#and i had forgotten about this one somehow?

[thesiltverses]

The horror of Eric Carle

Becoming a dad has really been a reminder of all the half-forgotten books that got me interested in horror: the ones that I will definitely share with my kid (The Minpins) and the ones that I probably won't (Not Now, Bernard)

And then there's Eric Carle, and now it's all coming flooding back - the very first time in my life that I experienced terror. Seriously, what the fuck is this?

Carle's most famous book, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, is in its own way uneasy and strange (the caterpillar's voracious and growing hunger is presented ambiguously both as an unavoidable and natural process of change and something greedy and grotesque; the caterpillar appears to devour its own place-of-birth and then feels good about it) but it flies under the radar by being very unCarle-like. The caterpillar is largely tiny and cute, we get plenty of colourful close-ups of tasty-looking food, and there are only two pages and a cover which feature Carle's favourite preoccupation: giant animals with irregular, scissor-cut eyes staring unhappily at the reader as they threaten to grow larger than the page itself.

I genuinely remember feeling deeply unnerved by Carle's first major piece of illustration work, Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?, written with Bill Martin Jr., but only now do I understand why. Holy shit, I have so many questions.

Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you see? I see a red bird looking at me.

Why is the rhyme-scheme so frantic and breathless, like it's being chanted out during an escalating ritual somewhere deep in the forests? Why are the animals - textured via collage as if half-carved from wood themselves - staring directly at us, the audience, before then revealing that they're actually looking behind us at something else which is staring back at them in turn? Why do so many of the animals look so fearful and haunted as they acknowledge the vast web of visibility which exists between them?

Why does the 'white dog' page - perhaps the only-genuinely-friendly-looking animal - briefly plunge us into night-time, creating the impression that these creatures are somehow watching each other across spans of time and space, when Carle is fully capable of just drawing an outline around the dog?

Why is the teacher's neck extending like a xenomorph's tongue as she glares with narrowed eyes down at the children (what horrible act have they caught her doing?) Why is the cover of follow-up Polar Bear, Polar Bear, What Do You Hear clearly depicting a Tuunbaq stalking the reader?

What seems remarkable and bizarre is that Carle, a talented artist, deliberately chooses to draw animals for infant readers which are neither cute nor charming but which consistently embody the internet joke about hares - feral wilderness prophets who've glimpsed the truth of the universe and gone mad - and has made a stunningly successful career out of doing so.

Carle's beasts know something terrible that they do not fully understand, and which they are incapable of sharing with us.

I'll avoid the crass temptation to draw serious biographical inferences here (Carle believed he had PTSD from an adolescence spent in Nazi Germany, and his works were inspired by his childhood walks with his father, who returned home psychologically shattered by his own experiences as a Soviet prisoner-of-war) and just say that there is something wonderful, awful and innocent in the fact that perhaps the most popular baby-book artist of all time, when asked to draw a goldfish, would respond with what is clearly a monstrous open-mouthed leviathan rising up from black depths to devour us all.

Look at this horrible fucking thing. It rocks.

[razorblade180]

Ekko Location

Ekko:*thousand yard stare*….

Caitlyn:(Should I tell him? No, false hope doesn’t do any good. Especially in this case.) *looks left*

Giant mural of Jinx

Caitlyn:….Ekko?

Ekko:What could you possibly want after everything?

Caitlyn:Hopefully, an olive branch. I have to tell you something but you have to promise to not get your hopes up, or tell Vi. This is something I’m trusting with you specifically.

Ekko:And how in the world did I get such an honor?

Caitlyn:Because if it wasn’t for one act of kindness, I’d be in your shoes right now.

Ekko:…What do you have to tell me?

xxxxxx

One month later. Somewhere across the water, in a nice quaint land known for its view of the ocean and mountains, a cloaked girl bobs her head to music as she roams the back alleys streets without a care in her mind.

Jinx: 🎶Do you ever wanna catch me?Right now I'm feeling ignored. *turns corner*

Jinx:So can you try a little harder? I'm really getting bor-

Ekko:*cloaked* !?….

Jinx:…..(Just when I thought I’ve wrangled all the voices. This is a low blow, me.) *closes eyes* (Just gonna breathe in and-)

Ekko:*grabs her wrist*

Jinx’s eyes immediately shoot open to see him right in front of her. She starts looking back, forth, everywhere; her thoughts trying to rationalize this moment because what do you mean he’s real!?

Jinx:Y- wha- how? How!? Fuck everything else. How?

Ekko:Let’s just say someone offered me a little hope. Honestly it was more like wishful thinking.

Jinx:Ekko, that’s not a “how” at all! You left Zaun to chase wishful thinking? That’s alone is crazy, but not as crazy as you actually finding me! I could’ve gone in any direction and stopped anywhere yet somehow you’re right here searching in the correct city? Gasps Did you put something in me?!

Ekko:What? No! Jinx, we used to spend literal hours talking about all the places we wanted go; the sight ls you wanted to see. Sometimes you rambled so much I never got a word in to say mine!

Jinx:So you’re telling you just remembered all that ramble and started flying to the places I yapped about!? Who the heck remembers stuff like that!?

Ekko:Me!! Since when have I ever forgotten anything!? Especially stuff about you!?

The girl was too stunned to speak. Ekko told no lies and he had a point, however, what the hell? How was she supposed to respond to that? She told absolutely nobody that she was leaving and left no trace, yet somehow wishful thinking from probably the world’s most annoying enforcer and childhood memories was enough for Ekko to find her in a little over a month. Jinx could only squint at him in disbelief. Sure, she could definitely break free of grip and make a break for it, yet this moment only gave her the strength to exhale tiredly before him.

Jinx:Anyone else know?

Ekko:Nope. You think people have time to chase hypotheticals?

Jinx:So you just left??

Ekko:Told them I needed some air. Had to move quickly. You don’t exactly stay in one place for long.

Jinx:…..Alright. Out with it. I know you have some rehearsed lecture and rant you’ve prepared in case you actually somehow weren’t crazy and found m-

Ekko:*hugs her* I can tell at you later.

Jinx:You really just might be crazier than me.

Her entire body relaxed as she finally put her arms around him. Despite all odds, he really was right here. Leave it the Boy Savior to yet again foil her schemes.

Jinx:At this point I should call you Ekko Location or something.

Ekko:I this point, I should put a fucking bell on you.

Jinx:I’d still get away.

Ekko:And I’d find you again.

Jinx:Heh, yeah. *hugs tightly* You would, wouldn’t you?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows 7

Warnings: non/dubcon, clashing personalities, exclusion, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: moody boy Curtis Everett x bubbly, plus-size reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You sit at your desk, shaken as the sound of the mug shattering repeats in your head. You can smell the dark roast as you stare fuzzily at your monitor. You hadn’t even taken the coffee you brewed. You can see it in your mind, forgotten on the counter, lonely, going cold. 

You have no thirst for the maple shortbread roast. You rub your fingers together, the feeling of the shards, the incessant jitter that won’t leave you. You tried to play it cool but now you’re really scared. 

You open your Teams and type out a message to your manager. You’re spending half a sick day and going home. Her curt response betrays her agitation. She’s not impressed but you don’t care. Work isn’t as important as taking care of yourself. 

You shut down and pack up your bag. You slide your chair under your desk and keep your head down as you head for the stairs. You avoid the elevators to evade any notice. It feels like admitting defeat but you’re not sure there’s any victory to be had with that man. 

As you exit the building, the weight lifts from your chest and the slouch eases in your shoulders. Maybe you can ask to change desks. That would be a start. You can get a bigger thermos and bring lots of coffee so you never need to venture into the breakroom. This could work. 

Oh boy. You think you’re going to have to quit. You really don’t want to, you feel like you’ve barely begun. And he isn’t the only person there, it isn’t his company, so why should you have to run away? 

