#multi t(ASK)ing

[tj-dragonblade]

FLUFFBRUARY 2023 Feb 10, 11, 12, & 13

Feb 10 prompts: moment strong neck Feb 11 prompts: unlikely fog anniversary Feb 12 prompts: amber tenderness incandescent Feb 13 prompts: whole steam(ing) first

On AO3 - 3400 words

Another multi-day fill, because 'strong' gave me a good starting scenario but then it took longer than one day and kept growing and each day's words were either already in it or slotted in nicely, which worked out well.

===== "Ohhhh, no. Nope. Uh uh," Hob enunciates, carefully, when Dream has maneuvered them to the foot of the stairs. "Not bloody likely." He sags a little further; Dream hitches Hob's arm higher around the back of his own neck, tightens his arm about Hob's waist to keep him upright.

"Shall I carry you up the stairs, then?" It has been quite the undertaking already, to get Hob from the pub, down the back hall, to here. But Dream finds that he does not. Mind, the effort.

Hob turns to look at him as best he can, through the fog of his inebriation. "Sure, 'f you think you c'n manage?" His tone is lightly sarcastic, lightly scoffing, mirthful; the idea amuses him.

Dream graces him with an impassive stare, then braces Hob's arm across his shoulders and dips fluidly, slides his free arm behind Hob's knees and scoops him easily aloft. "Perhaps."

Hob's eyes are wide, gratifyingly so, and he is quick to grasp at Dream's shoulder to steady himself; Dream shifts his stance to maintain balance.

Dream could, he is aware, have simply passed through his own realm with Hob in tow, emerged directly in Hob's bedroom without half so much effort as he is currently expending.

But then, he would not get to. Carry Hob, this way.

Hob makes a sound that can only be described as a giggle. "Princ'ss carry," he elaborates, shifting his arms more securely around Dream's neck, and then, mumbled: "God's wounds, you're strong."

Dream lets himself preen just a bit, at Hob's praise, but. His thoughts are also circling around Hob's other words, as he starts up the stairs. Princess carry. Also commonly called 'bridal carry'. Often portrayed as highly romantic, in stories.

He wonders if Hob is thinking the same.

He would like. The opportunity, to carry Hob up to his rooms for romantic reasons, but. This is not the time to dwell on such thoughts.

At the door to Hob's flat, he again braces himself steady while Hob fishes his keys from his jacket and fumbles them into the lock. Hob does not ask to be set down; Dream does not offer.

It is cool and dark in Hob's flat. Dream nudges the door closed behind them, moves carefully through the familiarity of the interior with his armful of Hob, to the bedroom. "Not quite how I imagined this," Hob chuckles as Dream sets him down in his unmade bed, and Dream pauses, marginally. Hob's words have struck a note…but no. He will save such thoughts for a sober Hob, should he choose to pursue them, when they both can be. Certain, of their meaning.

However. There is little harm to be had, in seeking further info. "You had designs for this evening, Hob Gadling?"

Hob's face, already flush with alcohol, darkens a little more. "It's our annual…our annivershy," he manages, "an' I thought. Great time, t' finally tell you how I feel, right?"

June 7th. That Hob marks it as an anniversary of such import is. Enchanting. Dream is enchanted, no less so than by Hob's off-hand implication of. Feelings, for Dream.

That much is…unexpected. But not at all unwelcome; it lights a warmth in Dream, that steals the breath he doesn't need, that swells with. Hope.

"But I got ins'cure," Hob continues, mournfully, "an' I thought, okay, a li'l liquid courage, that'll help right? An' then I jus' kept going, and now here we are." He lets out a gusty, dramatic sigh.

Dream would like to kiss him. He will not, not like this. But. He would like to.

"The morning will not be kind to you, Hob," he says instead, a fondness in his voice that is obvious even to him. "You need rest." He touches the sleeve of Hob's jacket. "Let me help you."

Wide-eyed, Hob nods, moves accomodatingly while Dream maneuvers his arms free, lays the garment aside. He considers Hob's pants next, uncertain. "And these?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Hob leers, his drunken mood mercurial as the whims of children, and Dream. Resolutely keeps a chaste gaze, helps Hob free of his trousers, leaves him in tshirt and boxers.

"Lie down, Hob," he directs then, and while Hob obeys, letting Dream pull the covers up over him, his thoughts are plainly still following their previous path.

"Join me?" Hob manages a charming grin despite his inebriation, a come-hither lift of his eyebrows, and Dream, afloat on the possibility that his interest need not be one-sided, is. Tempted.

But no. This is not how he would have it happen between them. He is certain Hob, when sober, will agree.

He cards his fingers through the sweep of hair that has escaped the elastic band meant to contain it, brushes it tenderly back from Hob's face. "You are very drunk, Hob."

Hob presses into his hand. "I know. I know." He heaves a huge sigh, ending on a hiccup. He is still leaning into Dream's touch. "Sorry I messed this up." His eyes, when they meet Dream's, are wide and mournful, begging forgiveness.

His offenses are entirely imagined; Dream reassures him regardless. "You have not 'messed this up', Hob. I look forward to having. A proper conversation, when you have recovered. I would hear about every feeling you wish to share, in detail."

The pout that Hob gives him is not likely meant to be as. Adorable, as Dream finds it. "C'n I maybe have a kiss, at least?"

"Ask me again, when you are sober." His thumb brushes the corner of Hob's mouth.

Hob's eyelids are drooping of their own accord, but something like hope glimmers beneath them all the same. "'F I ask you when I'm sober, will you say yes?"

Dream smiles, a minute upturn at one corner of his mouth. "Perhaps," he allows, then leans down and softly presses his lips to Hob's forehead, breathing just a touch of his power into it. "Sleep, Hob."

Hob passes into his realm with a sigh.

Dream watches him a moment, cradling the softness and warmth in his chest, the hope that is by now glowing incandescent within him. Then, he ensures that Hob's curtains are all closed and his front door locked, brings a glass of water to the bedside table, brushes his fingertips through Hob's hair again.

He returns to the Dreaming.

