#finally a long one-shot

[nickybloodhead]

************** James x Jason ************

Jason looked at himself in the mirror, doubting his idea. He liked how he looked in that silk lingerie, the chains that crossed his bare chest made him feel sexy but maybe James wouldn't like it, maybe he would laugh thinking it's a joke. He sighed hesitantly, this was stupid and maybe he would take everything off to in the end just wear his usual underwear.

He heard the front door and knew it was James, he was startled because it was early so in his eagerness to take everything off, he threw some things off the bathroom counter, causing a rumble.

He hear hurried footsteps approaching the bathroom and then a soft knock.

"Jase? All right in there?" The blond's voice sounded slightly worried, Jason mentally cursed himself and covered his face, embarrassed.

"Yes uh, I just... I threw something unintentionally." He muttered through his teeth, he knew he was blushing with embarrassment, oh, he was a mess.

"Jase... Why is there a lingerie bag here?" Yes, he was definitely an idiot, how did he forget the packaging of his little surprise there in the room? He looked in the mirror before answering and with a small boost of confidence decided to leave the bathroom. James was there by the door, and literally the air in his lungs left him, seeing Jase with that luxurious fabric barely covering his crotch and with those chains around his chest made him speechless, The heat went up to his cheeks and definitely went down to his cock as well. He looked stunning, fucking sexy.

"So uh... Do you like it?"

James was pulled out of his stupefaction, looked Jason up and down, and grinned mischievously.

"Damn, you did it for me?" He approached Jase and placed his hands on his waist, pulling him closer while his fingers played with the thin chains, God, the things he was thinking.

Jason nodded slowly, blushing under the heated look James gave him, his heart was racing because he knew that look and knew what was about to happen.

"You look delicious, Jase... And I plan to fuck you with that nice lingerie on" He whispered the last part against the neck of his lover before dedicating himself to distributing kisses through the extension of his throat. Jason clung to those broad shoulders and gasped, he felt a tingle run through his entire body as he felt the soft lips brush against his skin, James smiled when he felt his partner's reaction so with his hands going down the back of his thighs, he lifted him up to take him to bed.

The chocolate curls spread on the sheets, simulating a halo that fit him perfectly, in the eyes of the blonde, Jase was an angel, with those white panties that barely held from his sharp hip bone. He wanted to corrupt him. With his fingers he traced the patterns on the panties, teasing Jason's eager cock that was getting harder and harder, he hooked his index finger on the edge of the fabric and moved it aside to reveal the throbbing length wet with pre-cum, the pink skin contrasting against the white silk.

"God, do you know how sinful you look? You're pure temptation, baby" he leaned over Jason and licked a stripe down his erection, managing to make the curly moan desperately, ugh, he loved it when James took his time but right now he wanted his huge cock inside.

"James..." He begged with a trembling voice with desire, spread his legs and brought his thighs to his chest to show how needy he was. James' eyes darkened and with his thumb he pulled the panties to the side, revealing a pink pucker that fluttered, asking for his cock.

James decided that it had been too much foreplay, opened the drawer of the nightstand and took the lube to let it leak over Jase's eager hole, as promised, he did not remove the lingerie so it became a stained and sticky mess. He rubbed his fingers over the tight ring until it gave way enough to insert two fingers immediately, Jason screamed madly with pleasure and stood up slightly to kiss the blonde. It was a dirty, sloppy kiss, their teeths clashed slightly in the desperation of being able to be as close as possible, some drool dripped from his lips as James continued to finger fuck him, scissoring to dilate the warm wet entrance.

Jason unbuttoned his pants and took his fat cock to jerk him off, he couldn't wait to have that huge girth stretching him and filling him up nice and proper. James broke the kiss to cover his cock with more lube than necessary, however he didn't get into Jase right away, instead sliding his cock under his panties to grind himself with Jason's cock.

They both moaned each other's name and continued with the sloppy kiss, the panties were ruined, but they didn't cared about it. Their cocks were grinding against each other, the slide was intoxicating with how wet they were both from the lube, James held the chin of the curly man to guide his mouth to deepen the kiss, his other hand held one of the thighs so that Jason would remain spread.

"Tell me how badly you want it, baby..." The blond's voice was deep, almost a growl against the battered lips of the other.

“Fuck, I need it, please…” Stretched out on the bed beneath him Jason looked completely lost, he was gorgeous and James wasn't going to hesitate to give him what he wanted. His big hands spread Jase's legs a little wider and holding his cock, he guided it in slowly; he groaned and leaned his head back as he felt how well that greedy hole was wrapping around him. He held still for a couple of seconds, he was so sensitive and horny he swore he would cum at the slightest movement, he tried to catch his breath and saw Jason through his eyelashes, he couldn't take it anymore.

His hips began to move, and though he intended to go slow, the curly one's legs wrapped around him and gave him the impetus to increase his pace, the grip on Jason's hips became tighter, tight enough to know he would leave marks there, he began to thrust harder, deeper, drawing obscene moans from the boy beneath him. They didn't break eye contact, they grunted and squealed with each hard thrust, his cock throbbed and Jason arched up every time James reached that sweet spot inside him, he was so overstimulated that he didn't even need to touch his own cock to know he would cum at any moment.

James started to move faster and faster, panting and gritting his teeth every time he was balls deep in Jason, he just moaned completely consumed with lust, he grabbed the sheets and arched up, squirting his load all over his abdomen and part of James' soft belly, fuck, he was getting beefier and he loved it. The blond followed soon after, spilling his spunk deep into his boy's loins, he collapsed over Jase's sweaty, warm body, trying to catch his breath.

“Well shit, I'll be buying more lingerie if this is how you're going to get every time” Jason joked with a silly chuckle, his fingers stroking James' scalp.

“Yeah, just name the price and I'll buy you all the lingerie you want…”

Thinking on 2004 James

[hinamie]

completely innocuous vash sheet :) fr practice

[thankstothe]

season 1 pretties

[anbaisai]

Ace Trappola x Heat Abnormal (熱異常)-iyowa

[emblazons]

"This is only the beginning— the beginning of the end."

