#damn this is just absurdly beautiful

[waitineedaname]

something that will never fail to be amusing to me is when an mdzs college au needs the name of a professor, and then suddenly shen qingqiu is there

[observethewalrus]

whyyyyyyy do I associate my hair so closely with my gender presentation, brain please just let me cut it ffs

[mimasroom2]

Love on top! ✧～(ゝᴗ ∂ )

Dealer!ellie x reader @ the mall

I’ve been thinking ab how Ellie would be a dealer and has some extra money to spoil her princess ♡

C/w: Not really any? Homophobia mentioned in like one sentence. Kinda suggestive but no smut. Sex toy mentioned like once. Marijuana mentioned like once (at the end). DINA MENTION FUCK YEAHHHH!!!!

W/c: 1k. sorry i just have a lot of thoughts😭

𓆟. ° .• .𓆝 .• ° . 𓆟 . ° .• .𓆞

- Dealer!ellie who takes you to the mall whenever she feels like it. You never ask because you feel bad for her always spending money on you, but she lovesssssssss to do it.

- She would def buy you guys matching stuff.

- “Holy shit y/n… look at these!” Ellie turns around and has matching Sanrio plushies in both hands. You laugh bc she has them raised like how straight men pose with the fish they catch😭

- “Which one do you want, baby?”

- You pretend to think even though your absolute fav is cinnamoroll.

- She pumps a fist in the air, “FUCK YEAH I wanted pompompurin anyway!”

- She’d walk into any store and buy you guys those goofy ass tshirts that say shit like “I ♡ hot moms” because she gets a kick out of it every time.

- Don’t even get me started on how she’d be in Victoria’s Secret…

- She’d walk behind you with her hands in her pockets, biting her lip as you pick up the most absurdly hot set of bra & panties she’s ever seen.

- When you wanted to try everything on, she’d slip into the dressing room with you so you can have your turn spoiling her by giving her a little show

(˶ > ₃ < ˶)♡

- “Turn ‘round f’me, doll.” You always love how slurred her words get when she’s turned on 🙃 You do what you’re told and do a little twirl. She blushes and grabs your waist from behind, kissing your neck as you giggle looking at the two of you in the mirror.

- “Shit, baby. Gon’ have to buy this all for you so you can waltz around in pretty lingerie all the time.”

- As the two of you leave, she discreetly whispers in your ear “Gonna have to try those panties on for me tonight, mkay?”

- You’d wander into pandora or some fancy jewelry store and she’d be eyeing all the things you look at.

- “Ohmygodddd Ellieeeeee look at how beautiful this necklace is ahhhh!!” You squeal and eagerly point at it.

- “Hey babe, can you get us some auntie annes please?” Ellie smiles at you, “Need me some lemonade from how hot it is today.”

- As you walk away she stealthily buys the necklace you wanted :3. Chatting it up with the salesman n shit, bragging about you and how amazing of a girlfriend you are.

- She’s not afraid to do this bc she knows any homophobia she encounters she can shut down super quick. Perks of being hot and cool😍

- When you finally meet back up with her you’re smiling about the yummy pretzels you got, but your jaw drops when you see the pandora logo bag in her hand.

- You run over to her, “whattttt the fuckkkk Ellie? :0?”

- “Saw my pretty girl looking at it, so I jus’ had to see my pretty girl wearing it.” Is all she has to say in response (੭˃ᴗ˂)੭

- You gasp as she takes it out of the box, “For me?,!?,?,?!! Els, I told you, I don’t need any fancy stuff.”

- “Jus’ accept it, y/n. I like seein’ my princess happy.” She smiles as she puts it on for you :3

- You both sit down and DEVOUR those damn pretzels.

- (I’ve had this song stuck in my head the entire time writing this) The song Love On Top by Beyoncé starts playing, Ellie flashes you a wicked grin and takes your hands to stand the two of you up. The part that goes “You’re the one I love! You’re the one I need!” plays and she starts jumping around, moving your arms and giggling, not afraid to act like a goofball as long as it’s with you :,)

- If she saw anyone checking you out she’d tap her lips and say “cmere angel.” And give you a cute lil peck >:)

- You guys would walk into Spencer’s, give each other an evil look, and IMMEDIATELY run straight to the back.

- “Holy shit, babe there’s a fucking glow in the dark didlo.” You pretend to have your jaw drop as you wave Ellie over.

- She starts laughing wayyyyy harder than she should, “Whattthefuckkk that’s actually so fuckignfunny BAHAHAHA!”

- “Ellie it’s literally not that funny.” You’re not impressed.

- She gasps, trying to catch her breath, “No nonono no cuz imagine I’m fuckin’ you real good in the middle of the night. All the lights are off. And all you see is this damn glowing dick! Mannnn fuck.” You swear she wipes actual tears from her eyes.

- “Holy shit, do you think it would light up inside you?”

- You smack her on the shoulder 😭

- “Kay… that’s enough of Spencer’s…” you drag her by the hand out of there.

- “One more place I wanna go..” you keep dragging her by the hand.

- “Good.. cuz the malls ‘boutta close, princess.”

- Ellie smirks and scoffs as you guys walk into Claire’s. “Gonna get your clit pierced here or somethin’?”

- You go up to those merry-go-round display things and spin it until you find what you were looking for. “Nah, wanted one of these bad boys for Dina n I.” You show her one of those broken heart necklaces that come together to say best friends. She lets you pay for this one.

- At the end of your day Ellie walks the two of you out into the parking garage. It’s dark, so she pulls her hood up and hunches over to make herself appear more masculine. Not that it’s that dangerous or anything, but she’d probably never forgive herself if something happened to you - even the smallest scratch.

- As Ellie gets into her car, a SEXY ass truck might I add, she hands you a joint so you can relax as she drives you guys home ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ

𓆟. ° .• .𓆝 .• ° . 𓆟 . ° .• .𓆞

[darby-rowe]

in a weird way sad that dbf!logan is not a mutant 😩 like dont get me wrong still LOVE LOVE LOOOOOVE him and everything you write and i kind of already assumed he was an average joe

but like ever since i read the like “bub having to stay at logan’s after getting locked out” blurb my mind immediately was like oh god he would literally SMELL her on his bedsheets afterwards

but okay even as regular smegular logan- maybe bub wears a really distinct perfume and after’s she’s left (after sitting through a probably awkward breakfast, this is bub.) he goes to his room and just like fucking smells that perfume on his bed. Like he’s being taunted by the knowledge that she was in his bed all night and now all he’s got is the lingering smell of his best friend’s smoking hot daughter (probably jacks off while smelling his pillow but YOU DIDNT HEAR THAT FROM ME)

Don’t even get me STARTED on the possibility of her having to wear one of his shirts as jammies or just something clean to walk home in- she returns it a week later and it smells like her detergent and that damn perfume

i feel like this is such an absurdly long anon 😭 forgive me, you are making my brain absolutely run rampant

-🪱 (thought i’d name myself this incase i make you a victim to my thoughts again)

the cheshire cat grin that was plastered on my face when i woke up to this in my inbox……….. bless you.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

logan, mutant or not, will always have a strong sense of smell, just not when it comes to him and how he constantly REEKS of cigarettes and alcohol. after bub gets in her car and leaves for home, logan is literally taken aback by the pure sweet smell of perfume that penetrates his nose and brain. it’s strong enough to make this man’s eyes water. it immediately intoxicates him, to the point where if he focused long enough, he could pick up notes of bub’s shampoo.

watching her go in one of his old shirts was one thing, but having her smell lingering in his bed was a whole other ballgame. it was fucking creepy, and he knew it, but he walked over to the more disheveled side of the bed (assuming that’s where she slept), and took a deep, long sniff of where she was previously sound asleep. floral, girly, young. it permeates the air around him, unable to escape her presence. it makes him hard. disgustingly hard. a physiological reaction to his own imagination of a younger woman in her most vulnerable state.

sitting on his bed, nose pressed deep into the pillow where bub’s head once laid, fisting his shameful, dirty cock to his own perverted mind. he feels a deep sense of betrayal to his best friend, lusting after his awkward daughter. his weird, beautiful, sexy, young daughter. in the thick of his own strokes, he thinks about how if he could just get bub alone, make her feel not as weird around him, then she could so easily fall for him. letting him take her virginity, feel her cunt tighten around his huge cock, tell her it’s gonna be okay and he was there to only make her feel good. he finally spills into his hand when he imagines cumming inside her, marking her, filling her up with his seed and making her feel special.

she’s untouchable, a precious gem locked away for eternity. logan just has to come up with the perfect heist to steal her away.