He keeps a piece of himself attuned to Hob, as he goes about his work, thinking forward to their continued discussion with a sense of pleased anticipation.

~~~***~~~ Hob wakes to a dark bedroom and insistent pressure in his bladder. Blearily, he stumbles up out of bed and into the bathroom, not bothering with lights. The amber glow of the nightlight over the toilet is almost too bright as it is. His head is fuzzy, in that weird liminal state where you're technically awake but haven't had near enough sleep to really be with it; he vaguely recalls he'd been drinking, which just compounds it. He pisses, washes up, and is shambling back to bed when his stomach lurches.

Right, then. Straight back to the bathroom.

It's after, while he's rinsing his mouth at the sink, that he hears Dream's voice.

"Hob?"

He spits one final time and turns off the tap. "Yeah. Gimme sec." He dries his face, dries his hands, cracks a huge yawn in between.

Dream is in the middle of his bedroom, when he returns, and he's still not sure if he's actually awake but he's also too out of it to care. Dream hands him a glass of water, which he downs on auto-pilot. His stomach is still a bit temperamental but doesn't protest too much.

"Thanks love," he mumbles, handing the empty glass back to Dream. His head, on top of feeling muddled in cotton, is beginning to ache. "You're really here?"

"I felt you wake," Dream says, as if that explains anything.

Hob is vaguely aware there are things he should probably be remembering, but he will worry about them in the morning proper, when he is properly awake.

"Head's starting to hurt," he announces, climbing back into bed. "Mebbe it'll be fine in th' morning. I hope."

"Unlikely," Dream says, frowning, and then he disappears. Which doesn't help much with the sense of unreality Hob's got going on, but then Dream is back. And he's got the paracetamol from Hob's bathroom cabinet and more water from the kitchen, is handing him pills and propping him up to drink, and Hob is. He's not objecting to the care, okay, and he wouldn't be even if he was fully awake and aware.

"Sleep, Hob," Dream says, softly, and Hob's pretty sure Dream's skinny fingers are stroking his hair, but he's asleep again without really thinking too much about it.

When next Hob wakes, it's to muted daylight—someone had made sure the curtains were all properly closed, and he doesn't think it was him—and…considerably less of a headache than he expected. Still there, still bad enough that he's grateful for the thoughtfully-closed curtains, but nowhere near the head-splitting agony he might have expected. His mouth tastes like garbage and feels stuffed with cotton, his stomach is unhappy but not heading for a revolt, and he could stand another hour or two of sleep but.

But there's Dream, appearing suddenly in the bedroom doorway, and Hob shrieks the most undignified shriek he's ever shrieked, scrambling back against the headboard at the same time. All of which pushes his headache a bit further into 'pounding' territory, and he groans.

"Bloody christ, Dream—!"

"My apologies." Dream glides over, offers Hob the glass of water he's holding and the bottle of paracetamol from the bedside table, and Hob downs both gratefully.

Something cool touches his forehead and Hob has closed his eyes, is groaning his appreciation of the relief it brings before he registers that it. That's Dream's hand, touching him, but it is far too soothing and he's far too much of a mess just now to get properly excited about it.

They've touched, plenty of times by now; hand to arm, hand to shoulder, hand to hand occasionally, but never quite so intimate as hand to face.

It's nice.

He cracks one eye open. Dream smiles down at him, the tiny little smile that touches his eyes more than his mouth.

"How are you feeling, Hob?"

"Bit like crap. Could be worse." He opens his other eye, looking up at Dream. "Not that I'm complaining, mind, but…why are you here?"

Dream gently pulls his hand away. Hob misses it immediately. "I have been. Eager, to continue our conversation," he says, consideringly, and Hob frowns.

Bits of memory are starting to surface, and Hob is not quite sure how he feels about them. Had he…he woke up in the middle of the night to puke, he's pretty sure. Had Dream showed up and given him water after? Had Dream…put him to bed, before that? Had—

Oh god, Dream had carried him home last night, literally.

He needs a second.

Also, he's really gotta pee.

"Excuse me for just a minute," he says, climbing out of bed as Dream steps back. "Meet me in the kitchen?"

Dream does that regal kingly dipping of his head that means 'of course'. "I will make tea."

"Thanks. Thank you." Hob hurries past him, shuts himself in the bathroom, and quietly freaks out.

He deals with his bladder, too, and brushes his teeth while he's at it, but mostly it's the freaking out.

He can remember now, hanging on Dream in the hallway, Dream picking him up, carrying him up the stairs, waify stick-thin twinkish Dream carrying him effortlessly to bed like it was the easist thing in the world and it's actually pretty hot to think about, okay, and he will be thinking about it.

Later.

Because he also remembers confessing his feelings to Dream, only it was less confession of the feelings themselves than it was admission that he'd been planning to confess, gotten nervous, gotten drunk, and chickened out.

Either way, the existence of The Feelings was pretty much out there in the open, now.

Also, Dream had taken his pants off for him and Hob had half-assedly propositioned him, so. There's that, too.

He remembers the whole damn evening and he is so. Disappointed in himself.

He squares up, stares at his face in the mirror, gives himself a decisive nod. "Alright, Hobsie, let's go face the music," he says, and marches off to the kitchen like he's heading to the gallows.

Dream greets him with a smile, and his brave front crumples before he's quite gotten it in place. "Look. Can I just say, I'm sorry for getting so drunk last night? Sorry you had to drag me home?" Sorry you had to carry me upstairs to bed like it was our honeymoon—

Dream glances up from pouring tea, gives him a gently-admonishing up-tilted stare, the kind he'd first seen when being chastised for defending Dream's skinny ass against Lady Johanna's henchmen back in 1789. "You were no burden, Hob. I. Did not mind."

Hob swallows, heavily. "I. I kind of. Said a lot of things? And I don't. I hope I haven't made things…awkward."

Dream waves him to the table, brings two steaming cups over and sits. "Was anything you said untrue?"

Hob sits as well, facing Dream, the corner of his kitchen table between them. "No. No. Just—"

"I told you that I. Looked forward, to hearing about any feelings you wished to discuss, did I not?"

"…You did."

"I am listening, Hob. Should you wish to elaborate."

Like it's that easy.

"Okay well. Ah." He fidgets a little, on the spot and flustered and his head still aches and he's scared, dammit, despite the fact that Dream has the gist of it already and is still here asking for more; he can't help the little curl of terror deep in his chest that remembers 1889 like it was yesterday and screams What if, what if, what if over and over again.

But Dream is gazing at him over the tea that he's made them, patient and softly regal and so damn beautiful it hurts, and he can't not follow through.

"I love you," he blurts.

He'd tried to come up with a coherent and dignified way to ease into this last night, laying out their history and his own journey to realizing what this impossible infuriating magnificent eldritch creature meant to him but. He'd flubbed the hell out of that and he does not have the mental wherewithal this morning to reconstruct it all.

Dream looks absolutely delighted, eyes glimmering wetly and mouth pulled up at the corners, and Hob can feel the bit of him that's waiting for rejection ease.