STRANGER THINGS SANS VISAGES S04E09 - The Piggyback (Part II of II)

[zylphiacrowley]

"Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand." ~The Stolen Child by W.B. Yeats

vv extra vv

[sluckythewizard]

[PUT INTO PLACE, TIED DOWN AND ARRANGED, AND IS NEVER THE SAME, AGAIN.]<-listen to my favorite songs. VAMPIRES ARE WONDERFUL ARENT THEY. THE FLESH IS SO MUCH MORE DURABLE. SO MUCH STRETCHIER THAN HUMANS. THE STRESS DOESNT KILL A VAMPIRE THE SAME WAY IT DOES A HUMAN. YOU CAN TAKE THEM APART THREAD BY THREAD AND LEAVE THEM WIDE AWAKE WITHOUT WORRY OF THE BRAINMATTER SPOILING UNDER VINEGARY AGONY.

[queenofhearts7378]

“So this is Jake's fault, right?” Randy asked.

Danny made a noise of agreement as they continued running down the hallway, red flashing against their eyes and alarms ringing through the air.

And okay, it wasn't really Jake's fault they were being chased by a killer robot after breaking out of some holding cells.

Ever since Jake had turned 16, he'd been getting more duties outside of New York, really stepping up into his role as the American Dragon. NYC was still his home, his main area of protection, and the main capital of the magical community; he wasn't leaving anytime soon.

But occasionally a smaller community would reach out, asking for help with bigger problems they couldn't handle and he couldn't answer over the phone or e-mail. So Jake began traveling (through mundane or magical means), and solving the problems in person.

And occasionally dragging his out-of-town friends along with him.

Which is how the four of them ended up here: in an off-the-books government facility in Horrible, Arkansas, and made up of the same branch as the GIW.

(Danny had groaned out loud in his and Rand's cell, thunking his head against the bars when he heard that.

The agent that was interrogating them gave him a weird look.

“He's from Amity Park.” Randy said solemnly, patting Danny’s shoulder.

The agent went white so fast Randy honestly thought he was about to pass out before fleeing the room.

“Wow,” Randy said, “Y'all's city really is a curse.”)

The four of them had literally stumbled onto the grounds, got searched and had most of their stuff taken away, and thrown into holding cells where agents would periodically come to interrogate them on how they found the place and who else knows about it.

Danny had phased them through the back wall as soon as they were left alone, and accidently ran directly into a wall of weapons that fell on top of them both. Randy only got a sore shoulder, but something zapped Danny and he hadn't been able to transform since.

Which was when the alarms went off.

And when they discovered that the facility used killer robots as security and were all too happy to shoot a couple of teenagers.

Now they were running for their lives trying to find their stuff and their friends without getting shot by the robots or the agents.

They skidded around another corner, and Danny grabbed open the nearest door, throwing it open to check for their stuff.

Instead they were met with two startled agents in the middle of grabbing their weapons.

Randy didn't waste the chance and spun around Danny, landing a kick in the first man's diaphragm and then bringing his knee up just as the man bent over to gasp for air.

(The ninja suit let him be faster, stronger, more bouncy, and protected him from hard hits. The lessons and training of 800 years worth of ninjas were pressed into the fabric enabling him to fight when he had never done it before. He still had training though. He spent hours in the Nomicon practicing the moves and katas his brain knew but his body didn't. Following the footsteps and marks the Nomicon drew out around him, mirroring the poses the illustrated samurai and dragons went though. And lately, following along next to the First Ninja as he performed the moves next to him, occasionally fixing his posture, as Plop Plop chattered nearby.

Being the Ninja wasn't all cool flips and awesome weapons. Even without the mask, Randy was still a ninja.)

Danny took the chance to leap onto the other agent's back trying to get his weapon, throwing the man off balance right as he tried to shoot Randy.

The shot went wide and hit the wall, leaving a faint scorch mark on the white plaster. Randy dived under the shot, rolling forward right past the agent. He kicked his leg out, catching him in the back of the knee, right as Danny yanked the weapon out of his grasp and leapt off the agent's back. Between the teenager using him as a springboard and his leg giving out on him, the agent hit the floor hard. Danny didn't give him the chance to get his bearings and swung the weapon, clocking him over the head.

He swayed for a minute before hitting the ground. He wasn't unconscious but he wasn't getting off the floor anytime soon.

Randy and Danny high-fived before fleeing back out the door.

“Randy, that was awesome!” Danny exclaimed as they checked the other doors for their stuff. “I didn't know you could do that!”

“I know, I know, I'm the Bruce McCheese. Hold your applause,” Randy bragged as he opened the last door in the hallway to reveal yet another supply closet. Running past Danny, he punched him in the shoulder, “I'm still a ninja without the mask Casper.”

“What was that? I couldn't hear you over your ego getting in the way!” Danny laughed as he turned the corner, only to catch a metal leg in his stomach. His back hit the wall and his stolen weapon went flying away from him.

“DANNY!” Randy screeched, knowing he wouldn't get there in time as the security bot charged up to fire.

His feet and hands moved before he could think about it.

‘Separate - Gather - Free’

Randy could feel the energy pool through him, starting with his feet (“Your stance grounds you,” First Ninja said, “It centers you. It's the most important part of using the spells.") and surging upwards through his body in a way he's never felt while in the suit. Randy could feel the air thicken in his palms and he thrust out his hands just as the energy hit his palms and the top of his head.

“Ninja AIR-FIST!”

He could see the ninja magic hit the security robot and smash it into the wall. All the energy that had surged through him faded out, leaving Randy feeling like he just played Grave Puncher for two days straight.

He swayed for a moment, exhaustion hitting him like a brick, before he stumbled over to a gob-smacked Danny.

“Since when could you do that?” Danny asked as he scrambled to his feet.

Randy braced himself against the wall, “Uhhhhhhhhh……now I guess?”

Danny looked at the dented wall, then back at Randy. “Can you do it again?”

“Nngh….think I'll pass out if I did.”

“Alright, last resort then. And I still can't go ghost.”

Randy groaned. “Man we are shoobed.”