Dana can be… decent and there’s that woman with the vintage blouse you met in the breakroom. Somehow, you never managed to spill her coveted hot chocolates in your carelessness. It’s as if the universe put you on the path of this angry man, but why? 

Screw the universe. It can’t tell you how to live. You’ve never really worried about fitting into its machinations and you won’t start now. 

You don’t want to go home right away. You veer around and head down to the cafe a few blocks down. It’s a bit of a trek but you’ve heard good things. You go inside and wait your turn, ordering an iced fruity tea and a lemon scone. 

As you turn to go, you see that woman through the window. The one from the office in her thrifted clothes. You love her style. A braid red belt with brown tweed pants and a bell sleeved button up. She doesn’t see you wave as she turns away and carries on, earbuds tucked into her ears. 

You claim a table by the window and as you unwrap your scone, a man marches by, raising your hackles as you see the determination in his step. He heads in the same direction as that woman, intent and unbothered by his surroundings. You’ve seen him too, he works in one of the fancy offices. 

You pick at the scone and nibble on the corner before sliding it away again. You’re still addled by your breakroom run-in. You thought this would be a distraction. Or hoped it would. 

You leave, unsatisfied. Home it is. Alone, but safe. 

You take the bus halfway then walk a few blocks to your apartment. As you get inside, you’re restless. You do your best to settle in.  

Gaming doesn’t calm you down, even as you go around to say hello to your villagers. You shut that off and grab your half-done crochet project but the hippo is too much of a challenge to ease your nerves. So you get up and run yourself a hot bath. 

You undress with the door open. You bask in your newfound solace. It took you a while to get out of your parents’ place but now you’re on your own, you don’t have to worry. 

You slip into the water with a sigh. A playlist drones from your phone on the counter and you mix in scented epsom salts. You start to feel a bit bed as you recline and close your eyes. You stay like that until the water is lukewarm. 

You get out and pull on your fluff rope with the pink cheetah print. You feel renewed and ready to relax. Just don’t think about the inevitable. Tomorrow you’ll have to be back in office. 

You shuffle around you apartment lazily and turn on the television. You curl up in the corner of the couch as Sailor Moon transforms in the intro sequence. The music fills your small space. You’re comforted by the childhood favourite. 

You ease into the cushions and feel yourself starting to doze. You’d still be at work if you didn’t take the half-day. You shouldn’t be falling asleep already but you can’t resist the nap. 

You close your eyes and something scratches down ear canal. Some sort of friction. You don’t pay it much mind. There’s always noise from the hallway or the street. But it happens again and again, then you feel something. 

You sit up in fright and turn to the figure sat next to you. You’re so stunned, you can’t find your voice to scream. You take a deep breath and Curtis raises his index fingers. 

“If you scream, I’m going to have be bad,” he warns. “So let’s not do that.” 

“How’d you get in here?” 

He tilts his head as he watches the television. You peek over. You like this episode too—but that’s not the point! 

“Curtis--” 

He hushes you and sits back. “You don’t make it hard to follow you. You’re so oblivious, you have no clue what’s going on right in front of your face.” 

“I...” 

He shushes you again and looks at you. “You’re going to get real hurt one of these days.” He crosses his arms and puts his head straight again. “It’s up to you. Is today that day?” 

[hikarry]

I...I think I just spent 13 hours processing my newest trauma through Aziraphale and ended up writing the most serious and fucking real break up scene between Aziraphale and Crowley I've ever even considered writing

I...Fucking hell

Just-

I sat here, tears in my eyes, and I chose them to help me procress and I just wrote the most real thing that ever came out of my lil fingertips

I will not throw this away. I will figure out a way to write a story around this scene alone, but I'm just going to leave it here for now. Cause, fuck.

It's still not refined, mind you. I just wrote this and felt like posting it here, so nevermind the mistakes and whatnot

Crowley awoke to sunlight spilling over him, casting a warm glow that he immediately tried to escape. He groaned, pulling the blankets over his head, desperate to keep the world out a little longer. But as he tugged the covers, he noticed a strange weight to them—not quite right, somehow softer, smelling faintly of old books and tea. The dissonance nagged at his half-dreaming mind, until the realization hit him, sharp and sudden.

This wasn’t his bed. This was Aziraphale’s.

Memories surged, each one a jolt to his drowsy senses. Aziraphale collapsing into his arms, Raphael’s sombre warning about the angel’s deteriorating core, the fear that it might devour him from within. Crowley recalled their painful conversation—Aziraphale pressing his pinky ring into his hand and giving him an ancient box, packed with letters, photographs and sketches. Each drawing was of Crowley—his eyes, his smile, his hands—captured in Aziraphale’s tender, attentive gaze. They were relics, moments preserved over centuries, a farewell gift for Crowley to remember him by if…

Then he remembered the new attack at night. Aziraphale’s body trembling, his essence struggling against itself, and Crowley, desperately holding him close, trying to soothe the angel through the worst of it, following Raphael’s advice as best he could.

Finally, exhausted, Aziraphale had drifted off, leaving Crowley to watch over him until sleep claimed him too.

Crowley reached across the bed, expecting the familiar warmth beside him, only to feel the cold emptiness of the sheets. Panic surged through him, flooding his senses and banishing any lingering sleep. His heart pounded as he sat up, scanning the room with wild, searching eyes.

“Aziraphale!” he called out, his voice hoarse, thick with fear. He pushed himself out of bed, stumbling, as he searched the flat in a frenzy.

He dashed down the stairs, heart racing with every step, calling Aziraphale’s name. His voice echoed through the stillness of the bookshop, each unanswered call intensifying his dread.

Then, he spotted him.

Aziraphale sat at his desk, removing his reading glasses with that calm, familiar gesture, looking up at Crowley with a mildly perplexed expression, as though yesterday’s horrors were nothing but a forgotten dream. He was impeccably dressed, the picture of serene composure, as if-.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, achingly gentle, piercing through Crowley’s panic and grounding him in a way only the angel’s presence ever could.

Crowley freezes, his breath catching in his throat as a rush of disbelief floods through him, quickly followed by an overwhelming tide of relief that he barely knows how to process. His heart is a frantic drumbeat in his chest, each thud like a battering ram against his ribs. The word escapes him in a choked whisper, almost too quiet to hear. “Aziraphale…” His name sounds foreign on his lips, trembling, as if he’s afraid speaking it too loudly might shatter this fragile moment. Without thinking, he takes a step, then another, his feet moving quicker than his mind can catch up.

Aziraphale watches him, his expression a study in calm, but there’s a subtle sorrow hidden behind those soft eyes. He sets his book aside with deliberate slowness, as if aware of the weight of the moment, as if he understands how badly Crowley needs him to be real, to *be here.* When Crowley reaches him, he stops, every inch of his body tense, his eyes scanning Aziraphale’s face like a desperate search for any crack, any fracture, anything that would suggest the angel is not whole. He’s afraid to blink, afraid that when his eyes open again, Aziraphale might disappear.

“I-I thought…” Crowley starts, the words stumbling from his lips, each syllable trembling as if the very act of speaking could unravel everything. His breath is shallow, the air thick with an almost suffocating fear. His chest is tight, constricted, and his heart thunders in his ears as he struggles to form a thought that makes any sense at all. But the fear that clings to him like a shadow has no words, no logic. All that remains is this raw, pulsing panic, the lingering horror of something worse just out of reach.

Aziraphale’s eyes soften, a glimmer of understanding passing through them. He steps closer, slowly, deliberately, as if every movement is meant to reassure, to calm. His hands rise, gentle, placing themselves on Crowley’s shoulders with a touch that feels both familiar and distant. It’s cold. The coolness of Aziraphale’s fingers seeps into Crowley’s skin, a stark contrast to the warmth he craves, and something inside him snaps. He’s here, yes, but there’s something wrong. Something’s missing.

