

I nod my head quickly, my hips gliding back and forth on the canvas as I wait for him to touch me again. He licks his lips before laying on the ground. His hands grip my thighs as he pulls himself up to my center. I feel his breath against me first, a rush of warm air causing the tension in my stomach to jump.

He presses a delicate kiss to my clit, teasing the sensitive bud, and then licks a stripe up my center. I moan and squirm again. His lips smile against my core as he pulls himself closer and thrusts his tongue inside me.

A loud guttural moan escapes my lips as he begins to feast between my thighs. I desperately grasp the edge of the canvas to keep my hands from grabbing him as he curls his tongue inside me. I could almost come from that alone, all the tension from his teasing building into a pit of pleasure in my core. I can’t control the way my body thrashes against the canvas as he moves his tongue to flick against my clit.

“God, Joel,” I moan. He picks up his speed, eating me as though it’s his last meal on earth. I’m already so close to the edge when he moves one hand from my thigh to press two fingers inside me.

I scream as he thrusts them in and out, my grip on the canvas tightening. I squeeze my eyes shut as the pressure builds. He crooks his fingers so they press against the sensitive part inside me. The rush of sensitivity as he does so is what causes me to break my resolve. Without thinking, my hands release the canvas and bury themselves in his hair.

Joel immediately pulls away, tutting his tongue as he crawls back to his knees. I whine again and attempt to pull him back to me as I squirm.

“Please, I’m sorry. Please, don’t stop,” I beg. Tears escape my eyes while I squeeze my thighs again, so desperate for the release that just barely escaped me.

“Oh princess, you make this so hard.” Joel says. He reaches a thumb to my cheek to wipe the tears away. “One more chance sweet girl, roll over.”

I look at him questioningly, but I’m too far gone to argue. I roll onto my hands and knees, the paint causing me to slide a bit on the canvas. He leans back and watches as I get myself ready for whatever he has planned next. I hear him shuffle behind me, but I can no longer see what he is doing.

When I’ve stopped moving his hand moves up my leg, gripping my ass for a moment before pulling away. I gasp when I feel his hands return with a sharp smack to my ass. Then he pulls my cheeks apart and moves forward.

He must have taken off his boxers when I turned around because I can feel his bare length push against my dripping folds. I bite my lip as he slides it against my center.

“You want this baby?” I nod, biting my lip so hard I can taste the blood filling my mouth. He moans as he presses himself forward, filling me once again.

I stay completely still while he pushes into me, focusing on the burning stretch until I feel his hips flush with my ass. I keep my hands rooted on the canvas as he pulls back again, but when he thrusts in harder than before I slide and collapse on my stomach. Joel goes down with me.

His chest is pressed against my back, his hands keeping mine pressed against the slippery canvas as he pulls back and thrusts into me again. We moan in unison as he continues his thrusts. My body sides across the canvas with each one and his slides against mine.

The whole thing is messy and slippery, a combination of sweat and paint with loud moans echoing down the halls. He kisses my neck, leaving marks on the skin, as my climax begins to build again. My walls clench around him, signaling how close I am. He thrusts harder, his fingers intertwined with mine as he slides my body up and down.

I’m staring out at the pink and purple sky through the window when orgasm crashes over me. My walls flutter around Joel as I scream. His low moans rumbling through his chest while he continues to thrust into me. When I come down he pulls out and directs me to get up.

He lays down on his back, moving me to climb on top of him. I position my knees on either side of his hips and watch his face twist in pleasure as I sink down on his length. The both of us are covered in paint now, a smattering of colors bleeding together on his chest as he grips my hips.

I throw my head back as I bounce in his lap. He feels so good at this angle. I can feel every vein and ridge of his cock as I slowly rise and lower my body onto him. It’s my turn to tease now.

I try to keep my pace slow, to torture him just a little bit, but it becomes difficult when I feel the pleasure bubbling up inside me again. I can see in his eyes he can tell I’m close again.