"So…yeah. That's…that's what I meant to work up to, last night. You're my oldest friend, my one constant, my beautiful stranger turned familiar friend, my oldest friend—" he's repeating himself, he knows he is, but this is about getting the words out not bloody poetry "—and somewhere along the way here I've realized you're more important to me than anything. I love the days you show up best. I love sharing everything in my life with you. I want to make you happy, I want to see you smile and hear you laugh that godawful laugh and I want to kiss your gorgeous face and hold your hand and I don't know when it happened, but. I love you. And I know you're okay with 'friends' now and I don't want to push for more if you're not—I don't want to make you—I don't know how you feel, but I think you might be…amenable? To my feelings? And I just. If you're not. Please don't storm out on me again. I can live without your love, if it's not in the cards. But I don't want to be without your friendship."

He feels a little like he wants to throw up. Nerves, adrenenaline, hangover, all of the above. He takes a sip of his tea to help settle his stomach.

Of course it's perfect; of course Dream knows exactly how he takes it.

God, Hob loves him. So much.

Dream has both hands gently wrapped around his own teacup, but hasn't drank any. He's watching Hob intently, waiting to see that he's truly done babbling, maybe. His eyes are still bright with the threat of tears, and the rest of his face still looks like they'd be happy tears, if they did manifest.

Hob dares to hope.

"Hob," Dream says at last, and it sounds like he's savoring each letter as the name leaves his mouth. He blinks, leans marginally forward, and his eyes drop to his tea. "I am secretive, I know, and…slow, to share. To. Trust, others, with anything of myself." His eyes come back up, catching Hob's again. "But I would not have you think your feelings unrequited. You are. Very dear, to me, and I. Would welcome your affections, in whatever way you wish to express them."

Hob feels like the air's been punched out of him, fist straight to the gut, but in a good way.

"Really?" His hopes have taken flight, are fluttering gaily around in his stomach rather like butterflies.

Dream's eyes flick down to Hob's mouth and back up, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, but Hob isn't blinking, and he didn't miss it.

Oh. Oh. Oh, oh oh.

Dream tilts his head in that bird-like way he has. "Do you recall what you said, last night?"

"Which bit, specifically?" He'd said a few things, after all.

"You asked for a kiss. I told you to—"

"—Ask you again when I'm sober, yeah." He remembers.

Dream is looking at him expectantly, and it takes him a second to catch up. And then he flushes. "What—now? Really? I-I'm a mess, I smell bloody awful, I haven't shaved—" He's panicking, just a little.

"You are human, and you are beautiful. Beautifully human." Dream sets his tea aside. "Ask me your question."

"Really. Really?" It's not that he's dense. He's just. A bit hungover yet and trying to process an awful lot of really significant information in a terribly short span.

"Hob. Please. Ask me."

The eagerness in Dream's tone finally registers, finally clicks.

Dream would welcome his affections. Dream wants him to ask for a kiss. Dream has apparently been waiting all night for Hob to sober up and ask to be kissed. The Prince of stories is crafting their misbegotten evening into a tale of the following morning, just for them, and he is waiting on tenterhooks for Hob to say his line and move the plot along.

Everything slows around him, the whole world holding its breath. Or maybe it's just him.

"Dream. Can I." He swallows, heart pounding, more nervous than he's been in hundreds of years. "Can I have a kiss?"

Dream's whole face softens and brightens at the same time; he rises gracefully from his chair, leans across the corner of the table, takes Hob's unshaven chin between his thumb and curled forefinger and.

And then.

And then. Dream's lips touch his, brush across them with such aching tenderness that he could cry, they fit perfectly together and never. He's never going to forget this moment, not if he lives to be a million—

And then.

Dream's thumb on his chin presses oh-so-gently down, coaxing his mouth open, and Dream's mouth opens in kind and there are soft thrills racing down Hob's spine, lighting every nerve with unbridled joy as everything becomes just. More. He cups his hand in the bend of Dream's elbow, gets absolutely lost in the deepening kiss, the slow movement of lips, the delicate flicker of tongue, and. Just. Breathes it in, all of it, Dream and this moment and You are very dear to me and—

It's world-tilting, earth-shaking, entirely mundane and yet the most profound thing that's ever happened to him, Hob thinks, getting kissed by Dream in his kitchen on the tail end of a hangover, a first kiss fitting for the story they've been writing since 1389, and it's just.

It's just.

Perfect.

[dia-smthidk]

Hey so may I ask what's going on with @/randysworld-multi-fandom-fan? (Not gonna @ him for obvious reasons)

I'm just wondering if I need to block this guy-

there’s like a whole doc abt him

but to sum it up

he’s hypocritical, homophobic, transphobic, misogynistic, perverted, has suicide baited, deemed other minors who were just defending themselves as p3d0s, & has made multiple attempts to try & groom other minors

any “apology” from him ain’t shit, he always comes back worst after spewing a bunch of bullshit like that

tbh I don’t really care abt anyone @‘ing him anymore, he no longer has the balls to say shit to me lmao

[sirendeepity]

[ Nessynriel one-shot ]

A/N: Those ship names are getting out of control, but anyway. I DID IT! 2+2 IS OUT ON 22/2! *animalistic sounds* And yes, Olivia Rodrigo's sad songs worked like a charm because I didn't have any hiccups while writing this (I was in public and the poker face was poker face-ing).

Also, don't ask me anything because I know nothing.

T/W: -

W/C: 1.9k

Their friends often joked about how Gwyn was the “keeper of the brain cell” shared between her, Nesta, and Emerie, being the smarter of the three. But what they didn’t know was how little she actually used said brain cell. For instance, Gwyn had not used it when she had watched Nesta dip two fingers into the icing of the multi-layered cake in front of them and then brought those fingers to her lips, sticking out her tongue and smearing white frosting over it. That was sign number four that Nesta was on her way out of the tipsy zone. And so was Gwyn. That was the only reason why, she would later try to convince herself, Gwyn stood from her chair and reached over the table, grabbing Nesta by the neck, placing her fingers right under the female’s sharp jawline as she licked the cream right off her tongue. Howls and whistles rose around them, but Gwyn didn’t miss the way Nesta’s pupils expanded, leaving little of the blue-gray of her eyes. She just grinned and pretended the warmth pooling in her lower belly was just the alcohol playing tricks on her, and not how Nesta Archeron had tasted on her tongue. Because that wasn’t her, it was the vanilla cream of Helion’s lavish cake—nothing to worry about.

[ *** ]

Nesta was staring at the bottom of her empty glass. The fourth of the night.

She had made the terrible mistake of ordering a cherry-flavored drink on the third round and realized too late it tasted like the lipstick her tongue had accidentally grazed, so she had to order something stronger to wash away her aroma. And possibly her memory, too.

Nesta would give herself a few minutes before going for the next one, and maybe she would steal a couple of sips from Cassian’s drink while she was at it. She really, really needed it, Nesta reassured herself. Before she could even turn around to look for him, Cassian’s raspy voice came from beside her.

“Should I start wearing the same lipstick?”

Nesta wished there was still something left in the glass she held in her hands, if only to distract herself from the misery. “What?”

Cassian grinned at her. Gotcha, his eyes seemed to say. “The lipstick. Gwyn’s. Should I wear it too?”

“Why would you ever do that?”