“We just need to find the others…..and our stuff.” Danny crouched down in front of Randy. “Alright hop on. You look like you're about to pass out now.”

“Pretty sure it'd just slow us down.” Randy said, even as he wrapped his arms around Danny's neck.

“Dude it's like I'm holding a couple of grapes. What are you, 80 pounds soaking wet?”

“Screw you too.” He dug his heel into Danny's thigh, “Giddee up. I think I hear the others breaking things up ahead.”

Jake and Adrien were indeed in the next hallway over, both transformed and absolutely wrecking anything they came across.

“Hey guys!” Chat grinned at them, impaling the last security bot with his staff. “We were looking for you!”

“Yo Ribbons! What happened to you?” Jake flew over to hand them their backpacks.

“Turns out Mister Ninja over here can use his ninja magic out of the mask.”

Jake blinked at them, “You can do that?”

“Apparently,” Randy said as he slid off Danny's back, “if I want to feel like I went ten rounds with a hoard of robo-apes.”

“Oof.” Jake shook his backpack at them as Randy pulled on his mask. “Well we found the main computer room, stole a bunch of hard drives that I'm going to give to Spud and Tucker, and Chat broke like, everything in there with a Cataclysm so no need to worry about cameras.”

“And we found out what they are called.” Adrien chimed in, “Beings Under Government Surveillance. They had a sign.”

“Bugs?”

“B.U.G.S.!”

“No wonder the GIW are such pests!” Danny and Adrien said together, high fiving. Randy snickered at the pun.

“Yeah, you're all comedians, can we go? The missing fairies are running loose and I've got to figure out if they need to move, or if they'd be fine with some more magic barriers around their town.”