His hands move up to squeeze my breasts as I ride him. I feel his fingers pinching my paint covered nipples and moan. I’m not going to last long. He starts to thrust up as well, meeting me halfway as my hips start to lose momentum. My hands press against the canvas as I attempt to keep my pace with my climax looming over me.

“It’s okay sweet girl, come here,” he says. I lower my chest into his and let him take over. He thrusts hard into me a couple of times before I shudder again. “That’s right, let go. Come on.”

I clench around him one more time before letting go completely. He swallows my moans, kissing me deeply while he continues his thrusts until he can’t any longer.

“God, I’m gonna-“ he thrusts again and then stills. “Get up, you gotta-“

Joel pulls me off of him quickly. I climb down his body to take his pulsing member in my mouth. I swirl my tongue around the head, and that’s all he needs to release his load into my mouth with a deep moan. His hips twitch as he lets go, spilling into my mouth. When he finishes I sit up and swallow his load.

“Fuck,” he groans. I smile back at him. He carefully stands up, doing his best not to slip on the canvas.

We both stand back and look at what we created. It’s a mess of color, still wet with no clear reasoning behind any of it. There are places where the colors blend so much that they’ve become a muddled brown or gray. In other areas bright shades of color shine through virtually untouched.

“Damn, I really thought I did something there,” Joel says with his hands on his hips. “Kinda just looks like a mess though.”

I lean forward and kiss a patch of skin on his shoulder untouched by the paint.

“I don’t know, I kinda like it.” I say. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close.

“Well, you’re the artist,” he says before pressing a kiss to my hair.

We abandon the idea of a movie completely, choosing instead to bathe together so we can wash the paint off our skin. Joel’s hands are gentle as they wash my body, the colorful water pooling at our feet. He let the water run cold against his back as he pushed his fingers inside me again, slowly working me up until my body spasms again.

The rest of the night we stayed in bed, talking and fucking until we fell asleep.

Read more on a03: Always an Angel, Never a God

[universe-friday]

EXCERPT #50:

Hello. I hope somebody is listening.

[…]

All Thalia left me was this photo.

Other than that, there was a single message on the back reading, “1508 Tomsby Street. Ask for Solus. Be careful. Thalia x.”

So I went. What other choice did I have? I had to find out who this person was… Who this ‘Solus’ was. And why they knew Thalia- Sorry, no, find out why they are creating these sinkholes. [Cough], anyways…

I made my way to Tomsby Street – notably the street with the telephone box I used to hide in. The same one I met Nightcrawler in, if you recall from so long ago, old sport.

1508 Tomsby Street was the basement of a building I had passed so many times. One of those desolate buildings the government urges you not to enter. I’ve explored so many of these buildings during my time in the City, particularly during my search for Thalia, but I never approached 1508 Tomsby Street.

I think the place was littered with zombies the day I came across it. I didn’t have the energy to fight them all at the time. My mind was elsewhere.

The basement door was one of steel, with one of those sliding peepholes. It was there a pair of eyes met my gaze before I had even a chance to knock. One eye green, the other hazel.

I waited for the figure to ask me for ‘the password’, as I presumed that’s how this usually went. However, I quickly realised that I didn’t have a password. All I had was a name.

I hurriedly told them I was looking for Solus. The eyes replied with a low hum, almost with a tone of curiosity. Suddenly, the door creaked open heavily, revealing a dimly lit hallway in its place.

As I entered, I went to thank the mysterious doorman until I noticed there was no one there. No evidence of where the figure went, just the empty space behind the door to show their absence.

The hallway was short, I must’ve taken less than ten steps until I was stood in this concrete room, with lights flickering menacingly in every corner. A desk was stationed in the centre, stocked with monitors on top of monitors and paper piles taller than the screens themselves.

Behind everything was a pin board, with red string frantically drawn across it, seemingly piecing together a mystery I couldn’t quite see.

Through the smallest gap in the computer screen, I saw a figure. I hesitantly asked the room, “Solus…?”

The person stood up, slowly, and carefully as I took notice of their appearance. Dark hair that swooped down across their face and rested perfectly behind their ears. Eyes which stared right back at me. One green and one hazel.