“Because your panties are in a twist, literally, and not thanks to me,” he leaned closer, taking a sip from his own drink. He was well and truly gone, too. “Or maybe it was not the lipstick, was it, Nes?”

“Stop it,” Nesta said through gritted teeth. She was feeling both guilty and turned on as it was, she didn’t need Cassian’s help in making it worse.

The bastard just laughed, earning himself a glare.

“It’s okay, Nes,” he whispered against her ear. His hot breath sent a chill down her spine, and Nesta had to fight the shivers as he aligned himself behind her, hips pressing against the curve of her ass. “I can help you ease all this tension,” he went on, taunting her with his lips on her neck, close to her skin but not quite close enough. She wanted to close her eyes and let him take care of her needs, let him melt that knot in her spine with those expert fingers of his, but she knew she couldn’t, not with so many people still around them, partying and drinking and dancing. “Maybe Gwyn could help, too.”

And that was it. The push that sent her over the edge. There was no coming back as she slipped and fell down the rabbit hole.

[ *** ]

Gwyn could’ve kissed Azriel for that don’t-freak-out question. She did kiss him, actually, and then agreed to his proposition. Which was Cassian’s—well, it all came down to Nesta, but who cared about he said, she said.

And now here she was, standing in a dark bedroom while the party was still in full swing just a floor below. Not that it was a surprise—Helion’s parties tended to stretch on well into the night.

But Gwyn was not thinking about the party. Had stopped caring about any of that after she had kissed Nesta Archeron. She hadn’t, technically, so there was nothing to be obsessing over, right?

Wrong.

She loved her mate, could not imagine her life without him—didn’t want to—but oh, how sweet that sin had tasted. What a dream it had been. Gwyn hadn’t been able to get that scent of jasmine and lavender out of her nostrils for the rest of the night, despite the tang of spilled drinks and too many bodies permeating the air.

Now she breathed it in, welcomed it as it filled her lungs.

Nesta was standing in front of her—watching, waiting—, Cassian only a step behind, mirroring Azriel. Gwyn had the vague feeling the males were not new to any of this and had a tacit understanding of what the rules were, what they could do, and what they should not. Nesta seemed to be thinking the same, and that kicked her into motion.

Two steps and her palms pressed on both of Gwyn’s cheeks, pulling her body flush against hers as their lips met, parted, and then met again. Gwyn opened up to her, and her tongue swept in, tasting thoroughly.

She heard movement, and then the Illyrians were at their backs, caging them inside two sets of wings. From then it was only lips on tongues on skin. Cassian helped Nesta out of her dress, not wasting time and grabbing her full breasts in his hands. They fit perfectly against his palms. Nesta let out a soft moan, her head falling back and exposing her neck. Gwyn sized it, biting into her soft flesh as Azriel’s scarred hand found the slit of her skirt, sneaking between the fine layers of silk to cup her, his thumb pressing lightly on her clit. He growled against her shoulder as his fingers grazed her entrance above the drenched material of her panties. Gwyn’s dress was the next to go. Once both of them stood in nothing but their skin, Nesta pushed her backward until they reached the bed between a kiss and the next, leaving the males to undress.

Gwyn fell on the bed, red hair fanning the silky sheets, and let her gaze travel over Nesta’s naked body. She had always thought her friend to be beautiful, but just then she realized how maddening it was to see her with swollen lips and flushed skin and that desperate, wanting need in her eyes. Gwyn rose on her forearms, meeting Nesta halfway, but the female only pushed her back against the bed, straddling her.

Nesta’s lips hovered above the hollow of her neck, her collarbones, then traveled over her freckled chest, leaving a trail of kisses before closing around one nipple. Gwyn gasped at the warmth of her mouth, that swirling tongue of hers.

She opened her eyes when she felt the mattress dip, and saw Azriel, in all his naked glory, kneeling beside her, a fist wrapped around his erection. Gwyn placed a hand above his, pumping him in tandem with Nesta’s sucking on her nipples. Cassian was grinding against his mate, and Gwyn could see the tip of his cock pushing between Nesta’s raised ass. His large hand came down on it, the crisp sound of flesh against flesh filling the air as he slapped her ass once more.

“Fuck,” Nesta murmured against her tits.

Gwyn smirked. “We should do that,” she said as she turned her head and wrapped her lips around Azriel’s head. She licked over the slit, the salty taste of his precum filling her mouth. Azriel tilted his head back, and his satisfied groan was inviting enough that Gwyn took inch after blissful inch with every bob of her head, using her hand to cover what she couldn’t fit in her mouth. She gagged every time he hit the back of her throat, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, but she wouldn’t stop—couldn’t stop—until he came. Because seeing the Shadowsinger lose control, and knowing she was the cause of his unraveling, made Gwyn feel untouchable. Her plan changed when Nesta adjusted above her, their limbs now tangled, and rolled her hips, rubbing their clits against one another.

[ *** ]

Nesta kept moving, working both Cassian behind her and Gwyn under her, the wet sliding of their cunts filling the room, along with whimpers and moans.

“Her pussy feels good, doesn’t it, Nes?” Cassian murmured against her neck, a battlefield of bruises and love bites. He kept kneading at her breasts, pinching and pulling her nipples to the point of pain. Nesta picked up her pace, echoing Gwyn’s quickening breaths. The priestess’ hand, now replacing her mouth, went up and down the Shadowinger’s length in fast movements, wrist twisting at the top.

“Don’t make her come,” Azriel ordered, a shadow wrapping around Gwyn’s neck.

Cassian gripped her hips, halting her, and Nesta grunted at the sudden stillness, the denial.

“I need to-”

“I said not yet.”

Nesta whimpered at the command, the dominance in Azriel’s voice. It also pissed her off. So she gripped one of Cassian’s wrists and guided his hand between hers and Gwyn’s bodies, placing it where she needed him most.

Cassian chuckled, biting her lobe, “Troublemaker.”

Still, he circled her clit once, twice, before slipping through her folds. Nesta cried out, barely able to catch her breath as Cassian’s thick fingers curled inside of her, filling her, stretching her. Nesta felt her release closer with every pump, but Cassian kept avoiding the spot he knew would push her over. She needed more, needed—

“What was that, Gwyn?”

“Please,” Gwyn might have been whimpering, might have been crying. “Please, Azriel, let me come.”

Nesta could only watch as a dark curl caressed her freckled cheek, grazed the corner of her lips, and Gwyn opened for him, sticking out her tongue.

“Such a good girl,” Azriel murmured, then spit in her mouth. “Now you can come.”

Cassian removed his hand from inside Nesta, pressing her down on Gwyn’s core, guiding her hips. After two strokes, Gwyn’s back arched off the bed, and Azriel watched his mate orgasm with rapt attention. On the third, Cassian covered Nesta’s mouth with his hand, cutting off her scream as Nesta came so hard she saw stars.

Grunts joined their heavy breaths soon after.

Nesta felt something warm and sticky slide down the small of her back. She only had to twist her head to the side to see the white-knuckled grip Cassian had around his cock, still twitching against her ass. Nesta pulled him in for a sloppy kiss, all teeth and tongue.

When she turned again, she saw Azriel pumping himself one last time, hissing. Gwyn, cheeks flushed red and a satisfied grin stretching her lips, basked on the feeling of his release coating her chest. The last thing she saw was the redhead wrap her arms around her mate’s neck as he claimed her lips, then Nesta closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the feeling of Cassian’s wandering hands.