“Forgive me, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice gentle but carrying a depth of sorrow, as though he, too, feels the weight of the unspoken words between them. “I woke hours ago and couldn’t bear to disturb your rest.” His hand moves up, his fingers brushing a lock of Crowley’s hair away from his forehead with such tenderness that it almost aches. But the coldness of that touch, too, is an unforgivable reminder of the fragility of this moment, of how close they came to losing everything. Yesterday lingers between them, a tangible thing, and Crowley can almost taste the terror that still clings to the edges of his mind.

Crowley’s breath shudders in his chest, his hands moving on their own to grab Aziraphale’s wrists, the action almost frantic, his fingers trembling with an urgency he can’t control. He holds on as if the simple act of touch can anchor him to this reality, to the feeling of Aziraphale being alive, being here. “You… you scared me, angel,” Crowley breathes, his voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of the emotions he’s barely able to express. “I thought…” He falters, unable to finish the sentence, unable to voice the horror that still simmers in the pit of his stomach. His pulse races, but the relief he should be feeling is tangled with something darker, something deeper that refuses to let go.

Aziraphaletakes hold of Crowley’s hands, his fingers cold, trembling—just as they were yesterday. The coldness isn’t just the absence of warmth, it’s something else, something more. A coldness that seeps into Crowley’s bones, that gnaws at his soul. The tremors in Aziraphale’s touch are like a faint echo of the nightmare they just survived, a reminder that whatever they’ve survived—whatever they’ve won—isn’t over. Not yet.

“Take a deep breath, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice low and soothing, yet edged with something brittle, something that tells Crowley this calm is fragile, as if one wrong move could shatter it. Aziraphale’s thumb traces circles on Crowley’s knuckles, slow, deliberate, trying to steady him. But the touch is faint, delicate, like the fluttering wings of a moth in the dark, and Crowley feels the tremors of Aziraphale’s fingers under his own, an unmistakable sign that the danger still looms over them. The same cold fear claws at Crowley’s insides, pulling him down into a place he doesn’t want to go, a place where he can’t save Aziraphale, can’t stop whatever is coming.

Crowley inhales sharply, the breath caught in his chest, but it does little to calm the panic roiling inside him. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hands harder, his knuckles white with the effort, trying to hold on to something, anything, that might give him control over this suffocating fear. “How can you stay so calm?” His voice cracks, thick with emotion, the words escaping like a ragged plea. “How can you act like nothing’s wrong when you…” He can’t finish the sentence. It’s too much. The thought hangs in the air, suffocating him, a silent terror too vast to voice.

Aziraphale’s lips form a smile—gentle, almost pitying—but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a smile that feels like a lie. He lifts Crowley’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to it with the same chilling coldness that’s invaded every inch of their world. The touch is wrong. So wrong. Crowley feels it deep in his bones, the absence of warmth, the emptiness where something vital should be. Aziraphale’s warmth has always been his anchor, but now it feels like a lie, like something pretending to be real.

Aziraphale pulls back slightly, his gaze meeting Crowley’s with an intensity that sends a shiver down his spine. “We said what we had to say yesterday, remember?” he whispers, his voice soft, but the words heavy with unspoken truths. “It’s done, my dear.” He kisses Crowley’s hand again, the coldness like a knife to Crowley’s heart. “Now we just have to keep going and see what happens.”

Crowley feels his heart twist at the words. Keep going? The question hangs between them like a stone. How could he go on, knowing that at any moment, the coldness might take over, that Aziraphale’s life might slip away, like sand through his fingers? How could he keep living in a world where any breath might be the last?

“Keep going?” Crowley repeats, his voice raw with emotion. “You want me to just go on, knowing I could lose you at any second? That any moment might be your last?” His hands tighten around Aziraphale’s, his fingers pressing into the cold skin, trying to hold on, trying to do something—anything—that might stop the inevitable.

Aziraphale gazes at him, soft and steady, though Crowley sees the weariness in his eyes, the fragility beneath the calm. “I’m here now, Crowley,” he whispers, his voice carrying a quiet, almost tragic certainty. “I’m still here.”

“But for how long?” Crowley���s voice cracks, the words slipping from him like sand through a sieve. He can’t stop the tremor in his voice, the panic that tightens around his chest. “How much longer before…” He can’t finish, his breath catching in his throat, his chest constricting under the weight of the unspoken. His grip on Aziraphale’s hands tightens, desperate, as though holding on tighter could keep the inevitable at bay.

“Remember what I told you yesterday,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice imbued with a quiet strength that Crowley can’t quite reconcile with the coldness in his touch. His eyes are gentle, but there’s a firm resolve there, the kind of determination that makes Crowley feel both comforted and frustrated. “Let’s make the most of the time we have left. Worrying won’t change anything right now.” His words are like a balm, meant to soothe, but they sting, too, because Crowley knows the truth buried in them—their time is slipping away, and there’s nothing either of them can do to stop it.

With a fluid motion, Aziraphale gives Crowley’s hand a tug, a silent invitation to follow, and Crowley moves almost automatically, his feet dragging slightly as though his body’s trying to delay the inevitable. Aziraphale leads him into the kitchen, the familiar hum of the backroom falling away as the warm, homely space embraces them in its quiet comfort. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, but it does little to erase the heavy, anxious weight that still clings to Crowley’s chest.

“Come now. Sit down. Just breathe, okay?” Aziraphale’s voice is still calm, still that gentle pull to something more grounded, more present. It’s almost maddening—the way he seems to accept everything with such grace, such peace when all Crowley can think of is the clock ticking away, each second closer to the end. Aziraphale releases his hand, and Crowley’s eyes linger on his retreating form as the angel moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, opening cupboards and retrieving mugs as if this is just another morning as if the world isn’t crumbling in slow motion around them.

“Coffee?” Aziraphale asks, his back turned as he busies himself with the preparations.

Crowley nods, but the action feels hollow, the sound of it a thin echo in the stillness. He can’t tear his eyes away from Aziraphale, the fluidity of his movements unsettling in its normalcy. It’s so strange, so disorienting, to see the angel functioning as though nothing is wrong when everything feels so terribly, undeniably wrong. The sense of detachment gnaws at him—like he’s floating, disconnected, watching this moment unfold from a distance.

“I can’t just…” Crowley’s voice breaks the silence, raw and jagged. His words feel like they’re being pulled from somewhere deep inside, something ugly and vulnerable. “Sit here and enjoy our time together, knowing…” His throat tightens, the words strangled with an emotion that refuses to settle. “Knowing that every moment could be our last.”

The words hang in the air between them, thick with fear and pain, but Aziraphale doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, he finishes making the coffee with the same unhurried precision, then carries the steaming cup over to Crowley, setting it gently in front of him. The warmth of the cup contrasts sharply with the chill that still lingers in Crowley’s veins, the tension that hasn’t yet loosened its grip.

Aziraphale pulls out a chair and sits down beside him, the movement smooth, almost comforting. For a moment, they’re both silent, the weight of everything unspoken pressing on them like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Then Aziraphale speaks again, his voice soft but unshakable. “The more you focus on that fear, the less you’ll appreciate the time we have.”

His words cut through the silence, and they settle into Crowley’s mind like stones dropped into water, sending ripples through the chaos in his chest. It’s not what Crowley wants to hear—not at all—but there’s something about the way Aziraphale says it, with that same quiet conviction that has always grounded Crowley in a way he’s not sure he understands, that makes him stop and think.

Crowley looks down at the cup in front of him, the steam rising in delicate tendrils, and for a moment, he allows himself to inhale deeply, the rich scent of the coffee filling his lungs, pulling him away from the frantic, spiraling thoughts. The world feels still, as if time has bent around them, waiting, uncertain. But no matter how much he tries to center himself in the present, the fear lingers, clawing at the edges of his mind. Every moment could be their last.