It was then that a smirk began to crawl across their face. They replied, grimacingly, “Who’s asking?”

[...]

[palmtreesx3]

(Bonus Features for Burning Through the Pages)

Read the full fic and epilogue HERE

Title: Syllabus and Skin: A Forbidden Seminar

By: GradSchoolGirlie93

Rating: E

Tags: Academic Enemies to Lovers, Copy Room Smut, Forbidden Romance, Professor Harrington’s Hair, Power Couple Energy, Canon Divergence (but not really)

Author’s Note: I don’t know what inspired this… probably just too much caffeine and the way they said “interdisciplinary collaboration” like it was foreplay.

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 3: “The Office Hours Incident”

Professor H was leaning against the filing cabinet, arms crossed, sleeves rolled up like he knew what it did to her. Dr. L didn’t flinch. She never did. Not when he smirked. Not when he said her name like it was a challenge.

"You’re five minutes late,” she said, tossing a red pen on his desk.

"You missed me,” he replied, voice low. He took a step closer. Then another. Until the air between them was sharp with unsaid things and stupid decisions and last week’s conference hotel hallway.

"If I missed you,” she said coolly, “you’d know.”

"Wanna prove it?”

And then?

She kissed him like tenure was on the line.

He kissed her like he’d already burned his contract for a second chance at her.

She moaned something into his mouth about APA formatting and he swore he blacked out.

---

TOP COMMENTS:

@blonde_bitch_gradtrack: I’m sweating in the student union rn WHY IS THIS SO GOOD

@Feral4Frogs: I’d pay actual tuition to see Prof pin him against a whiteboard and make him beg.

@majoring_in_yearning: I knew they were real. THIS FIC IS VALIDATION.

@HarringtonsHairline: The author clearly took notes during class. This is basically ethnographic research.

By: GradSchoolGirlie93

Chapter 4.5: “Field Research”

---

“Tell me again,” she hissed, pinning him against the whiteboard. “Why you decided to argue learning theory with me in front of the dean.”

"Because,” he gasped, “you’re hot when you’re condescending.”

She gripped his tie.

He whimpered.

A dry-erase marker rolled off the ledge and no one noticed.

“Shut up and prove you understand deep inquiry.”

"If I go down on you in your office chair, does that count as experiential learning?”

"Depends,” she said, smirking. “Are you going to assess the outcome?”

Chapter ends with a broken chair, muffled moans, and someone outside the door loudly going: “I SWEAR TO GOD IF THEY’RE IN THERE AGAIN.”

---

TOP COMMENTS:

@tenuredbutferal: This is the most educational thing I’ve read all semester.

@icedcoffeetears: I had to close my laptop in the library. Twice. I’m not okay.

@notliketheothergrads: Are they real? Like real real? Because I saw her wearing his flannel and I have feelings.

@polytheoreticalmethod: I am convinced they make each other flashcards before sex.

@gimmeaplusandaprofessor: The way he said “experiential learning” and she just LET HIM?? I blacked out. I’m suing.

@yourmomsrubric: "Are you going to assess the outcome" is the single filthiest academic line I have ever read and I want it tattooed on my body.

By: GradSchoolGirlie93

Chapter 6.3: “Crisis in the Lecture Hall Closet”

---

The door slammed shut behind them.

Her voice was a whisper: “This is a janitor’s closet.”

His hands were already at her waist. “This is a learning environment.”

"You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re not wearing a bra.”

She gasped.

He grinned.

Somewhere in the corner, a bucket rolled over.

"We have twelve minutes before my next class.”

“Twelve?” he asked, dropping to his knees. “So like... a warm-up?”

She didn’t answer—just grabbed his hair like she was writing her thesis in it.

--

Top Comments:

@goththesisenergy: Can’t believe she said “This is a janitor’s closet” like that wasn’t a setup for the hottest scene of the semester.

@academicallyunclothed: I’m gonna start checking closet doors before every class just in case they’re still in there.

@ragingsenioritis: The mop witnessed war. And I envy it.