His kisses were a balm for her senses. “I’ll take care of you.”

He knew, of course he knew, that as good as it had felt, it was not enough for Nesta. That she needed to be fucked raw and then some more, until her tears soaked the pillows and his seeds soaked her.

Nesta chuckled despite the throbbing between her legs, asking for attention once more. “I know.”

[lavendertwilight89]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favourite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💖

Hello my love! <3 tagging @ruddcatha and the anon who ask sent me this ask! This was super hard because I feel like I put a lot of my heart and soul into most of my fics

1. Shelter I had to pick this one as this was my feudal era au that just flowed so well that it became 100k words in a year. I love how it turned out and how I was able to do a slow(er) burn as well as through in action, angst, and drama. It is my BABY--my second multi-chapter fic that was completely a different universe that I got to build from scratch where I wanted inu and kag to be completely the same as they were in canon, just a totally different universe.

2. Holding Out for a Hero This was another 'supposed-to-be-a' one-shot only to feel like... it wasn't deep enough or explored enough if I made a Shrek AU for inukag a one and done. Now it'll have all three movies incorporated as well as some wedding smuts that just were added back in February for @bluejay785's bday ;)

3. Love Again I feel like all my supposed to be one-shots ended up in this list but again--I feel like some stories just need more detail, more build, more love, angst, and climaxes (no pun intended but this too eventually) to where it needed to broken into chapters, and because this for my dear sweet @kalcia, I knew she needed the best. I like the subtly that has been added in as well as some things that occurred irl to myself (the shoulder injury happened but not in the shower--twas stairs that caught me) and I couldn't wait to write that in to help kag along with her romance and realization that inu mayyyy be into her too ;)

4. Devil Devil I knew this wouldn't be a one shot... but also didn't anticipate it would end up around 7 chapters. I was really intrigued to write something in first person and also to make it halloween-horror themed. I had so much fun working with @kirrtash on art and there will be more to come when I actually finish the 6th and 7th parts and send it her way :)

5. willow This is going to be another baby of mine--a friends-to-lovers au with the who fake-marriage mixed it. I had actually I think brained-stormed a prompt with @superpixie42 one day about friends being married for health insurance and BAM! I heard the song willow by the queen, T Swift, and began plotting this baby out right around @thunderpot's bday who I knew loved a good fake-marriage fic. I can't wait for more time to focus on this one too!

Thanks so much for the ask @fawn-eyed-girl and beta-ing all my massive fics !!! <3

[silentauroriamthereal]

PSA: HP fics

Hello everyone!

In March, I discovered to my dismay that skyehawke.com had closed without warning and that I had lost all of my Harry Potter fics. I was upset, obviously. I had left the HP fandom many years ago, and had zero interest in promoting or discussing anything I had written, but I had always promised that I would leave my stories online and available, ideally all in one place. That place was skyehawke.com. When I re-joined fandom life in general after a lengthy hiatus, ao3 had sprung up and that's where I started posting my Sherlock fics. People have asked me repeatedly about the possibility of moving my HP fics over there and I always said, quite firmly, absolutely not.

(Putting in a cut to spare your dashboards!)

Why not? Because it's a lot of f-ing fic, for starters. My HP catalogue caps out in the 1.8 million word range, at something like 104 or 105 fics, some of which are quite short, but some of which are also QUITE long. The longest of the multi-chaptered stories is 36 chapters, for instance. Plus, as I said, I didn't want to be drawing attention to them, getting comments on them, having to re-read them just to understand what the comment was even referring to (I wrote the majority of these around 2004-7), etc.

However, in my gratitude to the people who stepped up and within days restored my entire HP collection to me, I promised both on my old livejournal account and here that I would, once my then-current project was complete, begin the long, laborious process of transferring my HP catalogue to ao3 after all. I'm not going to lie: it's a TREMENDOUS amount of work. Originally I had thought that I would take the opportunity to re-read the stories and edit out typos, manually re-format them, manually redo the html coding, etc, etc. However, I just can't. It's time-consuming enough just to upload all of the raw text, along with the fandom, pairing, rating, summary, etc, so that's my warning: they are what they are. The earliest of these was written 17 years ago. If you're a writer, imagine your writing from that long ago. I cringe at some of the pairings. But a promise is a promise, and I'm not someone who breaks my word.

So, long disclaimer aside, I'm here to announce that I've created a whole separate ao3 page. I was originally going to wait until I'd uploaded the full catalogue, but people have already noticed these stories popping up, so I thought I'd go ahead and share now. I'm adamant about not having these stories take up space in the very limit amount of time I have for fandom in general, and which I prefer to dedicate to Sherlock, hence the separate page.

Here it is: SilentAuror_HPworks. I started working on this the very day after I posted Nocturne (aka my latest project), as promised, and so far I've only uploaded 16 stories (although if you count individual chapters, that adds up to 125 individual uploads already). Every story comes with a posted note that I will not be answering comments. I did leave the comment field open, though, because I know that sometimes people really just want to comment. I'll read the comment and appreciate the kudos and bookmarks. I just don' t have the time to respond to comments on 105 stories in a fandom I don't want to discuss anymore. I hope that feels fair? Either way, this is what I'll be working on as my muses ponder my next Sherlock project. :)

[sentofight]

Hello~ This is Faty presenting my humble multi muses blog, featuring some lads from the Final Fantasy franchise, Z//ack F//air, M//achina K//unagiri, E//ight, and K//ing. Other muses are from B//ravely Default, O//ctopath Traveler, T//ales of series, G//od E//ater. F//ire E//mlem and others. Feel free to ⟳ if you are interested in rping with me. 

                                         HOME || ASK || MUSES || RULES

[zzinvolterra]

Hi! Multi faceted question if that’s ok😊

How would you describe the personal style of the twins? Do you think they would occasionally dress the same or would they have completely different styles?

Also, if the guard watched TV what shows and genres would they be into? If they had a movie night, would they rotate who gets to chose the film and would there be any no-go films or genres?

Sorry, that’s quite a large ask…😅

Thank you!

Hello and no problem!

For the twins, I headcanon that their styles have changed from each others’ over the years as they became further entrenched in the Volturi.  I’m thinking Jane gravitates towards a preppier look and darker colors in general, a conscious (or perhaps unconscious) attempt to wear what she thinks would fit in best with the rest of the Volturi and look less childish.  Also, Jane’s got a preppy vibe.

For Alec... honestly I could see him wearing a sweatshirt under his cloak. Probably owns some T-shirts. Overall, I'm leaning towards him prioritizing comfort over style. Also headcanon-ing that he has a pair of sunglasses for no reason other than Demetri bought a pair and looked cool.