[bluberryfields]

"David is very easy to fall in love with." - Michael Sheen

Hi. How are you? Good, I hope. Okay, so can we talk about just how fucking beautiful David Tennant is? And by “we” I mean “I” and by “talk” I mean “babble incoherently into the void”? Great! I’ll attempt to impose a bit of organization on this just to satisfy my pathological need to inflict structure on words (thanks college/job/brain), but I can’t promise much. Also, there will be A LOT of pictures and gifs. (you’re welcome?)

And this isn’t just because I am deep in the bottomless well of Good Omens fandom and that Crowley is basically the most breathtaking creature that has ever existed. Well, not just because of that.

*cue Aziraphale's "good lord" from 1793*

ANYWAY, like a lot of people, I became a fan of (i.e., fell deeply and irrevocably in love with) DT during his run as the 10th Doctor. He was young and bright and full of just about everything – joy, sorrow, wit – making him incredibly watchable. His look was also so charming: big bouncy rooster comb of hair, absurdly cheeky smile, expressive-as-fuck eyes and eyebrows, and a tall, lanky form that seemed to be made of rubber and the kind of granulated sugar that could only be found in candy from the 90s that are now banned in all first- and second-world countries.

So yeah, I was super into him and his Doctor’s adventures. And I continued to watch him in other projects and still swoon (looking at you, slutty Hamlet)

even at characters where that was not the desired reaction (fuck you, Kilgrave, you delicious monster).

I would also always become a bit (a lot) weak in the knees at his voice regardless of which accent he took on, though always preferring him doing any Scottish brogue because of fucking course.

Roll that tongue, you sexy beast.

But what I want to get into today is just how incredible he looks in the year of 2023.

He’s 52 years old and I am somehow even more attracted to him. Maybe it’s because I am myself older, and my tastes have matured alongside? I certainly do enjoy gray hair way more than I did 10 years ago.

He’s aged incredibly well, probably a combination of good genes and good health, and he’s clearly not clinging to the Hollywood idea of “youth”.

(insert obligatory grumble about the double standards of men being praised for aging and women being demonized…the potentially problematic nature of the term “aging well” in general…acknowledge this with my enlightened brain but ignore this with my slutty heart…fuck the patriarchy, etc. etc.)

He’s still tall and skinny, even gangly at times, all long arms and legs that can move in impossible directions with unfathomable grace.

His face is leaner, that incredible bone structure creating sharper edges that draw the eye. Speaking of the face, he’s got these creases on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes and mouth that are evidence of time spent well: smiling, laughing, living. Makes you want to trace your fingertips along each one.

Oh god that smile? Good lord. It’s weapons grade charm that can also be quite intimidating. Sweet, humble, silly, scary…full spectrum of options here! His shark smile is the definition of “irresistible” in my Dictionary of Delicious Dudes.

I am both proud of and grossed out by my own word choice.

Continuing with that face...the hawkish nose, the dimples you want to drown in, the big eyes, those motherfucking eyebrows...

I could seriously write a whole essay about those eyebrows, but I already give my therapist enough to worry about.

Oh those eyes. “Piercing” is a term usually reserved for blue eyes, but I would argue it applies to DT’s bottomless chocolate pools in that they slice through my heart every damn time.

Honorable mention does go to those Crowley snake eyes because they could have been distracting and diminishing to his overall look, but they absolutely are not.

Such a pretty shade of yellow.

Random tangent to swoon about his hands. For whatever reason, I like checking out a man’s hands, and DT’s got a set that drives me wild. I can’t even really explain why, but I just really like the way he articulates with them. Crowley is a perfect example, what with the miracle snaps, caressing globes, and holding whisky glasses. Yum.

Delicious demon digits

Fresh tangent: How does this fucker look good clean shaven, with stubble, and a goddamn beard? How is that allowed?

He's got a face that makes me wanna take up sculpting

Further, how is his fucking neck so hot? Like, seriously, show me the math. I can’t stop staring at it. And when it’s cloaked in a turtleneck? Please, sir, may I have some more?

Fuuuuuuuck

With no segue whatsoever, I am absolutely obsessed with his hair, across all contexts. Big, bold, blood-red Crowley coifs (especially in Season 2)? Check.

Proper gentleman side part? Check.

Side shave with cartoonishy springy 14th Doctor shock? Check.

Lockdown locks with and without headband? Check!

It’s a goddamn buffet of delicious options.

Oh damn speaking of that 14th Doctor look? Good fucking Christ on a buttery Ritz cracker. The whole DT collection is on display: the hair, the eyes, the bone structure, the smile, the clothes, and even the glasses!

To quote Pam on Archer, “I swear to god, you could drown a toddler in my panties right now! I mean, not that you would.”

Now that you (I) mention the clothes, I never cease to marvel at how he can wear pretty much anything and look amazing. Stripes, patterns, wild colors, etc. He just always looks…not exactly comfortable, but sort of at ease like the clothes were created with him in mind. And this goes across the spectrum of Casual to Costume to Promotional (e.g., interviews and premieres).

They are almost illegally cute together

We all know by now how ridiculously tight those Crowley pants are and how it influenced his signature serpentine swagger (thank you, Costume department, you’re the real heroes). That said, he and those slinky hips still looks so incredibly natural in them like they came from his actual closet.

Stupid sexy snek

And he pulls off the look of more ridiculous stuff like full Shakespearean costumes or that sad gray-hoodie-black-shorts-and-Wellington-boots combo from the first season of Staged. He somehow gives off the air of “whatever, they’re just clothes, man” while also looking like a damn model.

Georgia is a very lucky woman

Final thoughts: I know DT dislikes talking about how people think he’s so attractive because I’m sure it feels a bit icky if you just want to live your life and do your job. But my guy also clearly understands that he’s not some ghoul who has succeeded on incredible personality and acting chops alone. So, that said, maybe he'll forgive me for posting such a long, rambling, ode to him?

[heauxvibez]

Goodnight Kiss

warning: nothing too crazy, mentions of lady parts tingling and a moan. But other than that, this is short and sweet : )

"I appreciate you taking me out tonight. That was the most fun I've had in a while," you softly smiled, feeling a giddy warmth as he walked you to your door. His smirk deepened as he glanced down, hands tucked casually into his pockets. His muscular figure towered over yours, if you hadn't known how much of a gentle giant he was, it was easy to feel intimidated.

This was your first date with Leati Joseph Anoa'i, affectionately known as Joe, the person you'd harbored a crush on since the 10th grade. Your accidental reunion at Robeks, your favorite smoothie spot, reignited those old feelings the moment you started chatting. And when he asked you out, you couldn't resist saying yes.

As the years passed, he evolved into a masterpiece, aging like the finest wine, each sip more intoxicating than the last. His once timid demeanor now exuded strength and confidence, drawing you closer with every step. His skin, now kissed by the sun, held a mesmerizing bronze hue, a far cry from the paleness of his youth. And oh, his facial hair, it contoured his face beautifully, emphasized every captivating feature. Perfect then, yes, but now, he was an embodiment of perfection beyond belief. Dressed in a sleek black suit, with a simple white T-shirt underneath, he oozed sophistication, the fabric clinging to his form, teasingly highlighting the muscles that yearned to be explored by your hands.