“And I really gotta talk to the Nomicon. It's wack they didn't warn me about this.”

~~~~

Later in the Nomicon:

First Ninja stared at him in disbelief, “You did what.”

[itsfairly]

Illicit Toasts // 1920s!Nanami Kento x F!Reader

Summary: The prohibition of alcohol didn't stop people from getting their hands on it. It only made them find places where they could get their fill of giggle water in illicit establishments filled with booze, music, and social life. For Nanami Kento, however, alcohol was merely an excuse to visit this speakeasy. Yet, he did go to that place to get his high on something, someone else.

Word Count: ~5.1k

CW: 1920s AU (focused on the prohibition era), fem!reader, singer!reader, strangers to lovers (kinda), fluff (kinda), pining kento, mentions of alcohol, alternate between 3rd person and 2nd person.

A/N: first, you can find the artist of the fanart here! second, there is no doubt in my man that my man would look amazing in the 1920s aesthetic, look at him. i was thinking about this for a while and the covers from the postmodern jukebox helped. am i thinking about writing more about this AU? maybe, especially if people are into it. 1920s! Nanami Kento, you will always be famous.

Just what was he doing here? Coming back and pretending it was just for some booze that he could easily stash at home with the promise of some quietness and privacy?

Nanami didn’t know the answer. As he puts his wallet into his coat, he tries to think of one with no avail. He didn’t know why his feet kept walking towards that damned speakeasy as if it were a part of his routine. It felt as if his body got the best of him despite his mind telling him it was a bad idea to come to a place like this as someone of his reputation.

He was wealthy, had a nice job, a status that put him high on everyone’s list on his appearance alone. He felt like he was risking it all by just coming here. Nanami had the means to contact a bootlegger and get that alcohol he used as an excuse to come here. A bar that could get raided at any moment and put him in jail by just being there. It would be his ruin if that were to happen.

No money.

No job.

No status.

But despite it all, he still walked towards that door. Knock. Knock, knock. Knock. Knock. A pattern he memorized the first time he came here when a friend of his implored him to accompany him for a drink. Little did he know back then how much he would play this rhythm against the rusty door with a dimly lit room behind it, full of chatter, drinks, and entertainment for those who were willing to risk it.

Funny thing is that, though Nanami is a heavy drinker, he is a loner at that. Those extravagant parties held by people of his status were too luxurious for his taste, he only attended them to keep his connections intact and for the promise of booze. He much prefers to drink in the comfort of his own home. No superficial conversations. No drunks trying to flirt with him or overstep his boundaries. But to drink for the joy of it rather than to survive the event.

He was about to turn around after questioning why he kept coming here when the door opened, a voice greeting him into the bar. It reeked of the smell of old wood, strong liquor, the dreaded tobacco smoke, and the light colognes and perfumes mixing together as they escaped out the door and into his nostrils. It was a last warning. Though he was still standing at the foot of the door, he could still change his mind and leave to get his fill back home. The unique smell reminded him not only of what awaited him if he entered but also brought a sense of tension. Was all this secrecy and feeling of rebellion against a law that prohibited some fun worth everything he worked so hard for?

But that warning fell on deaf ears. Ears that were busy welcoming the real reason he was coming back in the first place. It was not the alcohol, it was never the reason why his body walked the streets until he reached this door. It wasn’t a taste or a smell. It was a sound and a sight.

It was the pretty singer who held her own against the band and rose above the chatter as more than mere background noise to fill the air.

You.

He still remembers the first time he saw you on that stage. He could barely understand what his friend was talking about when they brought him here. He was busy looking at you and hearing the pretty voice that captured his attention the moment he walked in. You didn’t seem to mind the fact that people were too caught up in their own conversations or the delightful buzz their whiskey and bourbon brought instead of hearing the music. But to him, it was the complete opposite. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, take you off your mind nights after seeing you for the first time. You brought him a high no liquor had brought before and you don’t even speak to him. You were just doing your job, a living by singing in this dimly lit bar full of patrons breaking the law. You were the star of this speakeasy. 

Tonight was no different.

Your voice stood out from the chatter that filled the room, dripping in a silky passion that lured him into stepping in and taking a seat at the bar. It was obvious you weren’t performing for anyone but yourself. The way you sang each song, each lyric, was intoxicating to Nanami. It was like a spell that drew him in further into this attraction he felt for you. It was always such a raw performance he could only describe as passionate and immersive. He could hear how you felt every emotion from your voice alone. Vulnerable, intense, alluring. To think he could list everything he heard in your voice would be an impossible challenge he would gladly take.

But your looks came along and he knew it was over. Your performance was more than just your voice, but also the way you moved. You were a temptress, sensuality in its purest form. Swaying side to side at the rhythm of the keys and strings, almost as if your hips marked the tempo for everyone to follow. But you were more than that. It wouldn’t be fair to see you as sex-on-a-stick that others had reduced you to. Not when you had this bright and cheerful smile on your face every time he saw you on that stage. Or when you did these little gimmicks with your gloved-covered hands that always captured his attention as you acted the lyrics. One thing was certain: the way you looked and performed told him you were having the time of your life up there.

He could see it in your face alone. Your face, your angel face that told him how much fun you had when singing. It was as if you were one with the music and wanted to keep it that way. Showing each and every emotion of the song as if you wrote it yourself. Dancing and acting as if no one was watching. He admired that. It drew him into you. Authenticity was written all over you, displaying so many parts of you and showing this energy of yours that made you much more complex than anyone in his class.

There was no doubt. You were a performer through and through.

But to him, you were this enchantress. Seduction follows your every move and sound. You looked so confident, so comfortable on that stage surrounded by liquor and smoke that others were so distracted by, missing the real deal. The straight loose dresses you wore with fringes and beads that moved with you, the pearls that added an elegant touch, the gloves that covered your skin, the t-strap shoes that clicked with every step, and that makeup that wrapped everything together.

You looked like a doll, shining in the spotlight and surrounded by this lively and strong aura he couldn’t help but be attracted to. So addicting like the glasses of whiskey he drank, but much sweeter.

As another number came to a close, you bowed at the audience. Even if you didn’t receive much applause, you didn’t care. You know what comes with being an entertainer at these places: barely any recognition and a lot of cons such as getting arrested for even being here. But you loved it. The ambiance was calm, nothing too crowded or loud to keep the place safe from a police raid; the lights added a sense of secrecy and sensuality that you were all in for, and the best of all, the pay. Jobs like this were hard to come by, those that paid you to do what you liked.

Even if your day job brought you a lot of tension and stress, it was this gig that allowed you to shake those feelings off and let loose. Shine like the way you were supposed to, be treated like a person and not a number or some airhead. Sure, you were often shaken off as part of the background of a rebellious experience that people were quiet about. But it was tit-for-tat—go through hell by day and live the crème de la crème at night. No family to control you, no boss to scold you for no reason, and no judgemental looks for not being a mother or married.