By: GradSchoolGirlie93

Chapter 7: “Citations and Cunnilingus”

---

“You’ve cited everyone in this paper,” he said, flipping through her binder.

"Everyone but you,” she replied, tugging his belt open.

"APA or MLA?” he rasped.

“Oral.”

He dropped to his knees with reverence.

Her thighs parted like the gates of academic enlightenment.

He murmured her name like a thesis title.

She graded his performance with an A+ and a moan so obscene, the neighboring office filed a noise complaint.

---

Top Comments:

@feministpedagogy: This isn’t erotica. This is theory. This is praxis.

@sapphicTA: “Oral” sent me into the void. I’m not even mad. I’m inspired.

@taintedtenuretrack: If I don’t have someone who worships my mind and my thighs with the same intensity, I don’t want it.

By: GradSchoolGirlie93

Chapter 9: “Peer Review”

---

She caught him rereading her latest article.

He caught her staring at his mouth while he did it.

"Any feedback?” she asked.

"I have some... notes.”

He kissed her like a rebuttal.

She kissed back like she’d already revised.

They ended up horizontal.

The article ended up crumpled.

Neither of them regretted it.

He gave her a ten-page review.

She gave him rug burn.

---

Top Comments:

@emotionalTAtrauma: "Kissed her like a rebuttal" has permanently altered my DNA.

@doyoureferencesparkjoy: This is my Roman Empire. I think about it every day.

@powerpointandpanties: Not the rug burn. NOT THE RUG BURN.

Time: 1:37 AM. Someone had too much boxed wine and opened AO3.

Jules: okay WHO is writing the “Syllabus and Skin” fic bc I just read the chapter where she called his lecture voice “foreplay with a learning objective” and I need answers

Emma: I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU IT WAS TOO SPECIFIC

Liam: “peer review” gave me a nosebleed. I was at Panera. My sandwich was never the same

Tasha: I can’t even look at Prof anymore. She asked me if I’d “submitted my materials” and I BLUSHED

Ben: no bc the author said “his fingers trailed across the thesis of her desire” and I cried into my reusable coffee sleeve

Emma: no listen

Emma: LISTEN

Emma: "she moaned in APA”

Emma: WHO SAYS THAT

Jules: the levels of accuracy??? the emotional damage??? the CHALK DUST DETAIL???

Tasha: it’s Lexie. Has to be Lexie. She took both their classes and has a tattoo of a fountain pen.

Lexie (just entering): hi. sorry. just joined. what’s happening?

Liam: …nothing

Emma: talking about taxes

Jules: yeah. FAFSA. lol

Lexie: oh cool. hey btw. did anyone notice the exact font used in that fic is the same one in Professor H’s syllabus?

Everyone:

Everyone:

Ben: ok BYE

Tasha: she said ✍️ forensic fanfic

Emma: THIS IS WHY WE DON’T TRUST LITERACY MAJORS

He meant to check his email.

He really did.

But the browser was already open. And it said:

“Chapter 10: Lecture Hall Lust & Curriculum-Based Moaning”

Which, okay. Fine. That could mean anything.

Until he sees the tags:

“Enemies to Lovers,” “Copy Room Smut,” “Dean Martinez Has Seen Too Much,” “Hot Professors Who Should Be Illegal.”

And then— He sees the character names.

Not their real names, of course. But the descriptions?

“Smirking Psych Professor with rolled sleeves and emotional depth of a teaspoon.”

“Snarky Education Chair with a gel pen kink and thighs like policy enforcement.”

His mouth drops open.

His coffee drops onto his shoe.

“Holy. Shit.”

He keeps reading.

And reading.

And somewhere around the line,

“She pinned him to the whiteboard like tenure depended on it,”

he makes a sound that can only be described as a noise previously reserved for playoff wins and orgasms.

He doesn’t stop until the final line of the newest chapter:

“He graded her on a curve. She curved against his mouth.”

“I need to tell her,” he whispers, wide-eyed and reverent.

---

You're in your office.

Grading.

Peacefully.

Until your door slams open and Steve bursts in holding someone’s MacBook like he just found the lost Dead Sea Scrolls.