"I'm just glad I could bring a smile to your face, beautiful. You deserve it," he replied, his perfect smile causing a delightful blush to spread across your cheeks. He was absurdly charming.

"Well, I should probably head inside and get ready for bed. Early start at work tomorrow," you said, extending your arms for a hug.

He embraced you tightly, a playful squeeze making you squeal with laughter and him chuckle. Pulling back just enough, he paused for a bit before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then trailing his lips lower, peppering gentle kisses along your jawline.

Your body tensed, hands still clasped around his neck, caught in a moment of uncertainty and anticipation. The possibility of what he might do left you breathless, your first kiss looming on the horizon. Every beat of your heart echoed in the quiet space between you, something you swore he could hear.

It felt like paralysis. Every fiber of your being yearned to utter his name, to express the handful of sensations running through you, but your body betrayed you, rendered motionless, held captive by the potent spell he cast by his soft, plump lips. The feeling was both daunting and intoxicating, a thin line between fear and excitement.

He planted a sweet kiss on your nose before his fingers delicately lifted your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his. There was a silent exchange in his eyes, he paused with a lick of his lips and slightly shook his head in disbelief as his eyes slowly washed over your face.

"You are so damn beautiful, you know that?" he questioned, your heart fluttered at the compliment. You were thanking God that he blessed you with your deep melanin skin because your face would be as red as a cherry tomato. He was making you so nervous, you didn't even know how to respond.

"Think so?" you softly questioned, internally face-palming at your response.

With a nod, his features softened and his thumb brushed against your bottom lip.

"Know so." he responded with a breathy chuckle. Little did you know, you were taking away his breath as well.

He leaned in slowly, a hint of hesitation in his movements, silently offering you an opportunity to retreat if you wanted. But you leaned in as well, encouraging him to close the distance. His touch, initially gentle on your chin, migrated to cupping your face, while his left arm drew you nearer, enveloping you in his embrace. As his lips met yours, a wave of warmth surged through you, releasing the tension you had been holding. Your bodies melded seamlessly, and you found yourself swept away in the rhythm of the kiss. Though inexperienced, you gave in to the moment, surprised by the ease with which you followed his lead.

As if you weren't overstimulated enough, he moaned into your mouth, almost setting you ablaze. He made you want to tap out and it was only a kiss.

Sadly, you felt him slowly pull away but not without planting one last tender kiss against your lips. He still lingered close, his lips adorned with a gentle smile that spoke volumes of the connection you shared.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," he whispered against your lips.

"Goodnight.." you whispered back, trying to contain the whirlwind of emotions as your high school crush had given you your first kiss.

----------------------

Omg okay, I don't want to overwhelm yall, let me know when to stop lololol

Also, anyone who wants to be added to the tag list please DM me!!

Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade @empressdede @alichesmi @msbigredmachine @theninthwonder @wrestlingprincess80 @saintmagx

[contraryclock]

stupid ass Don Quixote ramblings

hi this is my first tumblr post but i really wanted a good place to put this

spoilers for all of current limbus company, including Murder on the warp Express, the Don Quixote book (( kinda )), and a musical (( i'll get there ))

please humor this deranged rant about a character i havent read the source book of

so basically ive had a theory since Don was even teased that she's less so based on book Don Quixote and moreso based on the Man of La Mancha musical which is. an insane thing to suggest but hear me out here (( ive since changed how i word my stance to the much more mild "it will most likely delve into the themes of both works and reference both" because suggesting they would discount the book entirely is TRUE insanity ))

her quote (( from teaser tweets that i cannot find anymore? they seem like they were deleted which sucks )) was "To reach the unreachable star!" or something which is notably not a quote from the original book ((as far as im aware at least?)), and suggests. a lot i think!

One of the most notable differences between Man of La Mancha and the original Don Quixote is their tone and attitude towards Quixote. In the original text, he's shown to be a fool who is ignorant to the vastly more interesting world around him, and prefers to instead sink deeper into his delusions of reality equating to chivalric literature. This makes sense as Don Quixote was written as a parody and mockery of the genre

La Mancha is, notably, much more forgiving on Quixote's character, showing that while still a fool, and his insanity often detrimental to those around him, he is still a good person at heart and that he truly wishes to pursue this justice he posits

I usually say it as "Don Quixote is about how reality is beautiful, and La Mancha is about how sometimes one should strive to make reality a little more fantastical" although i dont know if that. is the most accurate comparison. both Don Quixote and La Mancha have a lot of themes and stuff going on

one of the things that made me scream was learning about "Miguel" being written on don's LCB combat spritesheet instead of her listed name

which if you've seen or read a summary of la mancha is a huge alarm bell

In La Mancha, the whole thing is shown as a Play within a Play

Miguel de Cerventes is sent to prison, awaiting trial by the inquisition, and is tasked with defending himself in a mock trial with the other prisoners so they dont take his belongings. His defense is Don Quixote, Man of La Mancha! With the prisoners acting out the various roles he assigns them, and him acting as the leading man, Don Quixote himself!

that was most of the things that made me think "Oh, maybe it'll be La Mancha!" and then this happened

and i sort of lost my god damned mind

because like what if this is miguel... what if shes simultaneously playing out her life as don quixote as a her delusion, and as her dream, but also as a statement...

idk but this isnt JUST about Man of La Mancha bc i think this has a few implications for how don's canto is going to go

In both don quixote and la mancha, they send someone to cure quixote of his delusions

The final thing they try is setting up an act where a "Knight of Mirrors" duels with Quixote, which ends up working.

The Knight forces Quixote to see how he is perceived by others, to see the truth that he is no knight.

ignoring the stuff with vampires and mirrors for a second, i feel like this could be more mirror world shenanigans, where either the knight IS a mirror world don quixote, or is someone who will show her mirror worlds. Whatever that will imply!!! i dont know its exciting!!!!!

Her being absurdly old and powerful, plus bloodfiends having a whole familial adjacent hierarchy makes me think theres a LOT of bloodfiends out there that would want her back

I dunno!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

im insane!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!! i just wanted to get my thoughts out before her canto actually happened so i can say that i did indeed have an opinion on this

-limbus assets taken form Lunartique's asset google drive go look at it -text written by me and not proofread

ok thanks bye dont follow me byeee byeeeeee

[sassassins-creed]

Hiya! I hope ur doing amazing and have a great day/night!

I was wondering if u could write for ezio x reader with the arranged marriage trope! I am a sucker for it! 😭

this is the closest i can offer. i had to take a whole ass page and write it all down for timeline accuracy damn you autism- also i'm sorry it's short, i'm still getting back into ac-

AC2!Ezio Auditore with his fiance (drabble)

March, 1476

Firenze

"I must be insane to listen to you again..."

You sighed, taking Ezio's hand and letting him swiftly pull you up to the nearby rooftop. The two of you were just another case of two young souls with a marriage set up by their parents. Although, you two got lucky, considering your parents were close friends, which resulted in you both getting close as you grew up. And even falling in love.

Which resulted in Ezio trying to get you to join him on his little adventures, jumping rooftops around town. You were still slow with it, hesitant. But you did enjoy it... When you weren't freaking out about it, at least.

And so no, dressed in a much more masculine outfit that Ezio had made for you in secret, with your hair tied comfortably into a braid, the two of you sat down on the tiles, looking at the beautiful Firenze.

"In the worst sun, too. Il incubo* of a man."

"Ah, always such a delight with you, my little ray of sunshine."

You smacked his shoulder as he grinned, laughing at your annoyed expression. As much as you loved him, he was annoying as all hell. Sometimes, you even wondered why you didn't shove him off a rooftop yet, with how annoying he was.

But then, he'd pull a cheesy move like getting a rose from behind his belt and offering it to you with a scenic bow, a compliment rolling off his tongue in the oh, so beautiful way.

On one hand, you hated how absurdly adorable he was with his cheap romance tricks. On the other hand, it was just insufferable, it made you want to smack him. Sometimes you did smack him only for the two of you to laugh it off.