You looked back at your band, clapping at them for their performance so far with a bright smile. You quickly excuse yourself, asking them to play a few songs without you as you go and fetch yourself something to drink. All this smoke made your throat dry, which was a no-no for a performer like you.

Making your way to the bar and asking for a light drink—the bartender’s choice being a bee’s knees—you notice a blond man with his elbow resting on the bar. You looked at him, instantly seeing the signs that he was of a higher class than the usual patrons. Tailor-made suit in a pristine condition fitting him perfectly, the material looking expensive from how soft it looked alone. Handsome face free of facial hair, his skin probably as smooth as one can be, something not many had the privilege of due to tight schedules or lack of resources.

The drink was a dead giveaway. From the looks of it, it seemed to be whiskey neat. Most people opted for the much cheaper beer, not for something like whiskey. Let alone neat and not on the rocks. It told you it was someone who had the privilege of drinking enough to be able to handle the harshness of it and its expensive price. 

Not only that, but the drink seemed unattended as told by the way his hands were further enough from the glass. People normally downed their drinks if they were alone, the lack of another glass near him told you he was probably on his own tonight. But no. He didn’t seem in a rush to drink or be accompanied by someone. He was alone at a bar with a drink he hadn’t sipped from during the alcohol prohibition. What are the odds?

You think of starting a conversation with the man, intrigued about him, when the bartender handed you your drink. You smiled at them, thanking them for their service as you took the glass by their stem and brought it to your lips. Honey, lemon, and most importantly, gin invade your mouth as you taste the forbidden drink. Sure, alcohol isn’t the best thing to drink when performing a set, but it’s not like a sip once in a while hurt. Especially with how hard it is to get these drinks when one doesn’t have the means, working at a speakeasy seemed like a blessing.

Your thoughts are interrupted before you set the glass down, the blond at your side snapping you out of them with his velvet voice. It was a few words, but they were enough to detect a certain elegance that matched his appearance. Modesty and opulence easily summarize your impression of the man before you.

“Your performance was lovely.” He said nonchalantly, turning his body to face you as his hand wrapped around the glass of whiskey. 

It’s not like people didn’t compliment your singing. They did…once they were drunk or when they were seeking attention. But compliments from someone who looked like him? Sure, he sounded casual about it and it almost made you think he was being sarcastic. But when you turn to look at him, ready to give him your usual “you can give it a go if you want” answer, you see that he was being genuine. He was waiting for a response patiently, his thumb caressing the side of his glass. There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite place, it seemed like nerves but there was no reason to feel like such.

You flash him a small smile, nodding your hand towards him. “Thank you, I’m sure it would’ve paired so well with your drink. Shame that it seems unattended.” He looked at you puzzled, looking down at the drink in question before turning back to you. “I was not aware that one could pair alcohol with performances. Especially with everything going on right now.” “Then you’re missing quite the opportunity. Neat whiskey? Jazz and blues pair up well with it, which is our set for tonight. You’re lucky the band is still playing as we speak, you can still enjoy the combination of taste and sound.” You smile, looking back at the band and then back at him.

He wastes no time to take in your silence as an invitation to try the multi-sensorial experience. You see him swirl the liquid in the glass, the piano and trombone standing out from the band of instruments, and then taking a sip as he lets the alcohol wash over his mouth to savor it.

He chuckles, his brows jumping once in delight as turns back to you. You raise your eyebrow, now waiting for his response.

“My first thought when pairing alcohol is usually food. I’m afraid I’ll have to start thinking about what I will be doing when drinking a certain drink.” He says, his eyes showing that delight when he turns to you.

“Hopefully you keep that idea long after you leave this place. It’s quite fun to pair things with others we haven’t thought of before.”

“Really? Is your drink especially paired with your performance tonight?”

You look down at your own drink, taking it into your hand and bringing it to your lips for a small sip. You nod at the taste, the fresh taste of gin swirling on your tongue while the smooth run of the trombone plays in your ears.

“Absolutely.” You say with a small chuckle.

The man before you decides to stand up, pushing the stool back as he does. He turns his body to face you completely, a soft and calm expression decorating his face as he looks at you in what could only be curiosity. But this one is different from the curious looks you usually get. It’s not perverse or mere amusement. It’s as if he’s finally living a moment he thought of for a while, a moment he thought would never happen. It’s different and unexpected, sure, but it’s new. His expression almost leaves you breathless, now becoming curious as well.

He extends his hand to you, his eyes never leaving your face as a blink-it-and-you’ll-miss-it smile decorates his. Though others would think his expression is firm and stoic, his eyes tell you otherwise just like his voice does. That velvet voice of his drips from his lips once more.

“Kento Nanami. May I ask for your name, miss?”

Your name sounds just like the melodies you are so used to singing on the stage. It is a smooth and harmonious sound that goes easy on his ears when you say it. He couldn’t fight the smile on his face for long, showing it for a second as he felt you reach out to his hand and shake it. It was only for a second, but it was enough to know how dangerous you were becoming to him. 

With your hand on his, he turns it around and kisses the back of it like the gentleman he is. It’s soft and gentle, not wanting to come off strong as if you’re only an object to him. You weren’t and he wanted to treat you with the respect you deserved. Nanami’s lips soon leave your gloved-covered hand but his hand still holds you carefully, looking up at you with gentle calm eyes.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” He says, sure that if he were to say your name it wouldn’t sound so angelic like you say it. He drops your hand near your lap, careful to not be so harsh the moment he lets it go.

Shaking him up like this with only your name? He never planned for you to have this effect on him, let alone this quickly. He never thought he would be drinking next to you, finally having a name for that gorgeous smile that shined on the stage. He didn’t think life would be able to bring you two together even if it was for a few minutes. 

Your voice was as pretty when speaking as it was when singing, the sound of your name sounding like every other night you performed on that stage. He couldn’t help but repeat it out, lucky enough to play it off as if he was just checking if he heard you right. That in itself was an irony considering all the trouble he went through every night he wanted to hear you sing.

And now he was hearing you speak to him.

The band playing as the rest of the speakeasy melted away and it was only you in his view and ears. You were an arm’s away from him and it was a chance he had to take, at least to compliment your performance. Not just of tonight’s but of every night, even if he wasn’t there to hear it. Soon that compliment led to small talk that then led to presenting each other. Now here he was, immersed in the casual conversation between you two.

No stocks, no gossip, no work. Just chit-chat in which he didn’t need alcohol to push through it like he does at big events at work or with people he’s forced to spend time with. It was talking for the pleasure of it. Something an introvert like him found reserved for certain people. But here you were, able to sneak past that detail of his and put him at ease despite all the giddiness he feels inside him from finally being able to speak to you.