“You don’t understand,” Crowley mutters, the words barely above a whisper. He takes a sip of the coffee, the bitter warmth hitting his tongue like a small comfort, a brief distraction. But it doesn’t change the heaviness in his chest, the pit of dread that refuses to let go. “I can’t just forget about it. I can’t just…” He trails off, his voice faltering, before adding, softer, “I can’t lose you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything at first, his eyes searching Crowley’s face, reading the depth of the fear that lingers there. His fingers move to rest lightly on Crowley’s hand, the touch tender but insistent. There’s a stillness in him that Crowley can’t quite understand, a quiet acceptance that doesn’t sit right with the storm of panic inside him.

“Then don’t,” Aziraphale finally says, his voice low, a thread of sadness woven through his words. “Don’t lose me. Not yet. Not here.”

Crowley wraps his hands around the cup, the warmth of it almost mocking as his fingers tremble around the edges. The heat is a stark contrast to the chill gnawing at his insides, and he presses it to his lips, taking a sip without truly tasting it. The burn on his tongue barely registers—his mind is too consumed with the weight of everything else to care about something so trivial.

As he lowers the cup, his eyes find Aziraphale, and in that moment, the frustration he's been holding back finally boils over. He doesn’t even try to hide the sharpness in his voice, the edge that has been growing with each passing second. “You can’t just expect me not to worry,” he spits out, his chest tightening with the sting of helplessness. “You can’t be so… accepting of your own fucking death. It’s… it’s not fair.”

Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away from the heat in Crowley’s words. Instead, he places his hand on Crowley’s forearm, the coolness of his touch seeping through the fabric of his shirt, sharp and unmistakable. The contrast of it hits Crowley like a punch to the gut, a reminder that nothing is normal, nothing is safe. The weight of Aziraphale’s touch is gentle, but there’s a certain finality to it that makes Crowley want to recoil.

“What else can I do?” Aziraphale murmurs softly, his voice as calm and steady as ever, almost too calm. His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles on Crowley’s arm, as though the gesture alone can somehow fix everything. “I’d rather focus on living—on cherishing you while I still can, reading the books I still can read—than worry over what may or may not come.”

The words fall over Crowley like cold water, and for a moment, they don’t make sense. He watches Aziraphale, still not entirely grasping the serene acceptance that emanates from him, the angel so resigned to a fate Crowley can’t even begin to wrap his mind around. He wants to scream, to shake Aziraphale, to make him see reason, to make him *fight*. But the words that come out instead are hoarse and raw, brittle with frustration. “You could… try. You could look for some way to fix this, to—”

He falters, the rest of the sentence dying on his tongue. The weight of Aziraphale’s cold hand on his arm pulls him under, like sinking into the deepest part of the ocean. He can barely breathe as he looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him, and for the first time in a long while, something like doubt, something sharp and ugly, pricks at his heart.

Aziraphale’s expression is unreadable as he stares back, that familiar calm still settling around him, but Crowley can see it now—the faintest tremor in the angel’s eyes, a flicker of something deeper, something resigned. It’s that same quiet acceptance, but now it feels different. It feels like… giving up.

Crowley feels his chest tighten with something dark and unbearable. His breath catches in his throat. “But you’ve already… given up, haven’t you?” His voice cracks on the words, the realization settling on him like a weight he’s been carrying for far too long. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows it now, deep in his bones. He knows that Aziraphale isn’t fighting anymore. And that thought, that cruel truth, makes his stomach churn with helplessness.

Aziraphale doesn’t look away. His hand lingers on Crowley’s arm, but it’s colder than it should be, colder than Crowley remembers. “No,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice steady despite the weight of Crowley’s words. “I haven’t given up. I’ve simply chosen to live as fully as I can for however long I have left.” His gaze doesn’t waver, and Crowley feels the weight of that look, like the angel is daring him to understand, to accept it. But all Crowley can think about is the absence of hope in those eyes, the stillness that has settled in Aziraphale’s soul. It cuts deeper than anything he could say. Aziraphale shakes his head slowly, almost as though trying to rid himself of the weight of Crowley’s words. His voice is softer this time, but the strength in it is undeniable. “I haven’t given up, Crowley. I’m still waiting for the right moment to meet with Raphael—to finally get concrete answers about what's happening to my core, my True Form…” He takes a slow, steadying breath, as if gathering every last bit of strength. His grip on Crowley’s forearm tightens ever so slightly, a silent anchor. “But… the risk of it all… It’s real. I can’t just live my life in fear.”

The words hit Crowley like a stone sinking in his gut. His chest tightens painfully, the breath in his lungs becoming thick, difficult. He sets his mug down with a soft clink, the sound somehow more jarring than it should be. The porcelain seems too delicate in his hands, too fragile for the weight of what Aziraphale is saying. “So, we’re just… waiting?” he asks, his voice rough. “Waiting for this thing inside you to slowly eat away at you until… until everything is completely gone?”

He reaches out for Aziraphale’s hand, his fingers trembling, but he grips it firmly, unwilling to let go. His touch is desperate, as though holding on to this one moment, this one piece of Aziraphale, might somehow stop the inevitable.

Aziraphale’s hand trembles beneath his grip, and the sight of it breaks something in Crowley. He swallows hard, forcing down the bitterness rising in his throat. “We wait… until Raphael can get me to Heaven and do a thorough examination,” Aziraphale says quietly, the words almost a whisper, as though speaking them aloud makes them too real to bear.

Crowley’s knuckles whiten with the intensity of his grip, his breath coming in shallow bursts. “And if he finds there’s no cure?” he forces out, his voice cracking as he dares to ask the question he’s been too terrified to face. “If he tells you that your core is… is set on destroying you?”

Aziraphale meets his gaze without flinching, the sorrow in his eyes as clear as the day itself. “Then… we’ll have to accept it.” His voice is steady, but Crowley can hear the hesitation, the barely contained fear beneath it. He leans in closer, his forehead almost touching Crowley’s. “That’s why we need to cherish this time we have now, Crowley.”

But the words only make Crowley’s chest tighten even more, as though an invisible weight is pressing down on him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. “You say that like it’s easy,” he rasps, his voice breaking with the rawness of his emotions. “Like I can just… sit here and enjoy each second, knowing it might be your last. That… that at any moment you could be gone.”

Aziraphale raises his cold hand, gently cupping Crowley’s chin, his fingers sending an icy shock through him. The touch is tender, almost too tender, and yet it leaves Crowley feeling more alone than ever. “If it comes to that, you’ll regret not making the most of the time we had,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice soft but filled with a quiet urgency, as though he’s begging Crowley to understand.

Crowley’s heart aches at the angel’s words, the raw pain in his chest spreading like wildfire. He stares into Aziraphale’s eyes, searching for the warmth he’s always known, but all he can see is that cold acceptance. The thought of losing him is like a jagged knife twisting in his soul. His voice is hoarse as he finally speaks, his words trembling with emotion. “Enjoy what, angel?” he whispers. “Living each moment terrified it might be the last? Knowing you could… disappear, just… just like that?”

His voice catches, and he swallows hard, fighting to keep himself together. The ache in his chest is unbearable, and yet it pales in comparison to the crushing fear that threatens to swallow him whole.

Aziraphale brushes his cool thumb over Crowley’s lower lip, the touch soft, almost tender, but it feels like a cruel reminder of everything they stand to lose. “That’s why you have to push those fears aside. Live in the moment.” He gives Crowley a sad smile, his gaze searching the demon’s face as though trying to piece together a way to make him understand. “I’m here right now. I don’t want you looking at me and already seeing a memory… while I’m still right here.”

Crowley’s heart aches at those words, a heavy, suffocating ache that feels like it might split him open. He closes his eyes, a fresh wave of tears threatening to break free, but he keeps them at bay. The thought of Aziraphale slipping away, of losing him before he’s even had the chance to truly *live* with him, is more than Crowley can bear.

“How am I supposed to do that, angel?” he whispers, his voice cracking with the weight of it all. “How can I just act like everything’s normal when I know it’s… it’s not?”