"You really are terrible."

He chuckled at your words, giving you a sweet kiss.

"From your pretty lips, it's a compliment."

"I will actually shove you off this damn rooftop."

"... Point taken."

~

*il incubo - a nightmare

[inexplicifics]

More snippet requests: Cats Among Wolves Cedric/Axel, Weird omegaverse war prize thing, Pirate Aiden & Prince Lambert

Cats Among Wolves Cedric & Axel:

Fuck, this is good, Cedric opines, sipping greedily at the soup Gaetan is holding for him. “The old Wolf knows his way around a kitchen,” Gaetan agrees, nodding. “I think I gained most of a stone the first winter I spent here.” “You needed it,” Eskel puts in. “All you Cats are too damn scrawny.” “Wolves are just absurdly big,” Gaetan sniffs. “And what are Vipers, then?” Eskel - teases. And Gaetan is grinning.

Weird omegaverse war prize thing:

The barbarian king sits on an unadorned stone throne on a low dais, glowering down at his court. He is almost as handsome as he is terrifying, with bone-white hair and glowing golden eyes and really remarkable chiseled features. He wears no mark of his rank, not even a circlet to bind back his hair, but Jaskier doesn’t think anyone could take him for anything but a king. His face is utterly impassive as he watches his warriors inspect their prizes.

Pirate!Aiden and Prince!Lambert

“Lovely, isn’t she?” Kett says after a minute. “She?” Lambert asks, wondering which of the sailors Kett means. “My Stripy Kitty,” Kett explains. “All ships are female.” “Why?” Lambert asks, frowning. It’s a boat. Kett chuckles. “Who the hell knows? Tradition, I guess. But she’s a beautiful bitch, my lovely Kitty.” “I know fuck-all about ships,” Lambert admits. “Want to learn?” Kett looks over to grin at him. “I bet we could make a sailor of you in a week.”

[fillinforlater]

It’s that time of the year again. What are some of your favorite smuts released in 2023?

Monday of Appreciation: Part 104

Hello everyone, Smite here!

2023 is coming to a close and it's been quite the year, a mixture of "this is a bridge year for greater things to come" and "WE LIVIN' NOW MF!" What is a bit different this year is that the highs weren't as high and the lows weren't as low compared to previous years---maybe that is just me getting older, maybe it's hindsight. Either way, I'm good and this year was good.

But some things are more than just good. I'm of course talking about these writers and their stories that I have featured today. All of them deserve special mention, but I want to focus on two of them specifically.

In a year of great, fantastic and already legendary fics, these two stand out.

Without further ado, let's dive into the final MoA of this year:

-1-

@fanfiction4sooya: Can't Save You Now ft. Chaewon, Kazuha, Sakura

I- I- I just read the damn tags and new I one day had to give this a shot. ff4sooya has crazy ideas, futa galore, different dynamics and kinks, which is SO MY THING. This has Mommy and Daddy involved in an absurd (and absurdly hot) threesome that I couldn't take my eyes off.

Now I definitely need to read more and you should too because I bet there are a bunch of Masterpieces in that long Masterlist!

-2-

@iznsfw: Drunken ft. Olivia Hye

Is it really a Monday of Appreciation post without IZ?

Seriously, what this genius is able to cook up in a commission or in the currently ongoing (HYPE) IZ DAYS OF CHRISTMAS is absolutely incredible. We have long stories with in depth characters and love drama that ends not only smuttily but sweetly. Who the fuck needs books, when you can just binge IZ?

With "Drunken", they have once again hit it out of the FUCKIING park. There is never enough Daddy kink fics, yes, but mine seem like nonsensical cringe porn compared to this beauty of a piece. I love how it plays with my heart, no I'm not crying---okay, now that is hot.

Let me change that: there is three very fucking special stories today!

(I think this might even be better than Levi's Hyeju, wtf)

-3-

@cataboliac: Enkindle ft. Wendy

Firstly: I LOVE YOU CATA, BIG QT!

Secondly: "Enkindle" feels a bit like coming home, like a day in Paradise, like the one person that shines so bright in your life that you don't want it to go. And you know, that is the great thing: this might be Cata's final fic, the farewell, but not only is his life gonna be great and he'll be super happy - we also get to read this again and again, and I'm sure I will one day.

Thank you, Cata, for hanging around!

Thirdly: I'M GONNA KISS YOU, CATA!

-4-

@writerpeach: Delectation ft. Wonyoung, Yujin

1.000 Notes, and it's still not enough for what is my pick for fic of the year (FOTY? FOOTY? There is a scene like that, yep). IZ*ONE truly never dies, but it is IVE and these absolute super stars, bomb shells with flawless faces and different, yet irresistible bodies that have us in a frenzy.

Talking about frenzy, all those 30,699 words are a frenzy. I thought Peach would set it up with a long and painful tease that has us edging the entire time BUT NOPE this has so much fucking smut, so many lines of neediness and horniness, it is impossible to finish in one try or two tries or... I dunno, seven-hundred tries?

It's detailed, it's straight forward, it's sex from every fucking angle, I can never get tired of this. I will go so far and say this is Peach's magnum opus, the GOAT fic by the GOAT writer. At least for that day, I can say this without a doubt.

Peach, you are crazy and thank you for that <3

#PeachPavedTheWay #AnnyeongzForDaddy

[rachalixie]

tell me about a first date w jisung (you have to bc it’s me)

a/n: damn you and your ability to be right all the time

despite the false bravado of confidence jisung put on when he asked you out, it's a true battle between the two of you to determine who is the most nervous. was it you, with your clammy hands and shaky fingers, a lump in your throat so big you didn't know if you could even get words out? or was it him, with shallow breaths and a heart beating faster than a hummingbird's wings? by all means, you shouldn't be nervous - you've been friends with him for years, known him for longer. this is just the crescendo to the music of the dance you've been in together for a long time.

it was so cute, the way he almost tripped over his own feet as he hurried into the coffee shop, exactly a minute past the time you had agreed to meet there (and no, you were not counting the seconds). he's a little flushed, hand warm in yours as he takes it to guide you up to the counter to order, but it only matches the blood rushing to your own cheeks.

"what are you getting?" he asks, bouncing a little on his toes as you wait behind the couple ordering ahead of you. "i can't decide."

"i wanted a caramel latte," you say, glancing up at the menu and trying hard not to focus too much on the way his fingers intertwine so perfectly with yours. you're too distracted on trying to not be distracted that you miss when he orders and pays for your drink, and you smack his shoulder lightly when you notice what he's done.

"a gentleman always pays," he teases, a small smirk on his face overriding the nervousness. you wait together in what might be the most comfortable silence you've ever experienced while you wait for your drinks, and the steaming paper cups warm the hands that were not tangled together when you step outside.

you walk together aimlessly down the street, the sun peeking out at you through orange and red tinted foliage. fallen leaves crunch under your laced boots, and you can't keep the absurdly fond smile off your face when you notice him purposefully leaning this way and that to stomp on the crunchiest looking ones.

you window shop aimlessly for a while, sipping on the last dredges of your now cold coffees. you stop him at an old record shop, peering excitedly through the window at the walls lined with dozens of old music and tables adorned with well-loved record players.

"look, they have-" you start, turning towards him, but the way he's looking at you stops you right in your tracks. his eyes are shining, trained solely on you like nothing else in that moment existed. "what?"

"nothing," he ducks his head towards you, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. he leans forward, lips slightly parted, but catches himself right as they were about to touch your skin. your breath is caught for a moment, and you have to clear your throat to allow any oxygen back into your brain. he's still in your space, and his next words are hushed. "you're just so beautiful."

"kiss me," you demand, the words escaping your mouth before your brain can catch up. his eyes widen in surprise, and you're sure you look a little dumbstruck when you realize what you had just said.

"really?" he says, blinking owlishly at you, like he didn't believe you.