“They wrote fanfiction about us.”

You blink.

“What?”

“Fan. Fiction.” He’s waving the laptop. “They wrote us into a fic. We have tags. I HAVE A TAG.”

You set your pen down. Slow. Suspicious.

“What’s your tag?”

He flips the screen around.

You read:

#Hot Professors Who Should Be Illegal

#Smug and Sensitive (the duality of man)

#He’d Eat Her Out Mid-Tenure Review

Your hand flies to your mouth.

Your brain short-circuits.

Your body? Not immune to the phrase mid-tenure review.

“I’m going to die,” you whisper.

“I’m printing it,” he says.

“You better not.”

“There’s a whole peer review scene. You call me a ‘mouthy complication with a doctorate in destruction.’”

“Why does that kind of turn me on?”

“It should.”

---

You’re in bed.

He’s shirtless. Glasses on.

Reading it aloud.

"And then she said, ‘Get on your knees, and show me what a real thesis defense looks like.’”

You groan into your pillow.

"Burn it."

“Frame it.”

“Burn me.”

He pauses.

“...Can I send them a thank-you basket?”

[missriggie]

DreadRook Week 2025

Day 1: Fade Conversations

//"You are ever in my thoughts"

@thelighthouse-server

We're kicking things off with a snippet from the next chapter of my fanfiction on Ao3!

Set two years after the events of Veilguard, Syvillia 'Rook' Laidir embarks on an adventure with the Lords of Fortune to return a runaway slave home to Ferelden while evading the wrath of elven cultists, lyrium-addled Carta assassins, and her old Tevinter master.

Registered users can read this story on Ao3 here: [LINK]

In this chapter, Rook and Solas reunite through one of her dreams. Deep into the Fade, she reaches the very edge of the prison that holds him, and both are wary of each other for their own reasons.

EXCERPT (1/2) of CHAPTER 17: A DEBT TO PAY

The Dread Wolf himself stood before her, slumped against the thick glass-like barrier between them, beaten like a soldier fresh from battle. Were it not for his chest shaking out a laboured breath, she would have sworn it was just another painting on the wall, framed by the blue roses blooming about the room.

   “Rook?”

   Solas flinched at the sight of her; a look of guilt and sorrow morphed into shock from behind his bloodied and bruised face. His armour the scuffed and torn remnants of an ancient time no different to its state when he limped away into a rift after they had defeated Elgar’nan. Upon the realisation that she wasn’t a danger to him, he strained to stand upright, pulling his hands behind his back. It would have worked when he was far enough away to play the part of the wise old god in Rook’s head. This close to him now, the crystalline wall only provided a lens to the truth; how much he pretended.

   Rook’s eyes glanced at every detail, the dents in his armour, the abundance of unhealed bruises, the pride in his raised chin.

   “You look like shit.”

   He frowned, turning away and stretching his neck at some ache, grimacing at the distorted sound of a click among muscle and bone, swallowing hard at the released yet still painful tension.

   “With a greeting like that, I can be certain that it is the real you.”

   Rook put her hands on her hips, tilting her head, still studying his features, waiting for him to elaborate on why he had to determine whether or not she was real. An impatient stillness built between them as she studied him, refusing to back down against his stoic and battered form. Her eyes traced the trail of blood from his brow down to his cheek. In all the time that had past, and he never once thought to clean himself up, but then again, she knew how time dilates in the Fade. Perhaps he had only been here for a few hours from his perspective, or perhaps something else made it impossible for him to take a moment, gather himself, recover. A flicker of concern made her fingers twitch with how frigid and stiff he was, but she played it off, tapping a rhythm on her hip as she paced back and forth in front of him.

   “I’m not really here. This is a dream.”

   She detected a twitch of a smirk, or perhaps it was another tell of the kind of pain he was still in. It caught her off guard to see it ease out into a playful, almost relieved smile, the musicality of his chuckle echoing against the glass.

   “Yes, I suppose there would be no other way for us to communicate otherwise,” he said, “though, I must commend you on your lucidity.”

   She folded her arms. “That a compliment? Or doubt?”