You didn’t seem that much different off-stage. You were lively, charming, and able to hold your ground. But you were also much calmer, casual, reserved even; though not to the extent he is. It simply confirmed to him that you were a hundred percent yourself when you were performing, authentic to yourself even if you weren’t showing all parts of yourself. You still had that welcoming energy in and out of the stage.

Your body was facing his just like he was facing yours as you two sat at the bar with your drinks. He was finally taking sips of that ignored whiskey long after he ordered it while you had allowed him to take up your small break. It wasn’t the most interesting conversation in the world, to be frank. But if any of his friends saw him at the moment, they would know Nanami was hanging onto every word you said.

“I’m more of a hermit.” He starts, setting his drink down at the bar. “I do drink with friends and explore these speakeasies, but I much rather enjoy a drink in the comfort of my home.”

“Oh, so you’re able to afford that luxury of owning alcohol?” You smirk at him, tilting your head towards him. You sigh, relaxing your shoulders with your hands on your lap. “Although, I understand. I get overwhelmed in crowded places and would drink privately if I could.”

“Overwhelmed? A singer?” He raises an eyebrow at you. He wasn’t teasing you or being sarcastic by any means. He knows it could come off that way, but he was intrigued. You seemed comfortable when you sang, dancing around as you became one with the music and the world disappeared.

“It’s different!” You laughed softly, bringing your glass to your lips. “I like singing and people don’t really come to these places looking for music. They come for this.” You gestured to the wall stocked with all kinds of liquor, a quantity that could lead everyone working at the establishment to be imprisoned. It’s a wonder the police haven't found this place, neither of you would be here at the moment conversing. “I am just part of the experience but not the main attraction. That lets me act like there’s no one around.”

Nanami nods. Though he completely comes to this bar for the opposite reason, he can see how it is easy for you to shake off the nerves and get behind the microphone. If you were only a prop that added to the illicit and almost seducing ambiance for people to drink in, then you could let loose and not many people would remember it. That and because some drank to the point of blackout.

“I see, not much of a people’s people, are you?”

You shrug your shoulders, pursing your lips. “I like the stage, I like to perform. I don’t mind people, but sometimes it can be too much to have all that…energy at all times.”

Nanami chuckles, knowing that feeling too well. Sure, he wasn’t a performer like you. But he had to deal with numerous people at work, at social events, and in his everyday life. Be polite, never turn down a conversation too quickly, talk about the work he hated, pass time with people who only saw him as a walking wallet or an eye candy, and live up to his status’ expectations…he was much more comfortable with his privacy.

“I understand. Guess it’s part of work, is it not?”

You nod, a sympathetic smile coming to your face as you bring your drink close to your lips. “Part of life to be honest.” But before you take a sip, you knit your eyebrows as you look down at it. You turn your attention back to Nanami, lifting your drink in the air with a much more genuine smile, and say, “Cheers, for being able to hold up for this long.”

He feels the same giddy feeling from earlier creep up to him again, shaking them off as he takes his glass and clinks it with yours gently. He cheered for other things all the time. This shouldn’t be any different just like giving a compliment to a stranger.

Maybe it is because this time is much more genuine than all those times he had to tolerate rather than celebrate.

“Cheers then.” He hums. Pulling the glass back and lightly raising it towards you, he savors the strong earthy notes of his whiskey. He has tasted this flavor before many times, but tonight, the bitterness felt much less overpowering thanks to your presence.

Much to his disappointment, the moment is cut short when your head turns towards the stage. He looks in the same direction, the cello player throwing his head back to signal you that you need to come back for the next set of songs. You sigh, slowly standing up from your seat with the drink still in hand.

“Duty calls.” You hum, looking at Nanami with a gentle smile. “This was fun. Maybe you should start sitting closer to the band rather than being all the way here.”

Nanami knits his brows, confused and intrigued by your insinuations. Before he can ask about what you mean, you quickly jump in to clarify it yourself.

“I get on that stage almost every night, I would be a poor performer if I didn’t recognize my audience.” You take a last sip of your drink, placing it on the bar for the bartender to take it away as you thank them with a smile.

Nanami feels his heart race. He didn’t know he had come so much to the point that you recognized his face. He thought he would pass unnoticed on each of his visits, becoming a wallflower that no one would interact with but the bartender. Looks like he was wrong. You of all people noticed him.

He takes a quiet deep breath to calm his speeding heart, his face facing you completely. It could be the whiskey talking, the liquid courage guiding this whole interaction that he thought would never happen otherwise, but he decided to take the chance and say.

“I’ll make sure to get the best seat.”

“I’ll make sure to save it for you.” You answered back, a soft chuckle escaping you.

You take a few steps away from your seat, slower than when you were coming from the stage to the bar. You then turn your head to look back at Nanami, hands coming together in front of you.

“You should get gin if you come next week. We’ll play swing and I find the combination quite wonderful.”

Nanami hums, the smallest of smiles escaping his stoic front as he looks at your polite and fairly demure behavior. He notices the ways your eyes grow shy as you wait for his response, understanding that it is an invitation to come next week.

“I’ll get gin then.” He assures you, his heart beating quite hard now despite the tranquil effect whiskey always has on him.

You smile. A bright smile that could have brightened this dim speakeasy on its own. You nod as you add, “Thank you for the chat, Mr. Nanami. Don’t be a stranger, please.”

And with that, you turn back to the band, a light pep on your step as evident by the way your dress’ fringes jump.

Nanami turns back to the bar, looking down at the empty glass before him and then at the glass you were drinking from. He sees the bartender take both away and asks them for another glass of whiskey as jazz begins to play again.

His feet once more guide him to you, walking through alleyways and empty streets long after the sun had set down with the moon and stars keeping him company. His mind is much quieter this time than the last, now aware that logical questions and should-statements were impractical to ask when it came to this new habit of his.

As he walked on the street that had the downward stairs that guided him to the seemingly unsuspicious door in the neighborhood, he was greeted with the sight of a few police officers who appeared to be heading to the same place as him. They were quite the number and Nanami knew what it meant. The warning that his heart was sending through his veins caused his steps to speed up to the policemen, gulping any sight of uneasiness down before he spoke up.

“Gentlemen, evening.” He bowed his head at them, his tone ever so neutral at this moment as if this were just another negotiation he did every day at work.

The men turn to him, inspecting his appearance before saying a thing. They bow back at Nanami with one of the policemen taking a step forward to him and taking out his badge for him to see.

“Evening, sir. I’ll have to ask you to evacuate the area, we’ve received reports of illicit production and sale of alcohol in this area and we will enforce the law on everyone at the establishment. A law-bidding civilian like yourself should save the trouble of witnessing such enforcement.” He warns, acting all high and mighty with Nanami as if they hadn’t met before.