"han jisung, if you don't kiss me right now-" your words are cut off as he finally presses his lips to yours, firm and soft and sweet and perfect. you feel warm all over despite the wind blowing at you, fire engulfing your entire body from the strands of your hair to your heels pressed firmly into the ground. he pulls back and you chase his lips, placing a small peck at the corner of them, and he lets out a startled laugh tinted with delight.

was it too early to be in love?

[ckret2]

Ignoring the snacks and unhealthy food that Goldie usually has easier access to: Among real meals, what do his tastes lean towards? And what human alcoholic drinks are in his ranking?

Bill's favorite food is Maximum Quantity Of Flavor.

Not good flavor. His tastebuds are not programmed to register "good."

There's a reason humans think lots of things taste bad, and it's because when we are babies we'll stick anything in our mouths because we don't know better, so we had to evolve a "yuck gross" instinct to keep non-foods out of our mouths and good foods in our mouths. As they grow older, tiny humans keep getting handed iffy-tasting but safe food by bigger humans, and they can thus gradually develop a taste for things they originally found gross.

Bill? Is not a human baby. Bill has been watching the human race ever since the human race was intelligent enough to draw his face on things—so, about half a million years. Bill know what foods are and aren't edible for humans. Bill understands human nutrition better than humans do. Bill knew about the health consequences of mold spores and bacteria for hundreds of thousands of years before humans were bandying about nonsense like spontaneous generation and miasma theory.

If Bill sticks something unhealthy or inedible in his mouth, it's not because he's ignorant of the health consequences; it's because he knows damn well that he shouldn't eat it, but has decided he wants it in his mouth anyway for his own reason.

So the Axolotl didn't give his body the "yuck gross" instinct. He doesn't need it. He's an adult triangle and if he wants to stick a rotten hot dog in his mouth that's his own personal business.

As a consequence of that, he's not wired to appreciate goodness of flavor combinations, just quantity of flavor. So his personal measure of "good" flavor is the strength and variety of flavor.

So you could just. Give him the hottest pepper, plus frosting and sprinkles to dip it in, and he'd be fucking delighted. Mabel got him hooked on sprinkles.

You know that scene in ratatouille where the rat bites two foods at once and the flavors harmonize perfectly even though they're completely different and he has synesthesia fireworks over how beautiful these flavors are together? Bill's looking for the opposite of that. The goal with his food is to make the most powerfully clashy food combos imaginable, not "surprisingly complimentary" combos.

Remember the condiment soup abomination in chapter 11? He didn't do that out of ignorance; he very successfully created food that's good by his own standards: maximum quantity of flavor. What are condiments except highly concentrated liquid Flavor, meant to be poured on other foods to give them extra taste? Just pour in 5 or 6 condiments that are as different as possible, then throw in some additional protein or grain to add some of those nutrients human bodies need.

So, that's what he likes. Dishes with extremely strong flavors or extremely varied flavors. Ideally, both. So if you wanna treat him? Either go for cuisines that go heavy on the spices; or get some high end, extremely strong condiments and something nice to put them on. He CAN appreciate expensive fancy food (by virtue of the fact he knows that it's expensive & fancy), but it's gotta have that extra flavor.

In other words, he's that guy who talks about 1,000,000-Scoville hot sauces the way wine snobs talk about wines.

AND SPEAKING OF ALCOHOL (see that clever segue i did there)

In general, in a human body, his taste preferences are gonna be the same with drinks. STRONG flavors, CONTRASTING/CLASHING flavors. He'd drink booze so strong it tastes like paint thinner because it tastes like paint thinner. He'd drink straight absinthe for the licorice taste. He'd go for the absurdly sweet drinks, absurdly sour drinks, and drinks mixed with waaaay too much bitters. He could drink perfume and enjoy it.

[eyrieofsynapses]

good evening, all. it is May the 25th. our lilacs are blooming, just as the ones at the Watch House did. and I am thinking about remembrance of the fallen, and GNU, and the love in commemoration.

y'know, I read Night Watch… oh, maybe a year ago and some months ago. and the lilac symbolism, the remembrance of the Watch, has always struck me with the depth of the emotion of it, the tangibility of it in the flowers. but I wasn't aware that today was the day until I saw commemorative posts, all that gorgeous artwork and more, on my dash.

I was also not aware, until now, that fans commemorated the day not only because of the book reference, but in support of Terry Pratchett and of those with Alzheimer's. which knocked me over a bit because of course, of course the group that would use GNU to honor him would do that. and… I've been thinking about GNU a lot, lately, and this caught me again.

I read Going Postal a bit ago, and reread it recently. both times, the parts about GNU made me tear up. this idea of the names, the memories, the lives of the clacks workers who dedicated themselves to ensuring that people heard each other's voices—all those names spoken again and again and again by that which they poured their souls into, winging along in the air as they could not, an eternal reminder that they were loved—how could that not touch a person's heart?

when I found out that fans online used it to memorialize him, I damn well cried. hell, I still tear up just thinking about it. do you know, there's a code for an HTTP header "X-Clacks-Overhead: GNU Terry Pratchett" written by Reddit users to put in webpages, where it goes unseen by the average user? and in 2015, when Netcraft took a survey, there were eighty-four thousand websites using it? it's eight years later—how many thousands upon thousands of websites have this now, do you think? how many little cables of light has his name flown along, now? how many times?

that alone is absurdly and unimaginably lovely in its own right, but… there's something else to it. there's something about remembering with the lilac sprigs every year, just as Vimes and those who were there remembered their dead. something about how, when we take up our lilac sprigs, we carry a little piece of the characters in our hearts, too. I kept trying to put my finger on why that makes me tear up the way it does. the conclusion I came to is this:

what greater way to honor a writer is there, but to honor them the way they did the characters they poured their heart and soul into? what better way to say we know you and you are not forgotten and your work and words and gifts to the world are held in our hearts forever than to remember them by their own words, their own vision? how else could we say you embodied all the good you believed in and wished to see in the world, but to memorialize them after the little pieces of their soul they wrapped in ink and put upon the page?

it is a knowing of the writer, to remember them in their way. it is not a worn-out faceless platitude, but a reminder that their work has been read and will continue to be, that the characters and world they loved enough to bring to life last just as their name does. such remembrance is warm and loving and delights in their memory even as it grieves.

and now Pratchett's name has been written in his tradition, over and over and over, across the vast plane of the Internet, where it will—with any luck—continue to fly for generations to come.

there is no way to truly express the beauty of that… but perhaps we can catch a glimpse of it in the lilacs, both ours and the Watch's.

[shadowqueenjude]

Looool more Azriel Beron, blame @thrumbolt and @hieragalbatorixdottir

Azriel blinked as the Autumn High Lord began to open his cage. The whole thing was painstakingly slow, Beron savoring every emotion, every visceral reaction his body made in response to his nearness and the possibility of freedom.

“Care for some fun?” Azriel squinted at Beron. It was one of the many times he’d wondered if Beron was actually insane, because there was no way he genuinely believed Azriel was enjoying this.

“Not your fun,” Azriel grumbled. His mate smiled wickedly as if this were exactly the answer he’d wished to hear. “We’ll see about that, my Azriel.”

My Azriel. The shadowsinger didn’t fail to note that two-letter word that somehow meant everything and nothing. As Azriel exited the cell, Beron’s arm slid possessively his waist, the rings on his fingers digging every so slightly into Azriel’s hip.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered against Azriel’s ear, and he was powerless to disobey.

He experienced the sensation of being squeezed down a hole reminiscent of winnowing, so Azriel opened his eyes once it stopped.

They appeared to still be in the same location judging by the wall design, only on a different floor.

Beron walked with all the grace of a dancer. Considering he was royalty, he probably was a very good dancer. Azriel was so damn busy thinking about it that he didn’t even notice the tied up man before him until they bumped knees.

Azriel found himself looking down into the amber eyes of Eris Vanserra.