Heidi watches soap operas if just for the aesthetic. She also enjoys historical dramas with Chelsea, Corin, and Demetri. Afton and Chelsea will also watch rom-coms together, missing half the movie because they're busy staring at each other. He likes horror flicks too. Felix, Demetri, and Santiago, on the other hand, prefer more action - go figure. Sometimes Alec joins in when they're watching sit-coms (he likes the laugh tracks). Jane and Renata will watch reality TV if it's on as well as musicals. And they do not sing along, Alec. (This is how Aro ended up getting High School Musical locked in his mind.)

I think they rotate through most genres, probably depending on who's present. For example, the coven's firm on not letting Jane and Alec see R-movies, despite the twin having been through battles and, you know, them being vampires. They don't think it's fair either.

As far as absolutely-not films go, they all stay far away from legal dramas.

That's Caius' domain.

[myficrecommendations]

FLUFF

Kisses in the Rain - You and Adam Sackler share a moment together after a date.

Intimacy - fluff, mild sexual content, small small amount of angst, like super light amount of smut, nothing too serious tho

Detangle with You (Black!reader) - hes trying to help her with her hair in the shower and is just,,, baffled by how long it takes

Bad Shave Day - Adam just seems to be having one of those days were everything is going wrong, especially shaving. So, you decide to help him out. 

Things That Go Bump - fun trip through a hauntes house

I Got You -  comforting scenario 

Blind Date -  Your Mom sets you up on a blind date with Adam Sackler, and neither of you have any idea what to expect.

------ headcanons, blurbs, promts and more ------

What if Sackler was dating a girl who doesn't like to yell when she argues? She'd rather have a discussion and find a solution, a compromise, rather than to yell because she'd never want to say something hurtful she didn't mean?

how would sackler react if the reader was helping him with sample and it turns out she loves babies?

smoochin’ styles

“I love you” during sex and some *light angst* but toward the end Sackler says something like “I say a lot of shit that I don’t mean, what I said then, is not a part of the shit I don’t mean”

how Adam Sackler would respond to a touch-starved reader

“Your hands are so soft and tiny.” + “Has anyone ever told you just how adorable you are? Because you really are.”

different kisses

new additions added 14 Nov:

Brooklyn, 3AM -  Fluff, angst, hurt/ comfort and soft Sackler

sleepy HC

SMUT/NSFW

Rough Sex - rough smut with dirty talk and clit biting

Like a lollipop - Explicit language, oral sex (male receiving), hand job, some kind of other jobs. Slight degrading, name-calling

Enjoy the Ride - thigh riding + cockwarming

Adam Sackler’s Mutual Masturbation Scene— Rewritten!

Sackler and his virgin gf making out

Use Your Words - PWP; dirty talk; public masturbation; male masturbation

Do It Yourself - extremely innocent reader. guided masturbation. mutual masturbation.

Unspoken Rule - 3rd date, dry humping

Are You Into That? - period sex, blood, oral (reader recieving), PIV sex, protected sex, a ‘calmer than usual’ Sackler

Golden - NSFW, Swearing, Body Modifications

Stardust -  implied age gap. hella sexual tension. some dirty dancing & making out with a complete stranger. dirty talk. penetrative sex. rough sex. 

Laundry Day - Sackler and sub!reader being roommates and he’s snooping around and finds her panties, he pockets them for later. and when he jerks off with them reader catches him 

The most important meal of the day -  Oral (m receiving/f giving), Sackler films you for the wank bank

Breakfast At Adam’s -  Fingering, Oral (F receiving/M giving), Nipple Play, Dirty Talk, Sackler is demanding

Good Fuckin’ Morning -  Cum, PIV sex, the filthiest of mouths. A bit of sweat. Sackler is demanding. Female reader

“Truth or Dare?” “Dare” -  threesome F/F/M, explicit F/F action, dirty talk, fingering, sex, oral - Part 2

------ headcanons, blurbs, promts and more ------

What is like sucking Sackler off?

Sackler in public shenanigans & “What i really want is for you to pin me against this wall and fuck me senseless”

“Hey Sackler” “Yeah babe?” “You’re really fucking hot, like REALLY fucking hot” 

------

virgin/inexperienced/shy/innocence!reader:

him teaching his virgin!gf how to blow him 

Being his shy little virgin and looking up at him with the biggest dove eyes and asking him to be nice with you 🥺 just a lil whispery “please be gentle” 

More innocence kink prompt to Sackler and Reader???

“It’s okay, honey, you can pull my hair as hard as you want when i’m between your legs.” 

Virgin!Reader exploring Sackler

MULTI CHAPTER/SERIES

The Bad Date Gone Good

Part 1.  (It’s just Sackler porn, y’all.)

Part 2. ( NSFW, fingering, PIV sex, hand jobs, gratuitous bad phone etiquette)

The thrilling adventures of a PA (WIP)

Chapter 1- A new job for a new life

Chapter 2- The wardrobe malfunction

Chapter 3-One step forward, two steps back

Chapter 4 - A funny thing happened on the way to Ray’s stand up

Chapter 5 - One man’s loss is another one’s gain.

The Adventures of a Single Father (complete)

on tumblr’s algorithm and supporting content creators

on how to leave comments and what to say

[zhongchuusimp]

Deemo Last Dream part 4

Anddd yes im back from the dead :”D  sorry guys...genshin addiction and GTA-ing too much with my friends i end up demotivated to translate...genshin side...i got eula..?by a multi roll for the mehs 

maybe i should set target and get parts of it translated by certain timings and really stick to the targeted dates i set hopefully i wont get lazy to translate cuz rn im just rotting at home with nothing to do other than playing games and studying for the things i needa teach.

Alright once again i present to u Deemo last dream 4m mark and please, pardon my grammar mistakes....

translations under the cut 

4m

Yesterday—As I still cant make up the timings here, so I decided that the time before I fall asleep is yesterday – I was dancing with Deemo before I sleep. In the end I didn’t dream of anything pleasant. Thinking carefully, ever since I came here whenever I got nothing to do I always end up sleeping (or I should say slowly fall asleep) I never once had any [dream] at all.

(I wonder why…)

Before coming to this world, I started remembering things bit by bits to the point where if I were to sleep, I will end up dreaming. It has always been like that but why am I unable to have any dreams now…? I can’t remember who said it that once a person grows up, they can’t dream anymore. Unless, the time that I am here, I have already grown to an adult...?

(If that is the case..., how could it be possible…)

No matter from which angle, I still look like a little girl. I do not even need to look at the mirror to know. Moreover, the height which I look at things at did not change at all. Deemo still look as tall as always. Yet that marvellous sapling has slowly outgrown me.

(It seems that the sapling grows taller whenever it hears a new song…)

Sitting beside Deemo daily and observing the tree, that seems to be the case. Or I should say, it is the case. Sometimes I even feel that this tree have feelings.  As if the tree is madly in love with the music that Deemo plays... or I should say that every single note that Deemo play brings life to the tree. Maybe for that tree, something like that may be possible.

Ahh..this world is full of incredible phenomenon. From the bottom of my heart, I want to know how this incredible tree grows.

(Speaking of which, Deemo sure is slow…)

Deemo went to the book room a few moments ago, until now he is not back yet. Usually, he will come out quickly and resume playing the piano…

♩

As I got impatient, I walked towards the book room with the intend to call Deemo out. I slowly open the door and peek inside the room. At that moment –-- Masked Lady who have been sleeping, slowly raised her head and looked towards my direction.