Nanami takes a step forward to the policeman, digging out his wallet and pulling out a couple of bills that he then keeps in his hand. He smiles politely at the man.

“Officer, I appreciate the warning. I am afraid that there are no such activities in this area. I want to save you the trouble of wasting your time so you can be able to enjoy your evening as well. After all, there is no issue with enjoying yourself, is there not?”

Nanami reaches for the man’s hand, pretending to shake his hand as he places the money in the palm of his hand. To anyone walking by, this is just a citizen thanking and warning the law. To them, it is just business.

The officer smiles at Nanami, hypocrisy slipping through in the smell of cheap beer as he nods. He turns to the rest of the policemen, telling them that they got false input and that they should just head to their usual patrol around the north side of the city. The men bid farewell to Nanami, silently thanking him.

Nanami sighs once they are gone, leaning against the staircase fence. They were the same officers as last week, he isn’t stupid. The condescending tone alone told him that much. He is lucky he has a good job. Otherwise, he would have to buy cheaper alcohol if he kept using his money to bribe the cops away from there.

After a few minutes, Nanami walks down the stairs to the door that would’ve been busted open had it not been for him. Knock. Knock, knock. Knock. Knock. The pattern that is now ingrained in his body makes his heart race in anticipation. He walks in, almost sitting by the bar as he remembers your words from last time when he sees an empty seat for one closer to the band. You weren’t kidding last time…

Nanami walks towards the said seat, still a bit further from the stage since it is set by the wall. But as he sits, he notices there’s a reason why you specifically save this spot. He notices you recognize him, your smile beaming while you’re performing the swing set you mentioned last week. It was a clear and unconstrained view of the singer. No chairs in the way, no paths that others could take that would block the view for either of you, and no light that shone too brightly on either of you that would make it seem as if you were just a flash of light. It truly was the best seat.

But what made it better was the fact that you kept looking at him during your act, catching each other’s eyes without a doubt in mind that it was him you were looking at. No one else.

His heart races, more than it has ever before at this speakeasy. It wasn’t the thrill of drinking his negroni that contained the gin that was so prohibited at the time. It wasn’t bribing the law and breaking it. It wasn’t the girls that looked at him and tried to flirt with him. None of that made his heart race and the drink wasn’t helping ease that feeling down.

As he realizes the reason for his heart practically beating out of his chest that it would have run out of this bar from the sheer force, he looks at you. You, you, and only you as you swirl your pearls around your finger with a soft hum for everyone to hear. Maybe you were just, if not more addicting than the giddy water he drinks.

Nevertheless, there was one important difference. He can quit the booze, but not you.

[vynnyal]

Actually you know what, I'm gonna post this. Check it out, I'm fiddling with this PMV. Spoils the whole game ofc. And the name of the song is pure imagination by Fiona Apple!

Also I'm apparently a big fan of drawing moon laying down 😂 total count including scrapped drawings is 5 (technically 6)

[widowshill]

— And do you or do you not have difficulty remembering such simple instructions? — Only during thunderstorms, sir.

THE SOUND OF MUSIC (1965) / DARK SHADOWS (1966)

[canisalbus]

I may be stupid and you might already have one but if not have you considered making a WEBTOON about the 2 best doggos as a story about their weird and wonderful lives would be great

Not stupid at all! I've definitely thought about it a lot, but comic making is hard work, it's extremely time consuming (either that or my method of drawing is just absurdly inefficient. Probably both). I don't think it's something I could just pick up and realistically fit into my daily life, at least not at the moment. I'm just one person with very limited time and resources. Sorry!

[mllekurtz]

i'm just. taking a break from work and thinking about the fact that it's been almost two years since the c2 finale and that campaign still has me in a chokehold. i still think about the wizards all the time, which shouldn't surprise anyone but it's still remarkable. just taking a little moment to be in my feelings about them on main, nothing to see here

[cuz-reasons]

Summary: Elesa is invited over to Ingo and Emmet's parents' house for the weekend. Honestly, it's about time she met them. Doesn't make her any less nervous about it.

This makes 80 published works! How did this happen?

[citrlet]

🌈🌱 silver falls commune 🍄✌

[sentientsky]

"I forgive you." It came out like a blood clot—like an artery dripping gore—like an oil spill. Crowley felt his shoulders rise, fall, fall, fall. The air between them hummed, the tension of six thousand years turning every atom electrified and silently screaming. Breath shuddered out of him, human and terrible and hollowing. He had never been more grateful for the swallowing darkness of his glasses, for the way they hid the centuries of pre-emptive grief and wicked terror. The air was suffocating, the once familiar bookshop turned catacomb.

And then, hating himself for it but seeing no other way forward, he spoke the words aloud. "Don't bother". And then he was out in the middle of Soho and the breeze was harsh against his too-warm skin. Stepping out into the sun felt like rising to the surface of some great ocean—the gasping, desperate feeling in his lungs, the sudden crash of noise. A woman across the street called for her wife. A car horn. A dog barking. Laughter, cruel and far-off. He pulled breath into lungs that didn't need it, winced as he felt slivers of cold drive into the soft flesh of his throat.

So that was it; five and a half million years of want and need and burning, aching somedays, cyphered pleas for "our side". All gone in the space between shaking half-breaths and a kiss still seared against his lips.

Fuck it.

He'd ruined it the first time, had forced them both to look directly into the sun, to face the thing they'd been dancing around for the better part of six millennia. He could do better—would do better. At a music café some years ago, a human had been playing the piano—something soft and slow. A jazz number, if the demon remembered correctly. But the remarkable thing wasn’t the song itself, but that they were playing it with their eyes closed. Aziraphale had pointed this fact out to Crowley, excitement lilting in his voice (even then, the sound had thrilled him, sent a stab of warmth through his heart). It was only after the final note reverberated through the room that the artist opened their eyes, blinking in the sudden rush of stage lights. Aziraphale, ever the music connoisseur, approached the musician. The pianist had explained that, for them, reading music never came easy. Rather, they learned by touch, by the way the keys felt on their fingertips. In fact, the only way they could play a song was with their eyes closed. If they watched their hands as they played or thought too hard about their next move, they got confused and tripped over the notes. Muscle memory, they’d said.  It was muscle memory—the galactic familiarity of finding the space between seconds and prying—that guided Crowley now. He hadn’t done it since Not-Armageddon, but it came easily to him just the same. Time, you see, operates kind of like sound, like music; it loops and sways and carries forward in waves. If you know where to look (as the demon did), you can disrupt the flow, send it back towards the shore. 

And this was what Crowley did now. Drawing his hands through the ripples of minutes and seconds and hours and millennia, time stilled around him. It was natural. Easy, like breathing or sleeping. Or loving Aziraphale.  Slowly, the world turned backwards; humans retreating from whence they came, cars driving in reverse, the wind blowing in the opposite direction. If Heaven had taken notice of their "half-a-miracle", Crowley expected them to be able to see this from every edge of the universe. He likely only had one shot at this.