He was restrained by several manacles that repressed his magic, and his pale pretty face seemed resigned to whatever fate Beron was giving him.

Azriel’s heartrate began to rise rapidly, his breathing coming in short gasps as he clenched his fists, prepared to pounce on him. The last time he’d seen Eris Vanserra, he’d been running a sword through his brother. His heart and body longed for revenge. His Faerie instincts demanded blood.

“Yessssss,” Beron crooned, his breath brushing against Azriel’s nape, raising goosebumps. “You wish to tear him to pieces, don’t you, shadowsinger?”

His eyes never leaving Eris’s, he nodded. Beron smiled against his neck. “You have full reign to do whatever you wish to him. Just don’t kill him.”

Though his magic rared to go, some stupid defiant part of him told him not to do it simply to spite Beron. But that part lost out. No, it was not long before he had summoned the full strength of his shadows, coiling them together into wicked whips of darkness.

He killed your brother. He killed your brother.

Azriel lashed out, and Eris’s roars filled the room. He didn’t care about anyone or anything other than revenge revenge revenge-

“Enough,” Beron said calmly after several minutes. Azriel ignored him, leaping onto Eris to tackle him instead, sending the chair crashing to the ground.

“Stop,” Beron ordered, and his voice was little more than a growl. His mating bond instincts perked up at the sound, desire clouding his sense. Beron’s gleeful smile was disturbing him. Was he that immune to his own son’s suffering that he now enjoyed it?

But all these thoughts left Azriel’s mind the moment they departed that room, for Beron gently pushed him against a wall, trailing one finger down the center of his chest. “That was so beautiful,” he whispered. “Such a magnificent creature you are. So cruel and otherworldly and furious.”

Azriel grit his teeth, trying not to focus on Beron’s absurdly long lashes framing unfairly handsome brown eyes. “Fuck you.”

Beron leaned in for the kiss, and Azriel reciprocated, biding his time. The moment he felt Beron’s tongue, he bit down hard. The vibrations of Beron’s ensuing chuckle were felt all the way down his body.

“Is biting your go-to weapon, Azriel? Biting off my tongue won’t kill me sweetheart; it’ll simply momentarily deprive me of the pleasure of ravishing your body with it. Although perhaps that is the kind of torture you wish to inflict.” A cruel smirk. “It’ll take more than that to wound me, you low-born animal.”

Azriel snarled in his face, not caring about what the consequences could be. “I’m your mate, your equal. Never forget.”

The air around Azriel heated up as sparkls danced across Beron’s body. The Autumn Lord murmured against his lips, “The Goddess may have deemed us equals in strength of spirit, but we will never be equals in birth or prestige. Never forget who your owner is, Azriel sweetheart.”

[molter-writes]

You don't get it. I am in awe of your writing. Devoured 'love is complicated' within two days. And then came across 'bodhrán beat' and... Holy. Hell.

You have such a beautiful and absurdly raw way of dealing with a person's emotions and arranging words in a fashion which get across the enormity of all that they feel. And then some. Everything I have read of yours (one fic, six summaries & nine author's notes) are extremely real and poignant and heart wrenching and hilarious and a world of their own. They come at me in a manner that pulls at something I didn't realise I had anymore, let alone could feel. I just- I cannot, okay?

If I started reading your latest RhaenIcent fic, I might die. Even though a part of me still wants to, because I already know that it will be f*cking fantastic and all the other words from that Lady Gaga gif and more, I cannot put myself through the upheaval. Especially because I know you will do a tremendous job of tearing apart what little I have left.

In the end, this comes back to how terrific of a writer you are. So, I just wanted to commend you for turning me into a confused mess. Conflicted beyond measure, and wishing you all the prosperity, success and riches this world has to offer... Since I plan on issuing a lawsuit to compensate for emotional damages imbibed due to the proficiency of your words and imagination. Jokes aside, thank you for sharing these gems with the world. I am glad I get to be in the same timeline, verse, probable circumstances and what-not as you. Fics like the ones you write make life worth leading. Take care!!!

🥹🥹🥹🥹 damn

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Crucible - a Magnus Archives fic

Martin's been having dreams.

He doesn't understand them.

Surely, if Jon had ever looked like that, with unreal wings and a crown of spinning eyes, he would have remembered.

But his memory isn't working as well as it should right now, and Jon never blinks.

Martin is afraid.

Inspired by The Watcher’s Crown by @raynecreates

Note: this is angst. Somewhere Else goes very, very wrong.

AO3

-------------

The dream again.

The same one he’d been having—vivid, rich, all senses engaged.

Impossible.

But maybe that was just because he’d had none in the apocalypse, right? Because Jon had protected him from them (or their memory, anyway), and who the hell knew how long it had taken to get across that mess, so his subconscious was just making up for it now.

Right?

“Did you dream again?” murmurs Jon in the morning light, so beautiful, the halo of his hair softening the side of his face visible above his pillow.

“Yeah,” says Martin, who feels sticky, who feels sweaty, who discovers the sheets are tangled around his legs as though he’d been ensnared. “Sucks.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon reaches, cups his face. “I could try to… prevent them. If you want.”

That touch is everything—warm and rough, scarred from gods-damned Perry, absolute perfection. Martin turns and kisses Jon’s palm. “No. No, it’s all right. We agreed. Normal. We try for normal.”

“Normal.” Jon repeats the word with no inflection, but he smiles, and that helps. “For whatever that word is worth to me, these days.”

“More than you think.” Martin catches Jon’s hand and pulls it closer so he can kiss each fingertip, then place them over his heart. “It’s been six months, Jon. They’re not coming after us. We’re free.”

“Then ‘normal’ wouldn’t be as big of a concern, would it?” Jon says, unblinking (but he never blinks), still smiling that way which he only ever does for Martin.

Martin has observed. That smile is his, and his alone, and he keeps it locked in the vault of his heart like his private, personal sun.

“I mean,” says Martin, “we don’t want anybody’s attention, right? So yeah. Under the radar. Normal.”

“Of course.” Jon tugs his hand loose from Martin’s, but only to caress his lips like the barest whisper, then finally gets out of bed.

Martin feels loved, and has never felt so loved.

Jon is… something in the light of dawn.

Still too thin (it seems impossible to fix that). Unexpectedly curvy, missing two ribs. Scarred here, there, everywhere, all over the place in unnecessary ways, his rich, brown skin a tapestry to the things that bit him.

He moves like a swan, Martin thinks, because he’s absurdly in love, and doesn’t give a fuck how silly it makes him.

“I have a meeting with the council today,” says Jon.

“Again?” Martin play-whines.

Brushing his long hair and tying it up, Jon smiles at him over his shoulder. “It’s every week, you know.”

“Sure,” says Martin, still play-whining. “I just get jealous of anybody taking your evenings. You know that.”

“I’ll be fantasizing about your pasta dish the whole time,” promises Jon, clean clothes in hand. “Did you name it yet?”

“Not yet? I want it to be poetic,” Martin says, because he’s very proud of his dish, because he’d figured it out via leftovers and stolen produce, because it wasn’t Spanish and wasn’t African and sure as hell wasn’t English, but somehow all of those things with a pinch of cream (but it wasn’t American or French, either) and too much pepper, and made them both sweat and laugh and mouth-breathe while chewing.

“You’ll find it, I’m sure.” And Jon is off to shower.

Martin watches until he’s gone.

The dream. He doesn’t want to remember the dream.

It was obviously a result of the damned eyepocalypse, because really.

Jon hadn’t looked like that in the apocalypse. Not even in those first, fraught minutes when Martin had run (fled staggered survived) back to the cabin and found him on the floor with glowing eyes in the air all around him, and glowing eyes all over his flesh that had torn when they opened and bled.

Martin had fallen to his knees and pulled Jon close (and the eyes felt disgusting, so horrible, but he did it anyway), and then the eyes had focused on him.

All of them, airborne and bloodied, focused on him.