Aziraphale leans in, his lips pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, and then another, gentle and lingering, on his cheek. The kiss is cold—so painfully cold— the warmth of Aziraphale’s breath against his skin is the only warmth left in him. “Why?” Aziraphale asks softly, his voice almost a plea. “Why do you look at me here, right next to you, and already think I’m gone?”

Crowley’s eyes remain closed, but a fresh wave of emotion surges up from deep within him, breaking free in a burst of frustration. “Because I’m terrified!” he snaps, his voice a harsh rasp. “Because the thought of losing you… it’s unbearable. And I feel so… so helpless, knowing I can’t stop it.”

The words come crashing out of him, raw and unfiltered, and as soon as they’re spoken, he feels them settle in the air between them like a weight neither of them can escape. Aziraphale doesn’t pull away, doesn’t recoil from the outburst. Instead, he just stays there, his cool hand still cradling Crowley’s cheek, as though trying to hold him together even when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Crowley opens his eyes, and the sight of Aziraphale, with his eyes wide and sad, feels like a cold slap. There’s anguish in his gaze, a raw, unrestrained dread clinging to every feature. His heart aches, and his words catch in his throat, the simple act of breathing becoming a struggle. “Seeing you like this—feeling how cold you are…” he begins, his voice shaking. He swallows hard, and when he speaks again, the words come out in a ragged whisper. “It’s like you’re already slipping away from me.”

Aziraphale steps back just slightly, and with the gentleness that only he can muster, he reaches up and wipes away Crowley’s tears with his cold fingertips, the chill of his touch cutting through the rawness of the moment. His eyes are tender but laced with sorrow. “You’re grieving me before I’m even gone, Crowley,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost too soft. “This is why I didn’t want you to know.”

The weight of Aziraphale’s words presses down on Crowley, settling deep into his chest like lead. His throat tightens, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak. Aziraphale’s voice drops to a whisper, laced with something deeper, a sadness that feels almost like resignation. “You’re looking at me, but you’re not really seeing me anymore, are you? In your mind, I’m already dead, aren't I?”

Crowley feels a sharp ache slice through him, a twisting pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He tries to form words, tries to push through the suffocating knot in his chest, but they come out cracked and broken. “I see you, angel. I do.” His voice falters, and his eyes begin to burn. “But I can’t forget that you’re… that you’re not well. That you’re not…” He trails off, his voice a mere breath, as if he’s afraid to even say the words.

He looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him—searching, searching through every inch of that familiar face, the one he’s known for over six thousand years. But now, those features seem different. Fragile. Temporary. Like they could vanish in a blink. Like they’ve never been more precious, and yet so delicate.

Aziraphale gently runs his fingers down Crowley’s jawline, as if touching him like he would one of his most treasured books—careful, reverential, and full of a quiet, unspoken sadness. “I may be the one who’s sick,” Aziraphale says softly, his thumb brushing over Crowley’s skin, “but you’re the one leaving me before I’m even gone.”

Crowley’s heart gives a painful lurch, the air catching in his chest. He fights to breathe, but it feels like there’s too much weight pressing on his lungs, too much hurt lodged in his ribs. “I can’t help it, all right?” he spits out, his voice cracking like shattered glass. He grips Aziraphale’s wrists, holding on like a lifeline, the coldness of the angel’s skin sinking deep into him, grounding him in the unbearable reality of it all. “Every time I look at you, it feels like I’m standing at the edge of an abyss, just waiting to fall.”

Aziraphale’s gaze drops to where Crowley’s hands are clenched around his wrists, his breathing shaky now, like he’s caught between something painful and something beyond his control. “Crowley…” His voice is hesitant, breaking in places, though his words are measured. “You can’t go on like this.” He pulls back, just enough that the space between them feels unbearably large. “You’re torturing yourself by staying with me. Every time you look at me, all you see is what’s coming—and that’s going to destroy you too. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

Crowley’s chest tightens painfully as Aziraphale carefully, deliberately pulls his wrists free from his grasp. The loss of that contact—the absence of the only thing that’s felt real in this moment—almost knocks the air from him. Aziraphale takes another step back, and the space between them seems to stretch, pulling Crowley’s heart with it.

“You should go.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, but there’s no mistaking the finality in it. The words strike Crowley like a blow, the weight of them enough to shatter him entirely. Every instinct in him screams to hold on, to keep fighting, to do whatever it takes to stop this. But Aziraphale’s eyes—those kind, eternal eyes—hold his gaze, and for the first time in forever, Crowley isn’t sure whether he’s staring at the angel he’s loved for millennia, or the ghost of the man he’s losing.

Crowley stands frozen, his mind struggling to make sense of the situation, his heart beating erratically in his chest. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, can’t comprehend the words that just came out of Aziraphale’s mouth. The ground beneath him feels like it’s slipping away, pulling him into a void he doesn’t know how to escape from. His voice trembles as he whispers, barely managing to get the words out. “What..? You… you’re telling me to leave?”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to face him, but Crowley can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a thousand-pound stone. He swallows hard, his throat dry. “You can’t be serious. You’re asking me to leave you now, when you’re… when you’re like this?”

The silence between them is deafening, broken only by the sound of Aziraphale’s slow, measured breaths. Finally, Aziraphale stands, his posture stiff and fragile, as though each movement is costing him something precious. His heart is pounding in his chest, every beat a reminder of the pain he’s trying to keep buried. The sound of it echoes in Crowley’s mind like a ticking clock. He can see the anguish in Aziraphale’s eyes even without looking directly at him. “I can’t watch you tear yourself apart like this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly, his voice a little too controlled, too careful. “I can’t keep looking into your eyes and seeing you staring past me, into a future that hasn’t even happened yet.”

He walks toward the sink, taking Crowley’s empty mug and placing it with mechanical precision in the basin, as though it’s the only thing he has control over right now. “Go.”

Crowley stumbles, his body aching as he tries to steady himself, his legs weak, unsteady. He feels as though the floor is slipping out from beneath him. “No,” he says, his voice rough, desperate, and it cracks at the end like a dying breath. “No, angel. You can’t… you can’t tell me to leave. I can’t just walk away, knowing you might…”

His voice trails off, his chest tight with fear, with a dread that he can’t push away. “I won’t leave you, angel. I can’t.”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to him. His voice comes cold and distant, like an echo from a faraway place. “Why?” he asks, his eyes never leaving the sink, his voice as measured and distant as a thought long past. “Is it because you love me, or because you’re feeling guilty?”

Crowley feels the words hit him like a slap, the coldness of them sinking deep into his skin. His heart clenches painfully at the accusation, at the ice in Aziraphale’s tone.

“Both,” he admits, his voice cracking, rough with the weight of the truth. “Of course, both. I love you. I’m in love with you, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” He takes a step forward, though the space between them feels impossibly wide, like a chasm he could never cross. “Sitting here, absolutely powerless, is driving me fucking insane, Aziraphale.”

But Aziraphale doesn’t move. He remains still, picking up a dish towel and methodically drying the mug as if the act of cleaning is the only thing keeping him grounded. His voice, when it comes, is soft but unyielding. “Leave.” He dries the mug with a slow, deliberate motion. “If you truly love me, come back when you can look at me without seeing my True Form being destroyed. Come back when you can see me.”

Aziraphale turns then, his face streaked with tears, and Crowley’s chest constricts painfully at the sight. “The angel who’s still here,” Aziraphale says, his voice catching. “Not just an empty shell.”

Before Crowley can say a word, Aziraphale turns again, his movements precise, almost mechanical as he places the mug back in the cupboard. “But if you realize your reason for coming back is just fear and guilt—not love—then don’t return.” His voice remains steady, but there’s a subtle break, like a crack in glass, that Crowley can barely hear. Still, Aziraphale doesn’t look at him. He closes the cupboard door with a soft click, and the sound echoes in the stillness of the room.