   “An observation. I’ve encountered many dreamers in my time, but I suppose I was mistaken in assuming you were not inclined to pursue such a discipline.”

   She rolled her eyes. “Got plenty of practice keeping an eye on you, didn’t I?”

   “I suppose you did,” he said, “with the help of blood magic.”

   Rook cast her eyes aside with that snide comment. She pursed her lips as she continued her turn about the room. He watched her with an equally reserved silence, his smile disappearing under her scrutiny, or did he catch her little tick? She was so certain she managed to hide it.

   “Are you planning to taunt me all night?” he asked.

   She shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re still trapped here, and I have free reign about the waking world, just like old times. Sorry if I’m a bit nostalgic.”

   Solas’s brows dropped into a frown. “Nostalgic, you say? And how much time has passed to warrant that emotion?”

   "So I was right! You are trapped!” she teased.

"I am not 'trapped,' I am here by choice."

"Yeah, and now you're trapped with the consequences. That ever come up in your little Fade-mandated regret therapy sessions?"

   “I am here because it is necessary! I must—”

   As soon as his anger rose, he recoiled, his shoulders hitched up, suddenly turning his head to listen out for something further beyond the barrier. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice.

   “I must serve my sentence here, repay my debt.”

   It was Rook’s turn to frown as she moved in closer, that flicker of sympathy slipping into her fingers, wanting to reach out to him comfort him. She shook it away.

   “What’s got you so worked up?”

   “Answer my question first,” he urged.

   Rook leaned back, her concern not going away the more she stared at his dishevelled form. She couldn’t help but noticed how each breath he took was uneasy, the desperation in his violet eyes, “Two years.”

   His shoulders dropped at her answer. She was uncertain if it was in relief or disappointment, but it was clear that he was exhausted.

   “Okay, now you answer my question. What’s going on in there that’s got you so jittery?”

   He glanced back up at her, then turned away.

   “That is my concern.”

   “It’s my concern too,” she said, “We’re supposed to work together on either side to keep the Veil intact. If this prison is getting in the way of that, battering you down this hard, it’s only a matter of time before we need to look for a new host, and I’m not too keen on taking your place again.”

   “We made no such deal.”

   “Okay… so we left it a little vague, but we were both in agreement. You do what you can on your end, and I do what I can on mine.”

   “And have you?”

   She froze a moment, then puffed out her cheeks and combed her fingers through her hair. “Well…uh… you see…”

   Solas released his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose.

   “Oi! Don’t give me that!” she snapped, pointing a finger at him, “If you’re going to dance around me with what's you've been up to, then you’re going to have to trust me with what I’m doing…”

"You are hardly giving me the confidence in the significance of your current path."

She frowned, her spirit pivoting defensively.

"There's an artefact," she admitted, "don't know exactly what it is, but it's dangerous. The kid who has it knows how to destroy it, so I promised to take him home."

"That tells me nothing."

"That tells you everything you need to know."

"Does he have a name?

She shook her head. "Won't tell me, and he doesn't need to."

He was frowning so deep there were visible wrinkles in his forehead. "You mean to tell me you are playing escort to a nameless child? And you had the audacity to scold me for wasting my energy?"

"You're one to talk! Here you are playing the martyr in your little cage. The blight is still poisoning the world in some places, Thedas is trying to rebuild, and there a new factions of fuck ups like us are coming forward every day, harping on about creating a better world when all they want is to steal a part of it for themselves, grab all the power and last long enough to use it. They don't care if they have to crush more lives to get there. If I can save just one more life I..."

   She trailed off, her runaway cabin boy entering her thoughts. The mural on the next wall emitted an energy in response, centred at the white wolf pup running through the forest. She felt the same freedom watching the kid on her ship earlier that night, arms outstretched, soaking in the full set of stars above the rolling waves; that blissful, beautiful freedom.

Her fists clenched as her heart emboldened to the promise she made to get him home, give him the chance she never had.

   “I just need to do it.”

   He softened as he assessed her sudden resolve. There was a flash of recognition, some epiphany that came to him. He cleared his throat and straightening his posture once again as he made up his mind.