Recognition.

Martin had felt it, as if the universe had sung his name.

Martin shakes it off. No, even then, he hadn’t looked like the dream.

Not that the dream was… bad, exactly? Scary as hell, sure, but Martin’s morning erection wasn’t just about shifting blood flow, and—

The shower is running.

Martin decides to push it all away and go wash his lover’s back.

#

Work is dull, but that’s expected, given the tasks at hand.

Construction doesn’t really suit? But Martin is strong, and it is not hard, though some of the more repetitive things do leave his mind to wander.

He’s a little jealous that Jon could just bluff his way into the local governing body with powers.

They all think they know who he is, and have for years. They all believe he has documentation, of course. Most of them even think they’ve seen it.

When in reality, Jon walked into one of those weekly meetings six months ago, informed them he was running for representative of the district of Eden, and… maybe there was a vote?

Martin’s not sure.

He’s also not sure how he feels about Jon doing that?

But it brought immediate income, which they needed, and immediate housing, which they needed even more, and—so Jon said—paperwork and identification for them would be coming soon.

Of course, that was six months ago.

They hadn’t really needed ID yet, living via cash, cheating via Jon’s powers.

It felt a little risky, but… how bad could it honestly be?

This was damn near close to their United Kingdom. No, not fully identical; there were some changes in the history of this place, and they still owned other people’s countries, like India, which was not so great, but that wasn’t what mattered.

No Fears. That was the biggie. So.

(Then why did Jon have powers?)

(Because he changed, and you know that, so shut up, Blackwood.)

The big gossip from Jon’s council right now was, of course, that the Eden District Council was supposed to be dissolved, their duties split between Westmorland and Furness authorities.

(Furnace! There’s an idea for a spicy pasta dish.)

Whatever. It didn’t seem like it would have a major effect on their lives.

Martin does his job, and laughs with his coworkers. He ensures his bosses like him all the way up the chain, and everyone who matters knows his name.

Sweaty and pleased, he goes home.

#

The dream.

The dream comes again, and as always, he cannot wake.

A dream of wings: two a dark and solid green, two flowing with eyes like rivers in ribbons of light.

And they drop translucent feathers that glow like those eyes, drop from those ribbons of green and lambent sight that knows and knows, and though all four wings shift as though breathing, Martin fears those glowing wings the most.

He fears so deeply what will happen should they unfurl.

#

“The dream again?” Jon’s hair is messier this morning, and Martin smooths it down, mindful of snags.

“Yeah,” says Martin.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

Martin sighs. “Jon, I said no. I meant it.”

“I know, I know. It’s just… hard to watch you suffer. Especially when I can…”

“What? Fix it?” Martin laughs a little. “I sure hope not, because if you’ve been bouncing around people’s dreams fixing things behind my back, we’ll have to have a little talk.”

Jon smiles as though Martin is joking, and Martin smiles as though he is joking, and instead of leaving the bed, Jon slides over him, and pins him down with hands and eyes and heat, and—

(They make love? Of course they make love, because Martin’s body still hums at work, and his thoughts keep slipping back to the sense of caressing, of joining, of fingertips teasing his nerves to wild, near-painful peak, and—)

And he can’t quite… remember?

But no, he does, he does, he remembers what happened, remembers that rarest of gifts that Jon gives, which Martin will not ask for because he knows Jon almost never wants, and he does remember what they did in their creaky bed in their borrowed house in Cumbria.

It’s fuzzy because he was fuzzy. From the dream. That’s all.

And work requires full attention, anyway, what with the power tools and I-beams and whatever.

He does remember. He does.

He focuses on the good and loving feelings, the sensation of being so deeply adored (seen, yet still wanted, still loved), and gets back to work.

#

“Council meeting tonight,” says Jon. “I think it’s tradition now to make your spicy pasta dish.”

Martin laughs. “Already? Sure, that’s fine. Oh—I was thinking of calling it the Furnace.”

Jon laughs. It’s such a delightful sound, so rare when he isn’t talking to Martin, so real. “The Furnace! Why?”

“Heat,” says Martin, simply.

“I think you’re very close,” says Jon, tapping his chin, then returns to straightening his tie and ensuring his braid is tight. “What about… Crucible?”

Martin startles. “Crucible?”

“Not the old morality play, of course. I meant a literal crucible.” Jon’s tie pin (which isn’t an eye, but somehow makes Martin think of one, and he chooses not to think about it) glints as he turns around.

“Huh,” says Martin, who doesn’t really get why that word. “Crucible?”

“It’s just an idea. The concept’s been on my mind, lately,” says Jon. “The changes and all.”

“Changes?”

“It’s not just Eden’s council that’s breaking up. The whole empire’s structure is changing,” says Jon like that’s absolutely nothing to be concerned about, and Martin stares at him.

“What?” Martin says.

“It won’t affect you at all,” says Jon.

“What do you mean, it won’t affect me?”

“Us,” says Jon. “It won’t affect us. Isn’t that what I said?”

“No, Jon, that’s not what you said.”

“Probably because I’m thinking of all the paperwork I’ll need to do,” says Jon.

Martin frowns.

“Hey.” Jon leans in, gives Martin a kiss, and all the fluttery sense-memories from a week ago flood back as richly as they have every day since, and Martin’s tension melts. “It’s going to be okay. Do you honestly think, even here, that I would let anything happen to you?”

Martin laughs. “Jon… things do happen to people. I work in construction, I mean… something could.”

And the next kiss is—

That kiss is—

Martin is on the tube, nearly arrived at his stop for work, and doesn’t recall how he got there.

Wow.

But he does remember?

Remembers the kiss, remembers Jon pushing him gently against the wall, remembers feeling devoured and weak-kneed and worshiped, and then… walking out, and…

He even said hi to the neighbor, Mrs. MacReady.

Hadn’t he?

He had.

Except… he hadn’t?

Of course I did, he thinks, and wonders, at last, if something truly has gone wrong.

#

He doesn’t tell Jon about the doctor’s appointment. No point in worrying him.

Though he almost does after, as the doctor goes over his scans and confirms conclusively that there is no brain tumor, or anything like that.

“You’re a remarkably healthy man, Mister Blackwood,” she says. “Absolutely every single test we ran came back completely optimal—practically textbook, ideal. Whatever you’re doing, by all means, keep doing it.”

I’m doing the Archivist, he thinks slightly hysterically. “But then what about these… blackout moments?”

“All I can say, Mister Blackwood, is it doesn’t seem likely to be… physical. Though you show no signs of stress, the mind can be a funny thing; are you under stress?”

Yes, he thinks, and doesn’t know why. “No.”

“Do you feel safe at home?”

No, he thinks, and doesn’t know why. “Yes.”

“Well, how about this? We can refer you. I really think you’re going to be all right; tests like these don’t lie. But it won’t do any harm to see someone, anyway.”

Martin thanks her, takes the info, and leaves without making a further appointment with anyone.

#

The dream.

Oh, the dream.

Is he seeing more? Or maybe remembering more in that instant before opening his eyes?

Seeing the four wings (two solid, two not), but standing between them now is Jon, and the wings aren’t attached to him but they are him, somehow, some balance between mortality and godhood (how does Martin know?), and Jon in between is—

Jon is—

Martin gasps awake.

“Martin?” says Jon, raised up on his arm, eyes wide and worried. “Are you all right?”

The image. The dream.

Jon, with a crown, but not a reasonable crown, some kind of spinning wheels, one within the other, and lined with fucking eyes. Jon with some kind of rising sun behind him that cuts as it illuminates, and Martin feels seen, and Martin feels eviscerated, and Martin feels burned.

“Martin?” Jon says, looking genuinely concerned.

Martin grabs him.

Holds him tight, maybe too tight, judging by the grunt, but he won’t let go.

Can’t let go.

“Martin,” Jon whispers, and holds him back, and kisses gently along his jaw, and tries to soothe with fingers in his hair. “Hey. Hey, look at me. What’s going on?”