Crowley stands there, his heart a tangled mess of emotions, his chest tight, suffocating. He wants to argue, to fight, to deny everything Aziraphale just said. He wants to scream, to tell him that this isn’t right, that he can’t leave him like this. But deep down, he knows Aziraphale is right—his love, tangled as it is with fear and guilt, isn’t enough to change the inevitable. He isn’t strong enough to fix what’s broken.

Aziraphale brushes past him then, moving toward the hall. For a brief moment, Crowley catches sight of the tears streaming down Aziraphale’s face, streaking down his cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his coat. The sight of it sends a knife of pain through Crowley’s chest. He wants to reach out, to pull Aziraphale close, to tell him that none of this is fair—that he can’t lose him—but his limbs feel as if they’re weighed down with lead. His heart is an anchor, pulling him deeper into the darkness of helplessness.

Aziraphale’s figure is distant, slipping away, and Crowley feels that cold void widening between them. And in that moment, despite every instinct screaming at him to reach out, to fight for them, he feels the weight of a loss that hasn’t even happened yet.

Crowley stands frozen in the middle of the kitchen, the weight of Aziraphale’s departure pressing down on him. He watches the angel’s retreating figure, each step a reminder of the growing chasm between them, an abyss he feels powerless to cross. The silence in the room is deafening, and every breath Crowley takes seems to echo louder in the emptiness

A faint metallic sound slices through the quiet, drawing Crowley’s attention downward. His eyes fall on the Bentley’s keys, lying innocently on the kitchen table. Aziraphale must have miracled them there—another sign of the angel’s quiet control, even in the midst of his own heartache. The keys glint in the dim light, a small, seemingly insignificant object that suddenly feels like everything.

Crowley feels a wave of emotions crash over him, each one more overwhelming than the last: a searing anger, raw and unjust, directed at Aziraphale for pushing him away; a deep confusion, questioning everything that’s brought them to this point; a heart-wrenching hurt, knowing that Aziraphale is slipping away, piece by piece; and a sorrow so profound, it makes the air feel thicker, harder to breathe. But there’s one feeling that cuts through it all—a deep, hollow acceptance. He knows this is the way it ends. He knows he can’t stop it, no matter how much he wants to.

He picks up the keys, clutching them tightly in his hand, feeling their cool weight anchor him to the present. Without a second thought, he snaps his fingers, summoning the pair of shades from Aziraphale’s nightstand. He places them on his face, the familiar, dark lenses a mask he can hide behind. The world outside the shop suddenly feels sharper, colder, and yet somehow farther away. The door swings open with a heavy, final sound, and he steps outside into the crisp November air.

The cold cuts through him, biting at his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. He’s numb, each step feeling like it’s dragging him through quicksand. His mind is consumed with Aziraphale—his face, his words, the unspoken pain that lingers between them. But the more he thinks about it, the more it all becomes a blur. His mind is spinning, trapped in a vortex of grief and helplessness.

When he reaches the Bentley, his hands shake as he fumbles with the keys, his fingers betraying him, too unsteady to get the door open. He grits his teeth, frustration rising in him like a storm, but finally, the door clicks open. He slides into the driver’s seat, the familiar leather creaking under him, and the cold touch of the steering wheel does nothing to ground him. His fingers wrap around it, gripping it too tightly, as though trying to hold onto something that’s slipping through his fingers.

The engine rumbles to life, a low growl beneath him, but it feels distant, hollow. He pulls away from the curb, his foot heavy on the gas. The city stretches out before him, its lights blurring in the rearview mirror, but everything feels like a dream—too surreal to grasp, too far away to hold onto.

Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Crowley willingly lets them fall, his vision a mess of blurry streetlights and the endless dark of the road ahead. The tears come in waves—familiar, aching, unstoppable. There’s no destination. No plan. No reason for driving, except to escape the suffocating weight of what’s left unsaid, of what’s been broken beyond repair.

The city blurs past him, its sounds muffled and distant, as he drives aimlessly through the night, trying, and failing, to outrun the heavy, suffocating grief pressing down on him.

[darlingshane]

new chapter

Joe Teague x F!Reader

Summary: On his wedding night, before he gets to spend some time alone with you, Joe listens to the conversation you're having with your daughter as you tuck her in. The little girl has some interesting questions regarding him and his new role in her life that you're happy to answer to put her at ease.

CW: +18, explicit, smut, oral sex (f. recieving), p in v sex, fluff, wedding night, pregnancy, dancing, established relationship, mention of past abuse, mention of divorce, set in the late 40s.

Word Count: 2,3k

— Links: AO3 // Joe Masterlist

Joe takes one final look around the first floor to make sure all doors and windows are locked before heading upstairs. The kitchen is a cluttered mess of dirty dishes piling in the sink from the casual reception you hosted right at the brand-new house. Dishes can wait till tomorrow. It's been a big day worthy of celebration and while it's sad to see it come to an end, he can't wait to see what this new chapter in his life with you brings him.

He's excited to see what the future holds, what these walls would tell ten or twenty years from now. This is where he's putting his roots, and he's betting everything on it that there won't be no bail this time. You are it for him. There's no doubt in his heart.

Though it’s neither his nor your first marriage, it feels just like it. The experience is completely different, given that both of you come with your own baggage; and kids in your case from your first marriage. You chose to have a simple ceremony at the courthouse, followed by a small reception at the house, and it couldn't have gone better. He can't get over how beautiful everything was. He knew you were special from the moment he met you, but the sense of pride and love he's felt today comes second to none. Not only did you look stunning in the custom dress you made yourself, but the way you've handled every little detail is something to admire.

He still has part of his uniform on when he steps into the hallway of the second floor to see you tuck Grace, your six-year-old, into bed. He leans on the door frame, listening to your voices through the cracked door.

“Mama, you look like a princess today,” she says as you pull the sheet over her body, folding it carefully at the hem as the little girl gets comfortable on her pillow. Just like Joe, you're still wearing your wedding dress with no shoes on.

“Thanks, baby. Did you have fun today?”

“Yeah, I wish you’d marry every day.”

“Every day? That’d be a lot of work with that many husbands.” She breaks into laughter along with you. “What was your favorite part?”

“The cake.”

“It was a great cake.” You agree, pushing a strand of hair off her face.

“Will you make me a dress like yours for my wedding day?”

“Sure, but first I need to know who you're marrying.”

“Hm, I don't know yet.” The little girl shrugs, holding a stuffed teddy bear in her embrace. “Someone like Joe, I guess.”

“Yeah? You like Joe?”

“He's pretty funny.”

“Pretty funny looking, I'd say.” Joe watches you glance over your shoulder, smiling at him.

“Is he my dad now? Should I call him daddy?”

“Only if you want to.” You sweetly caress her face. “Do you want Joe to be your daddy?”

She nods. “What if he doesn't want to? Is he going to be mean to us like my other daddy was?”

It breaks your heart hearing her express it like that at such a short age. As much as you tried to protect her, she was still aware of how awful her father was to you both. You thought she had forgotten about him after he died a few years ago, cause she was still a toddler. It was hard to explain to her that he didn't come back from war, but somehow your little girl understood that your lives turned for the better the moment he was gone. And surprisingly, she’s never mentioned him until now.

“Baby, I promise you, Joe is a good man. He’d never hurt us like that. We wouldn’t be here otherwise. You might see us sometimes argue, but I give you my word that no matter what, Joe loves us more than your daddy ever did. He’s going to take care of us, and we’re going to take care of him, okay? We’re family now. It doesn’t matter if you call him daddy or not, he’s gonna love you the same.”

Grace hugs her teddy bear tight as you watch her pondering for a moment in silence.

“Do you wanna ask him or do you want me to do it?”

“You do it.” She sticks out her finger and boops your nose.

“Alright, I'll do it.” You turn your head again to nod at Joe, beckoning him to come closer.

He steps into the room and bends down by the bed, propping a knee on the floor and holding his forearm on your lap.