The world aligned itself once more, and time returned to its regular, steady gait—a rubber band snapping back into place. Something hummed in Crowley’s chest. Something bright and burning and the shape of a neutron star.  Hands shaking, he reached for the handle of the bookshop and pushed. The bell above the door rang, clear and and too-loud in the morning air. Aziraphale whirled around, a trembling half-smile on his face. Oh. Oh, somebody, this was going to be harder than he thought. It felt like all the oxygen, all the courage, had been punched clear out of him "Crowley!" A beat, a shuddering breath. "Angel". He pressed his still-trembling hands into his pockets and strode forward. "Oh, Crowley, dear, I've been looking for you. I have excellent news." His stomach did a little flip, something deep within him growing hollow and fearful. "We have to talk," he managed to choke out around the heart still lodged in his throat. "Yes, I quite think we do. I have something to tell you." Aziraphale strode forward, all grins and beauty like a flickering star, all plasma and heat. He could practically feel the agitated warmth roll off of his angel. Crowley shivered. "I just met with the Meta—” "No. Wait," the demon held up a hand, pausing the rushing torrent of Aziraphale’s words. "Just let me say my thing, please." "My dear boy, just—oh, what is that lovely human expression—"

"Hold that thought," Crowley muttered. His eyes burned behind his glasses. Aziraphale looked pleasantly taken aback.

"Yes, how did you know? I—" "No." The angel's eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "No?" "No," he repeated, enunciating each letter with perfect clarity. He was going to do it right this time. He was going to keep him from leaving. He could be good. Right? "I’m gonna speak, and I want you to listen to me without interrupting, m'kay?" Words were building in the basin of his sternum now, pushing up on his airways. He was going to have to say it outright this time; no more waltzing around this frenzied galaxy of emotion. Willing his hands to steadiness, he pulled his glasses from his face, and tucked them into the collar of his shirt. Aziraphale's breath seemed to catch for a moment, meeting the ferocity of the demon's gaze head-on. A deer in headlights. And then, "Crowley, I really—" (Eons hurtled through his mind in a split second, the serrated knife's-edge of want like a being all its own. Aziraphale in the garden. Aziraphale in the tavern, on the cliffside, on the West End stage, in the Bentley, in the bookshop, in the very marrow of Crowley’s bones.) "I love you," he rasped, ichor writhing in his veins.

There, he'd said it., said it fully and completely, without so much as flinching. It was the same love he'd expressed for the past several thousand years in a million little, unspoken ways: an ox rib, a revolution, a church, a burning bookshop and the bottom of a glass and a lost best friend. A yellow Bentley, a lifetime of tethering his life to Aziraphale's, of trailing after him like a moth to flame—like a dog to its owner. "I love you," he pushed on. They were both looking directly into the sun again, Crowley urging them to stare straight into the heat of it all. The words were spilling out of him now, a heaving, thrashing current falling to the bookshop's hardwood floors. "I love you and you can't go to Heaven." Aziraphale froze, pupils blown wide and unblinking, for just a moment. Tension stretched out like a thread between them. And then he pulled in breath like a drowning man (who wasn't really a man at all), and tears were gathering in the corner of his eyes, and oh god, he'd made his angel cry. Fear and guilt and horror slammed into him at a million kilometers an hour and left him halfway between dizzy and nauseous. His fingers tensed at his side, desperate to do something, fix what he'd so obviously broken. Heaven would be on the front step any moment. It was too late, wasn't it? It was always too late. "Crowley—what?" Aziraphale breathed, mouth twisting into a brutal, terrible, heart-wrenching sob. Crowley ached, panic lancing through him like a knife. "I—I really, I can't. You could come with me." He stepped forward, moving to place his hands on the demon's shoulders. Crowley leaned into the touch, almost unconsciously. "Don't go," he croaked, tears beginning to prick his own eyes once again. This time he didn't reach for his glasses, didn't try to hide his fear. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. And then Aziraphale could hate him and his desperate, hungry, reverent love in the aftermath. "Don't go where I can't follow. Please".

His angels blue-grey eyes searched his own, and the weight of his gaze was impossibly heavy, pressing down on his chest like a river-smoothed rock. "Crowley, please. I don't understand. The Metatron said—" His palms found the sides of Crowley's throat, thumbs resting gently on the side of his jaw. Crowley sucked in a breath. "Angel," The scent of earl grey—of old books and soft tartan chairs. Aziraphale's hands were shaking. "I know what the Metatron said," he intoned, soft as rainfall. "You can't go. It's not—they won't change. You're better than that." "But you could be an angel. With me," he murmured, soft thumbs running across sharp cheekbones. "Be my second-in-command." "Don't want to be. Want t' be an us," he felt tears—traitorous, burning tears tip over the edge of his lashes and fall against his face. "Crowley, darling, please." A beat. "I love you." The bottom of the world dropped out from under him in that moment. Aziraphale loved him. He loved him and he'd said it aloud and now it was out there in the world and it was as though every nerve on his body was on fire. His angel pushed on, "Truly, I love you. I need you with me. Please, come with me. We can do good, I know it." He could never say no when his angel asked something of him. Especially not when his kind, gentle hands were holding him like something good, something precious. Especially not when Aziraphale had just admitted to needing him, had injected the word with so much warmth he thought his all-too-human heart might beat clear out of his chest. But there was a first (technically, second) time for everything. He drew in a heavy breath, and tilted his head, breaking his angel's hold on him. Aziraphale's hands—now empty, still shook. He made a soft whimpering sound, and Crowley ached to kiss his fingertips, banish the fear. But instead, he looked up towards the ceiling, to a God who was not there—who maybe had never been there at all. He felt the Heavenly Host drawing near, a sense of hollow emptiness, the scent of absence. This was the time of last-ditch efforts, of holding his heart out and hoping Aziraphale might take it as it was, bruised spots and all. "I can't. I won't. I need to be here, on Earth, with you." "Crowley, please. I don't think you understand what I'm offering you," he huffed. A residual shard of anger stabbed at him then, and he turned his gaze sharply back to the angel before him. "Oh, I understand perfectly well, angel. I'm fairly certain I understand better than you do." Aziraphale's mouth drew into a thin line, tears welling fresh in his eyes again. And still, Crowley ached. A beat. Something in the angel shifted, then, turned on its edge—the walls beginning to go up again, and it was just like it had been not fifteen minutes ago. He was watching the same moment play out over and over again; some cyclical, torrential nightmare. "I would like you to come with me, but," Aziraphale paused, voice breaking in the middle. "But I'm leaving, with or without you." And there it was, like it was predestined. Despite the love, despite the want, despite every shared bottle passed between them, every half-accidental touch and glance and whispered word—despite the way he would’ve let Aziraphale run a sword through his chest... It wasn't enough. It was never enough. They were re-enacting their old magic trick, right there in the bookshop, this time with Crowley staring down the barrel, letting Aziraphale pull the trigger. Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear. Aziraphale wasn't shooting past his ear. His bloody ribcage felt as though it might splinter apart. Wingbeats in the distance, a grief wide enough to drown the sea. Crowley reached down, pulled his sunglasses from their resting spot against his clavicle. And then the hunger in his eyes was once more hidden, and he was walking towards the door like a man headed to execution. "Crowley—" Aziraphale nearly keened, the wall crumbling for a split second. Without turning, Crowley said the only words he could think of. "I forgive you."