“I don’t think I’m okay,” says Martin, softly.

Jon goes stiff. “You are. You have to be.”

“I… I don’t know that I am. Something’s been… I feel like I’m losing time. And I…”

Jon relaxes again, tension gone. “And that worries you,” he says, soft. “I understand. I’m sorry.”

Well, that’s not what he expected. “What?” says Martin.

Jon kisses him softly. “We’re both going to be late. Come on.”

“But—Jon, what the hell did you mean by that?”

Jon won’t tell him. He won’t, peeling off Martin’s pajamas (“Jon, really, we’ve got to talk about this,”) and pulling him into their walk-in shower.

It’s not making love, and it’s not even sexual, but it is intimate, and precious, to be cleaned by one who loves, who is loved, and Martin stops asking.

Not wondering. But asking.

He can ask later.

He will ask later.

And on the way out the door, Jon kisses his cheek. “It’s almost over. I promise, Martin—you’re safe.” And he goes, ignoring Martin’s new questions, headed toward the tube.

#

Martin can’t stop seeing dream-Jon’s eyes while he works.

They’re everywhere. (They’re nowhere.)

They’re watching him from just to the side, only gone when he turns to see. (They’re not there.)

Inhuman eyes.

Gleaming green magic star-eyes, brighter than the sun, burning without pain, looking inside without slicing him open.

Except he feels sliced open.

The wings. The falling feathers.

The wings in front were the not-human ones (which makes no sense because humans don’t have wings so why would solid green wings be human?).

Like… Jon’s making a choice, or… some balance is slipping out of hand, or… he’s being overrun, or…

“Look out!” he hears, and with the rest of his coworkers, looks up.

The crane at the top of this building has just fucked up.

They all see it happening.

See the I-beams, the bricks, the sacks of concrete—

See the crane itself, tipping over the edge of the roof and taking all the nearby materials with it.

Is there time to run?

Martin doesn’t know. He tries. They all try. Of course they try, but the ground beneath them shakes (does it?) hard enough to knock every last one of them off their feet, and there are screams and there is panic, and Martin clearly sees the swelling shadow of whatever is about to end his life all around him before his mind goes blank in crushing noise and terror.

#

Martin lives.

No one else does.

Somehow, the beams fell near and not on, and somehow, the bricks missed as if poorly aimed, and somehow, the crane—which had been about to land right fucking on him—hit hoist-first and angled just so, crashing down so he lay curled in the crux of its joint, miraculously uninjured.

He’s covered in dust. He cannot stop shaking.

There are sirens. Shouts. His ears ring. He’s dazed.

But before they drag him away—

Before they get him to medical personnel and begin the mad battery of tests demanded by lawyers to ensure he can’t sue—

He sees what’s left of the crane operator.

Sees the movement in the cab, the wriggling he would recognize anywhere, any time, and will to the end of his days.

The driver, who was crushed when the crane fell down, was filled to the brim with worms.

Everyone tells him his panic attack only makes sense, and nobody blames him for screaming, and he has no idea how long it is before he’s finally discharged to go home.

#

Jon is waiting for him there.

Martin knows Jon is there before he gets to the door, which makes no sense, because he should have come to the hospital.

There is no way Jon didn't know what happened. Why hadn't he come? (Because you were all right.)

No, that's not good enough, why hadn't he come? (Because something held him up.)

What could have done that? Martin knows damn well paperwork wouldn't have done that. Some stupid meeting wouldn't have done that. Only a big thing, the biggest thing, could have done that.

And he knew you were all right. (I am not all right.)

He knows Jon is waiting, feels him, sees green light emanating from every door and window when he closes his eyes, though it isn’t there when they’re open.

So, Martin reasons. Either he’s gone insane, or Jon is…

Jon is not okay?

Martin’s throat is tight as he opens their door, eyes burning, heart sinking.

Jon is okay. Jon has to be okay. (Are we going to have to kill John? he had asked himself, asked his other self in his own domain, and the answer had been yes.)

“Jon?”

“Come in, Martin.”

It’s a gentle tone, calming. Calm.

It shouldn’t be setting off alarm bells, but it is.

Martin pauses on his way to the living room. He gets a knife from the kitchen, tucks it into the back of his belt, and approaches.

Jon is waiting by the fireplace, which he’s got warm and crackling. He looks normal (no wings). In a suit with a day’s rumple, his tie untied, his top buttons unbuttoned (only two eyes).

He looks up and smiles, and Martin knows.

He’s seen that smile before.

Seen it, before he had to do the worst thing to save the whole world.

“Oh, Jon,” he says, breathing too fast. “What have you done?”

“Nothing terrible, I assure you,” says Jon, standing and approaching.

Martin reaches back and finds the knife gone. He stiffens.

“I let you do that last time because I thought it would help,” says Jon, sliding his arms around Martin’s waist. “But it didn’t. They all came with us, and it was all starting again. I know you don’t realize. You couldn’t feel it. Not like I could.”

“Jon, what have you done?” says Martin, louder, angered at the assertion that the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life had been allowed (no matter how true).

“Do you want me to show you?” Jon’s kiss is soft (it’s the same, how can there be terrible things when his kiss is the same).

“You’re going to, anyway,” says Martin, not as sharply as he wanted. (Are we going to have to kill John? and he’d had to, he’d had to, he—)

Jon smiles.

It’s like the rising sun.

It’s impossible to look away from, impossible to see in only three dimensions. Impossible.

Martin can feel himself… melting. Cracking? Changing?

(Are we going to have to—)

(No.)

And then Jon is the dream.

It is so much more than the dream.

And they are in the cottage but not, and they are on the ground but not, and the translucent eye-wings are around and through Martin and sliding everywhere, and he gasps, and stares, and he can see.

“I like ‘crucible,’ because that’s what I did,” says Jon, who is holy, who is too much, who would be melting Martin’s skin off his bones unless consciously choosing to not. “I made a deal with them. With the Web, primarily, but with them all. Either I would drag them to destruction… or we would do this right.”

“Right?” whispers Martin, and feels horrified, but vaguely, distantly, like he’s forgetting how.

And then, he sees it all.

Only for a moment. He can’t do more than that, or he’ll break, his mind snapping, but a moment is enough.

Of a power like a net or a blanket or a spill sliding smoothly out from Penrith, Cumbria, and it spreads like light and it spreads like oil, and Martin can see—

Can see that the members of the Eden Council were changed, each chosen by Jon to be marked as he wanted, and directed, and pointed like a gun—

Can see they were chosen to join him in a version of the mass ritual that was so much worse than Jonah’s because Jon learned from Jonah’s mistakes—

Can see the fear gripping one human after another, each of them freezing where they are, and then, crying, going about their day, continuing their lives, but choking on unending fear—

Can see that Jon has somehow forced the Entities to change.

“This is balanced,” Jon explains, and yes, it is too late, and Martin can see that killing him wouldn’t stop it, and he’d have to go on some kind of murder spree to take out the whole Council, and even then it might not stop it, because Jon learned from Jonah’s mistakes , and this cannot be undone.

And touching Jon back feels like taking handfuls of fire and want, and even as Martin is burned, and he shouts, he pulls him closer because Jon is what he needs.

There is nothing else. Maybe there never was.

He can’t even remember why he was upset a moment ago.

“You don’t need to be,” says Jon. “Never again. Nothing will ever hurt you. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Jon,” says Martin, and means it with all of himself, and feels the (oil light poison) power of Jon’s will washing over and around, but the fear doesn’t reach him, doesn’t touch him, and Martin remembers to be upset for the world for all of one second before it’s gone.

Martin loves Jon.

Jon loves Martin.

Everything is good.

Martin is safe.

Jon is safe.

Maybe… maybe everything works out, here, in somewhere else.

Together.

One way or another, together.

Martin settles against his god and closes his eyes, because Jon can see it all, and Martin doesn’t have to, that is the way things should be.