“Hey, Gracie Jo.”

“Hi,” she says shyly, even though she's usually pretty chatty around him. But this is a big ask, you're aware, and a big step for all of you. “Mommy wants to ask you something.”

“Oh?” he gazes at you with a smile on his face, very aware of what you’re going to ask. It’s something you’ve talked about before, but you didn’t want to force Grace into accepting Joe as her father before she was ready.

“Gracie and I were wondering if you’d like to be her daddy.”

He fondly looks at you and then turns to her to assure her there's nothing he'd love more.

“It'd be an honor to be your dad, sweetheart,” he promises, placing a kiss on her forehead.

It melts your heart to see them both beaming in delight. You have no doubts that Joe would be up for the task to fill that role in her life better than anyone. You and Grace would've been fine with or without him in your life, but you're glad you got the opportunity to meet him and fall in love with him like this.

You curl up with Grace until she falls asleep and then retire to your new room.

You've got the house for a week now, but with all the arrangements for the wedding and the hassle of moving, you haven't had a minute to stop to look at it as your new home until now. There's still work to do, but you're proud of what you've accomplished to make it feel safe and comfortable for your daughter. That's all you needed. You're exhausted, but it was all worth it at the end. Hopefully, you'll be able to slow down in the next few days while everything settles.

When you step out of Grace’s room, you leave the door slightly ajar. Next to it, by the staircase there's your workspace, and a bathroom on the other side. There’s an empty bedroom in front of hers that would soon be filled with baby furniture for the little guy growing in your belly. You haven't told Grace yet, she would have babbled to everyone at the party that she was having a baby brother or sister, which is something she's been asking for years. In a couple of days, you and Joe will tell her and you know already she'll be over the moon.

At the end of the hallway is yours and Joe's bedroom. There's only a light coming from a night lamp when you go inside. There's music playing on the radio while he waits for you, sitting on the chair by the window. He still looks as handsome as this morning, when you first saw him fully dressed in his uniform. Now, his shirt is half unbuttoned, his pants are creased, and the shoes are off.

“Thought you’d be in bed by now, Mr. Teague,” you say as he stands up to meet you in the middle.

“I was waiting for you, Mrs. Teague.” He picks up your hand and brings it up to his lips to print a kiss on your knuckles. “I didn’t get a chance to dance with my bride today, I was hoping we could do it now. Would you like that, sweetheart?”

“I’d love that.” Your lips form a smile as he spins you around in the middle of the room before securing an arm around your waist.

You place your palms on his chest, smoothing the fabric of his shirt across the breadth of his chest, locking eyes with him for a moment before pillowing your head on his shoulder.

Closely tucked in his embrace, you both start moving your feet to the slow cadence of the song playing on the radio.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to dance today. I wanted to do something small, I didn’t think that you’d—” you say softly before he cuts you off.

“Sweetheart, don’t apologize. It was perfect. I wanted something small, too. I told you I didn’t care for fanfare. I like it like this, just you and me.”

You lift your head to look at him. “You’re the sweetest man I’ve ever met. How did I get so lucky?”

“All it took was a robber. I’d like to thank him personally for bringing us together,” he quips.

That’s exactly how you met. The tailoring shop you work at got robbed about a year ago, and Joe was the lead detective on the case. It was a terrifying experience, but it gave you Joe, so you have to look at it as a blessing. After a couple of follow-up interviews, he started showing up casually around the neighborhood to check in the place here and there until the robber was caught red-handed again, trying to rob a jewelry shop a couple of blocks away. By that time, Joe didn’t have any more excuses to show up, so he started bringing some of his personal pieces of clothing to fix. First a jacket, then a couple of shirts, a pair of pants… Until one day he built up the courage to ask you out for a coffee. Before you realized it, you were falling madly in love with him. It was never in your cards to marry again, but Joe was the odds that changed your luck. He wasn’t only great to you as a boyfriend, but the way he treated your daughter played a major factor on that decision.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart? Is our little buddy behaving today?” He glances down at your still seemingly inconspicuous four-month bump hidden under the loose fitting of your dress.

“Hm, he’s been an angel. I haven’t been sick all day. Just a little tired.”

“Yeah? You’re ready to go to bed?”

“No. Not yet. When the song ends.”

You lock your arms tight around his neck as he lets his forehead touch yours before letting his lips crash with yours in a firm kiss that almost makes your legs crumble down to the floor. His arms anchor you in place as the sweet undoing of his kiss sends you somewhere closer to heaven.

As the melody fades, your bodies come alive against the other. The magnetic pull of your unwavering love guides your lips to fuse together in a hot frenzy of desire. It hurts so good, you can't help but moan in his mouth. When you grow breathless, you pull back and turn around so he can unzip your dress. You quickly shed every piece of clothing and undergarment to consummate your marriage for the first time as husband and wife. It helps that you've had sex many times before, otherwise you'd be ridden with anxiety. But everything has always been so easy with Joe, and this night is no different. He makes you feel desired in ways you've never experienced before. He evokes something so powerful inside, you can't speak coherently without tripping over your words. So you suffocate him with kisses and hold him for as long as you can.

As your lungs lose the ability to breathe properly, he places you down on the mattress. Your body buzzes with anticipation when he kneels at the foot of the bed. He climbs his way between your legs that he spreads open as far as they can stretch. He kisses the inside of your thigh from you knew up to your groin, making your skin rise into pimples all over. His lips make an urgent stop at your center to bury his tongue between your folds. The eagerness to taste you causes your legs to shake like an earthquake. His tongue collects the essence of your arousal as if he was a starving man. Your core wounds up in an impossible knot made of fire that is almost unbearable to contain. You have to cover your mouth to muffle the sinful sounds that come out of your lips.

“Joe, honey,” you pant, extending your hand to grip at his hair so he would climb on top of you. “I want you inside me.”

Following your request, he slithers up your body, nestling between your legs, letting you feel his hardness against your sex. He deliciously rubs himself on your folds before guiding his cock between your soaked lips.

One of his hands holds your jaw, while his forehead leans against yours. His hips slowly push inside you, capturing the warmness of your walls that contract gently around him every time your hips slant against his moves.

“God, I love you so much, sweetheart,” his voice comes out ragged as he ups the pace of his thrusting.

“Not as much as I love you.” You use your hands to press harder on his ass, so you can feel every inch of him filling you up to the hilt.

Joe presses his mouth open against yours, seizing your breath as he takes you to the final line where your orgasm comes crashing against his own. They merge together for a second, surrounding both of you in a cloud of elation that rushes through the tangled mess of your bodies like thunder. Your legs tremble as the flutter of your opening squeezes every drop out of his seed.

— Credits: beautiful divider by @cafekitsune

[cipheramnesia]

Like, I don't really know what else to say. Twenty producers' notes in a trenchcoat. Visible seams from where the parts of Aliens and Alien 4 got stitched in. 1979 Alien without the brain or the heart, hollow echoes of ideas passed through bloodless marketing department hands, relics with some long forgotten purpose. "Get Away From Her You Bitch" reverently inscribed as a holy talisman of protection. Characters wander through a dead ship, unknowingly echoing their journey through the dead script of Alien, lost and yearning for something they can't understand while they travel to their inevitable conclusions - to be whole characters, complete in and of themselves, rather than vacuous ghosts trying to sustain themselves on your memories of that time the same thing happened in Alien.