(Eh…?)

Suddenly, my heart rate increase and out of fear I quickly closed the door and run back to the piano room for safety.

(Just now…I seem to have make eye contact with the mask lady…)

I put my hand towards my chest feeling the irregular heartbeat and without thinking I went towards the big root and sit there.

In this world of chaos, I thought, I really hope that what just happened was all a dream. Because somewhere in my heart, I wish that Masked Lady will continue sleeping, and not wake up forever.

--Because, I somehow feel, Deemo will be taken away by her…

Unknowingly I start to tear up. To soothe the feelings that have nowhere to go, I raise my head looking towards the tree. It seems that the tree has last grown from when I checked on it…. Just like this, I slowly crawl towards the trunk of the tree and lightly touched it.

(Why…whenever I touch the tree there is a marvellous feeling…)

That feeling, it feels like touching a part of someone’s happy memories….

♩

Just like this, I sit under the big tree and a while later, Deemo finally come back from the book room. Without realizing the amount of uneasiness that have accumulate, it burst out all at once upon seeing Deemo as I run towards his slender body planning to ask him about the Masked Lady.

As I was about to ask, Deemo put some distance between us and took out a music score from behind his back which was taken from the book room and showed it to me.

(Ehhh…?)

I got a small fright as this seems to be the first time Deemo is hinting to me something.

“Are you going to play it for me…?”

Looking at Deemo’s eyes that is trying to tell me something, I asked.

Deemo lightly nodded his head and gently hold my right hand and brought me to the side of the piano. Im just beside him, looking at Deemo’s long slender hand playing a totally new piece of music.

(Why…)

Deemo play this piece as a present for me. It should be the first time I have heard it. Yet, I do not know why I have a feeling of nostalgia. This nostalgic feeling accelerates my pumping chest. No matter when, Deemo’s performance feels like a dream, which quickly ended.

(Ahh…I still want to listen more….)

--I still want to continue listening….

But before there is any time to immerse myself after the performance ended*, an incredible thing occurred. As if magic has been cast on the tree, the trunk glow with glaring light and grew up at one go….!

(*Tbh I don’t really understand this… the Chinese 对这有如最喜欢的电影当中一幕的景象one was 连沉浸在演奏余韵的时间都没有 so I roughly understand it as not having enough time to immerse in the performance

T/N:and yes im translating from Chinese as I bought the book to read)

 The scene felt so dreamy, I cant help but feel like I have seen something like this before. That’s right— like a scene from my favourite movie, Deemo and I look at each other and innocently smiled—though, I do not know if Deemo did smiled—

In this boring world, the growth of this tree is our joy.

--Deemo, by nurturing the tree till it reaches the window, once I climb out the window, will I be able to return home…?

[musical-chick-13]

What the hell is up with the female character discourse?

I DON'T KNOW!!!!!

The thing is. Yeah, there are some male characters who are genuinely reprehensible (or even, I would argue, not that complicated or not written with a whole lot of nuance), who do have a sizable hatedom. But I can go into any general fandom space, and I can guarantee there will be at LEAST a few people who like them and think well of them.

I do NOT have that guarantee with female characters.

I'm not going to say, "It's never been this bad!" because. It's always been bad. People have been throwing around accusations of "Mary Sue" or "1-dimensional bitch" or "Irredeemable monster" for any female character with half a flaw since before I've been alive. My first fandom experiences, even before any of us really knew what fandom was, were riddled with a vitriolic hatred of the women in the media we talked about. Genuinely sometimes it feels like there is no sin more unforgivable in fandom than liking a female character who doesn't fit into a box. (And there are, despite what people love to claim, plenty of those. Also, people love to claim depth in male characters where it isn't meant to exist, so AGAIN, don't give me the "The women just aren't well-written enough for me to care about them" excuse.)

People go out of their way to Not Be Normal about women sometimes. Or, at the very least, to not view them as worthy of caring about or paying attention to. "Girlboss (positive)" with no elaboration. "Oh, sure, I care about this character but only because she's likable and palatable and 'normal' (whatever the fuck that word actually means)." "I like her a lot!" <-will never talk about or analyze her despite doing that 5 million times for a comparable male character. Treating actresses (actual!! real life!!!! people!!!!!!!!) like shit because their characters "get in the way" of a popular ship (either a m/m one or a m/f one). Derailing every earnest conversation you try to have about a fictional construct who doesn't exist with all the uncomfortable, violent ways they personally would like to murder her, and just had to tell everyone about it. Toxic yaoi is fine and beautiful and narratively deep, but as soon as any complex or unhealthy ship with a woman is involved, we need to clutch our proverbial pearls and talk about how people are illiterate and brainpoisoned and going to ruin society. It's not even the fact that people are weird about female characters, it's the fact that it's this egregious, all the time. It is a fight to simply discuss a fictional character in peace, all. the. time. And I KNOW I'm not saying anything I haven't said before, I am just SO TIRED.

The answer to "what the hell is up with this discourse" is "misogyny," but. I think we all knew that.

[back-and-totheleft]

‘There’s still a presence out there reminding people not to speak about JFK’s killing’

Oliver Stone is not a fan of “cancel culture”. “Of course I despise it,” the Oscar winning filmmaker says, as if utterly amazed that anyone needs to ask him such a dumb question. “I am sure I’ve been cancelled by some people for all the comments I’ve made…. it’s like a witch hunt. It’s terrible. American censorship in general, because it is a declining, defensive, empire, it (America) has become very sensitive to any criticism. What is going on in the world with YouTube and social media,” he rants. “Twitter is the worst. They’ve banned the ex-President of the United States. It’s shocking!” he says, referring to Donald Trump’s removal from the micro-blogging platform.

It’s a Saturday lunchtime in the restaurant of the Marriott Hotel on the Croisette in Cannes. The American director is in town for the festival premiere this week of his new feature documentary JFK Revisited: Through the Looking Glass, in which he yet again pores over President John F Kennedy’s assassination in November 1963.

“I am a pin cushion for American-Russian peace relations… I had four f***ing vaccines: two Sputniks and two Pfizers,” Stone gestures at his arm. The rival super-powers may remain deeply suspicious of one another, but Stone is loading himself up with potions from both sides of the old Iron Curtain.

He has recently been travelling in Russia (hence the Sputnik jabs) where he has been making a new documentary about how nuclear power can save humanity. He also recently completed a film about Kazakhstan’s former president Nursultan Nazarbayev which – like his interviews with Vladimir Putin – has been roundly ridiculed for its deferential, softly-softly approach toward a figure widely regarded as a ruthless despot.

Dressed in a blue polo shirt, riffing away about the English football team one moment and his favourite movies the next, laughing constantly, the 74-year-old Oscar-winning director of Platoon, Wall Street, Natural Born Killers et al is a far cheerier presence than his reputation as a purveyor of dark conspiracy thrillers might suggest. He is also very outspoken. For all his belligerence, though, Stone isn’t as thick-skinned as you might imagine. I wonder if he was hurt by the scorn that came his way when his feature film JFK was released in 1991.