   "Isn't that the way?" he mused, "One more life, one more vow to uphold, and then we are free to move on. It seems we both have a debt to pay." 

   Rook scoffed. "What is it with you and debts today? Do I get a cut?"

Hope you enjoyed it so far! Stay tuned for the Day 2 prompt, where I'll release the second snippet in this chapter, where they delve into her memories!

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

Harry Potter

The Ordeal of Being Known by louisfake

When Auror Potter is anonymously cursed with silence by being forced to hide his own voice inside his mind, there's unfortunately only one person in the country with the qualifications to fix it: Certified and Licensed Healer Legilimens, Draco Malfoy, specialist in Mind Curses and Afflictions. It's obviously a terrible idea, a disaster waiting to happen, but Draco's never been able to back down from a challenge... especially from Potter.

Features fuzzy cartoon slippers, devious house elves, 90s music, and lots—LOTS—of memories. Ron is annoyingly hot, Hermione sees right through you, Harry is a powerful idiot, and Draco is a reclusive masochist that would buy an entire city if it would make a kid happy. (And Pansy is "5'2, I wanna dance with you, and I'm sophisticated fun.")

Super Mario Bros

Cooking Mama (Luigi)! by Little_RedHots_Riding_Hood

Luigi was having a perfectly peaceful stroll through the Toad Market - the sun was shining, he'd just found a lovely handmade blanket, and was on his way to the bakery before heading back to his and Mario's home.

Only... what was that sniffling noise from that dark, scary alleyway?

Of all the creatures he was expecting to find, the littlest prince of the Koopa Kingdom certainly wasn't it.

Star Wars

the tiger is out by elumish

Wolffe looks like he’s regretting having a second Jedi with them.

DC

Cryp-Tim by PrinceJakeFireCake

"The cons of dating Tim Drake were innumerous. For one, he was almost impossible to photograph, and so none of Kon’s friends at school actually believed he existed. His family was scary, horrifying really, and all of them seemed to find joy in making Tim regret ever being born. And Tim had charmed Ma and Pa Kent so thoroughly, they had ditched their shovel talk to instead coo at him and offer him pie and compliment him for fixing their tractor, so Kon was at a disadvantage when it came to intimidating someone with his family.”

Kon and Tim date. It goes pretty well, all things considered.

Tim Has a Hero Worship-y Crush on Every Robin Ever by PrinceJakeFireCake

"Tim as an adult was bad enough, Tim with no filter as a child was too much to be around."

Cork Board Contingencies by PrinceJakeFireCake

If you don’t use a cork board to obsessively plan contingencies for every possible way a date with your best friend can go, how can you go on a date at all?

Excerpt: “Are you free next Saturday?” Tim asked, pretty sure that Kon’s jumble of words was agreement that he wanted to date Tim.

“Maybe!” Kon exclaimed.

“Cool,” Tim commented, taking another sip of his drugged grape soda (“Dammit, Tim,” he mentally told himself. “Do not give in! Buy new grape soda! Stop drinking the drugged grape soda! I’ve shotgunned another can of drugged grape soda, haven’t I? Dammit, that makes five!”) then saying, “That gives me just enough time to pass out for fifty-two hours and plan our first date."

Immunology by JustGettingBy

Hypothetically speaking. Could a hybrid creature become suddenly not viable? Like say it survives being an embryo, makes it through growing up, and then just one day… stops? the text from Kon reads.

Tim’s heart spikes up through his ribs. Kon. What’s happening?

(OR Kon gets the flu. It becomes Tim's problem.)

Change of Plans by PrinceJakeFireCake

"Who’s your friend, Tim?” the voice asked.

Jason hissed. This was his baby! Not his friend!

“Sorry, sorry,” the voice hastened to apologize. “I mean, who’s your parent, Tim?”

AKA, who has the time to be a murderous crime/drug lord when there are kittens to adopt

Motion Blur by sElkieNight60

At Damian's school art showcase, Bruce realizes he needs to help Tim reframe their relationship.