It would almost be brilliant if it were intentional. A digital fake of Ian Holm creating a fake version of a fake person that's used to lie to the characters in the film and put a fake personality into the film's android. There's too many bitter layers of metaphor. The ship meant to remind everyone of the Nostromo forcibly attached to the shitty falling apart facility for mass producing Aliens. No one who's supposed to care for Wish-Ripley actually cares about her. The creature barely has enough energy to make it on screen and has to go through a second round of incubation before it's revealed as yet one more generically underwhelming version of the creature that somehow hasn't had a better version made in almost fifty years now. Look at how hard it had to work just to be some figment of the original. Everyone is surrounded by swarms of ambulatory dicks trying to fuck them over. The alien's most frighting appearance is before it's born. I don't know, it's this Rube Goldberg contraption fully unaware of what a great job it's doing explaining why it's so bad at doing its one simple job. There's nothing there. There's no movie in this movie, it's a bunch of stuff that's supposed to be on screen for Alien movies, and it ends with a third grade play about vegetables version of repeating nearly the exact same final dialog as Alien. It's fine, it's horribly, awfuly depressingly fine, a shrug in the infinite void of sequels, another average blended smoothie of unflavored cinematic protein, a profit margin in someone's accounting software somewhere, checking off a box, a pizza hot pocket that's all crust.

It's a draining movie to watch, as if somehow my sense of joy and wonder has measurably dropped, and I need to go find sustenance in better works of art to regain that spark. Not a movie that hates its audience but a movie that exists only to extract money, time, and memory. It wears its middling vampirism on its sleeve and has no ulterior motive besides making you worse for having seen it.

I have had an opportunity to see Alien Romulus for free.

[themagicalshrimp]

When the speed of the sword reaches a certain level, blood will not get on the blade even if it slays a person.

[moeblob]

Deacon loves two things: Ymber and digging himself a grave.

Fulj hates one thing: Deacon.

[burningcomputerpersona]

ahhhhhhhh guess who made the mistake of getting a haircut

[dredshirtroberts]

huh... the way my parents showed me the world worked was really kind of fucked up, it's no fucking wonder i have an anxiety disorder frankly.

[nerdie-faerie]

Finished packing at half 7, took an hour nap and then only just made it to my coach with a couple of minutes to spare, I live on the edge. The edge of a panic attack

[noisytenant]

sorry i dont even know how to tag this but kind of in disbelief because i just opened my carrd dashboard to maybe move some things around and then saw i still have the page from my old nsfw account.

the final line is "on hiatus due to living in a society. take care, it’s a desert out there! ✨🤍" well and truly what the hell was i thinking referencing leyland kirby's fucking tribute to mark fisher following his suicide

[fingertipsmp3]

Maybe it’s the delusions again but maybe… just maybe….. everyone is out to get me

[justaholeinmysoul]

I wish that my life went on smoothly and normally. Like a river. Like those normal, average pathetic lives that make people numb or slightly miserable but normal and all perfectly the same. Like gears in a machine. But I broke At a certain point and no one saw,no one even listened nor cared. I look like a normal functioning gear. A loser very ugly one that people find odd but still OK. But I'm broken and I'm not functioning and I'm not even in the machine.

[ttsukiimi]

───〃★ C’MERE, BRING THAT D⍣CK HERE .ᐟ

〃★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ⎯ You’ve been a good wife—you really have! But when your husband’s boss confronts you about him cheating with his secretary, you just can’t help but take up his offer to get back at him.

〃★ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 ⎯ nanami x fem!reader, gojo x fem!reader, Sukuna x fem!reader, geto x fem!reader, cheating (not reader), smut (mdni), exhibitionism (sukuna, gojo), slight n⍣pple play, slight cl⍣t play, slight creamp⍣e (geto), full Nelson (gojo), office s⍣x.

〃★ 𝐚/𝐧 ⎯ I was gonna add toji but realized his broke assss not the boss of anyone🤧

────〃ଘ 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 - NICE ‘N SLOW

The wooden legs of his desk scrapped against the floor with every deep thrust, important paperwork scattered all over from how much he had you squirming from his slow, calculated movements. Your nails dug into the wood, scratching and latching onto the edge as your back arched, a cry of pleasure bubbling from your throat.

Was this wrong somehow? No. Your cheating scum of a husband should receive the treatment he’s given you. And you almost wished he’d walk in on the sight of his boss balls deep in his wife. Well, ex-wife, anyway.

Nanami leaned in to your ear and you shivered, feeling his breath fan past your neck, smelling his cologne and—fuck, you could feel his muscles through this suit against your back. “Hope you’ve finally found your worth. He never deserved you.”

His words entered one ear and came out the other with how hazy he had you feeling, cock penetrating you over and over in a cycle that had you feeling delirious. Your head spun, and the world seemed to blur from existence—except for Nanami; his hands, his words, his voice.

“I’ll make you feel better—cum better than he ever has.”

────〃ଘ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 - I’LL DO IT INSTEAD

Now, Satoru had always had his eyes on you. From the very first moment you came into the office, bringing your husband his forgotten lunch, he knew he had to have you. The whole interaction left him feeling bitter anyway—he only waved you off after he grabbed his lunch and refused to kiss you in front of his colleagues.

What kind of man was he?

Satoru had no problem fucking you in front of him, though.

You watched your husband’s wide eyes, embarrassed but basking in your sweet revenge. A smirk graced Satoru’s lips, his own focused on your husband’s flickering gaze from how he split your cunt open so lewdly to your bouncing tits as if in a trance.

“‘S how’s it feel? Watching your pretty little wife get ruined?” He breathed, strong arms folding you further into the full Nelson position he had you locked in. “You turned on, hm? Seein’ her lil’ cunt get fucked?”

Your eyes closed and your tongue lolled out, head thrown back onto Satoru’s shoulder as your hand came down to pinch your pulsing clit in circles.

Satoru peppered kisses upon your jawline and stopped by your ear. “Why don’t you tell him how good ‘m making you feel?”

────〃ଘ 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 - DO IT BETTER!

You’d always had your eye out for your husband’s particularly hot and intimidating boss, though you’d always stray your gaze away from him out of respect and loyalty. Respect and loyalty that your husband never seemed to reciprocate.

And when his boss finally confirmed that he was cheating on you—you’d finally given into your fantasy of fucking him.

But this isn’t how you imagined your fantasy would go.

Everyone’s eyes were glued to you, either out of fear of what Sukuna would do or out of pure infatuation from how wet your cunt was. You sat on Sukuna’s lap, legs spread open for anyone and everyone to see—even your spouse whose face was a mix of anger and confusion.

He didn’t have the right to be mad right now.

You were almost about to curse him out when Sukuna slid in with one swift thrust. Your breath caught in your throat, tears already welling in your eyes as he began to move without giving you even a second to adjust to his abnormal size.

He bounced you on his lap, heavy balls smacking against your ass so loudly it resonated throughout the meeting room. His big hands groped your chest though your blouse, practically ripping it off you.

“I’ll show you fuckers how to properly fuck a pretty lil’ thing like her.”

────〃ଘ 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 - LIKE YOU DESERVE

Heat creeped up into your face. You hadn’t expected your day to amount to anything—considering your husband’s boss had told you about his affair just a day before—but there you were, sat on the same man’s lap as he fucked up into your cunt.

I’ll fuck you like you deserve. Those were his words—the words that got you here in the first place.

Suguru’s fingers toyed with the hood of your clit, pinching the nub of nerves in such a gentle yet pleasurable way that had shocks of electricity rocking through you. Your legs shook and quivered with how wide he had you spread them, muscles beginning to feel sore after some amount of time.

But Suguru hadn’t had his fill yet, he had to show you—make you feel what your husband couldn’t do to your body. So, with his cock still pumping in and out of you recklessly, two fingers entered your mouth while his unoccupied hand pinched and twisted your hardened nipples.

“Suck,” he ordered, and you did. It was almost embarrassing how fast you complied, wrapping your tongue around his thick digits as you suckled on them, excess saliva dribbling down your chin.

And it was all so lewd. The ring of cum coating his cock from both your multiple orgasms, your red and pulsing clit, your moans—and shit. If Suguru knew one thing it was one thing only; he would keep his promise and fuck you like you deserve.

[softly-and-suddenly]

I cannot believe that I’m finally fully burning out on school halfway through my master’s degree. My brain has held out this long and all of a sudden it’s done with like three semesters left?? Bitch