“I was more of a younger man. It was painful to me,” the director sighs as he remembers being attacked by such admired figures as newscaster Walter Cronkite and Hollywood power broker Jack Valenti for listening to the “hallucinatory bleatings” of former New Orleans DA Jim Garrison when JFK came out. “It was quite shocking actually because I thought the murder was behind us. I did think there was a feeling that 30 years later, we can look at this thing again without getting excited. But I was way wrong.”

Garrison, of course, was the real-life figure portrayed by Kevin Costner in the film; he was the original proponent of the theory that the CIA were involved in the killing of the US president, after his 1966 investigation. Garrison wrote the book On the Trail of the Assassins, on which the movie was partly based.

Even the director’s fiercest detractors will find it hard to dismiss the evidence he has assembled about the JFK assassination in the new documentary. Once I’d seen it and heard him hold forth, I came away thinking that only flat-earthers can possibly still believe that Lee Harvey Oswald shot President Kennedy all on his own. It’s that convincing.

Stone blitzes you with facts and figures about the Kennedy killing and its aftermath. At times, he himself seems to be suffering from information overload. “I am sorry. There are so many people,” he apologises for not immediately remembering the name of Kennedy’s personal physician, George Burkley, who was present both at Parkland Hospital, where Kennedy was first taken, and then at Bethesda, where the autopsy took place. Burkley was strangely reticent when giving evidence to the Warren Commission.

“I think there’s still a presence out there which reminds people not to speak. I’ve heard that in, of all places, Russia,” Stone says. He was startled to discover that the Russians knew all about his new documentary long before it was discussed in the mainstream press. “They said, ‘We heard about it.’ I said, ‘How?’ They said, ‘We have our contacts in the American intelligence business. They are not very happy about it.’”

Stone believes that no US president since Kennedy died has been “able to go up against this militarised sector of our economy”. Even Trump “backed down at the last second” and declined to release all the relevant documents relating to the assassination. “He announced, ‘I’m going to free it up, blah blah blah, big talk, and then a few hours before, he caved to CIA National Security again.”

The veteran filmmaker expresses his frustrations at historians like Robert Caro, author of a huge (and hugely respected) multi-volume biography of President Lyndon Johnson, for ignoring the evidence that has been turned up about the assassination.

“I can’t say [LBJ] was involved in the assassination,” explains Stone, “but it certainly suited him that Kennedy was not there anymore and he covered up by appointing the Warren Commission and doing all the things he did.”

Stone tried to cast Marlon Brando in JFK in the role as the deep throat source Mr X, eventually played by Donald Sutherland.

“I realise now I am grateful that he turned it down because he knew better than I that he would make 20 minutes out of that 14-minute monologue and it wouldn’t have worked.”

Nevertheless, he filled the film with famous faces. He thought that having familiar actors would make it easier for audiences to engage with what was an immensely complicated story.

Getting Stone to stop talking about JFK is like trying to pull a bone from a mastiff’s jaws. To change the subject slightly, I ask if he is still in touch with WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange. He is and is utterly horrified at how Assange is being treated, especially given that Siggi the Hacker, a key witness in the extradition case against Assange, admitted recently that he lied. Stone praises Assange’s partner Stella Morris as “the best wife you could ever have. She really is smart, she’s a lawyer … he has two children. He can’t even touch them or see them. It’s barbaric. It indicates America is declining faster than we know. It is just cutting off dissent.”

The mood lightens when I invite Stone to discuss some of his favourite films. He recently tweeted a list of these, which included Darling starring Julie Christie, Joseph Losey’s Eva starring Stanley Baker and Jeanne Moreau, and Houseboat, a frothy comedy starring Cary Grant and Sophia Loren. “I love films, always have. People don’t know that side of me. I could go on forever.”

Between his darker and more contentious efforts, Stone has made a few genre films himself, for example the underrated thriller U-Turn starring Sean Penn and Jennifer Lopez. He notes, though, that even when he tried a sports movie, he ended up right back in the firing line. The NFL was furious about his 1999 American Football film, Any Given Sunday. “They (the NFL) are arrogant, very rich people who close down any dissent, so I had to change uniforms and names… but they got the point.”

Last year, Stone published the first volume of his autobiography, Chasing the Light, which took him from childhood up to his Oscar triumph with Platoon. It was well received but it didn’t make nearly a big enough splash for his liking. “There was a curtain of silence about that. Maybe it is Covid… it was not reviewed by many people,” he says. “I wish the timing had been better. The publisher was terrible. They didn’t really promote anything. So now I have to start over again if I am going to do a second book, which I would love to do. But I have to find the right publisher.”

The book contains a barbed account of Stone’s experiences as a young screenwriter working in London for British director Alan Parker and producer David Puttnam on Midnight Express. “I wrote about it in the book, so you got my point of view. They were not very friendly people. I gave my criticism of Parker that he had a chip on his shoulder. He was from a poor side of the English. There is this phenomenon you see in England of hating the upper classes until they approve of you.”

No, they didn’t stay in touch. “And Puttnam is a Lord, right? He reminds me of Tony Blair. He is such a weasel.” For once, Stone feels he has overstepped the mark. He doesn’t want to call Puttnam a weasel after all. “Put it this way, Tony Blair is a weasel. I wouldn’t trust Tony Blair. Puttnam is a supporter of Blair. Let’s leave it at that.”

On matters English, he isn’t that keen on soccer either. He watched the semi-final between England and Denmark but had no intention of tuning into the final.

“Soccer is a different kind of game. It’s a different aesthetic. It is constant movement. The United States game allows you to re-group after every play and go into a huddle and so it becomes about strategy. I still enjoy it although people think I am brutal.”

Ask him why he so relishes American Football and he replies that he “grew up with violence in America … we were banging – cowboys and Indians, a lot of killing and that stuff. How do you get away from that? We weren’t playing with dolls.”

Stone’s feelings about the US are deeply ambivalent. He is old enough to remember a time in the late 1940s and early 1950s when “everything in America was golden” and part of him still seems to love the country but his mother was French and he talks about the US as a nation now in near terminal decline.

Perhaps surprisingly, his real political hero isn’t JFK. It’s the former President of France, Charles de Gaulle. “He said no to NATO and he said no to America. He understood the dangers of being a satellite country to America. You have no power in Europe. Don’t kid yourself. The EU is just an artificial body that was amazingly stupid in cutting off Russia and cutting off China too now.”

He doesn’t much like Boris Johnson either. “Boris, listen. He’d simply throw you in jail in a second.” He rails against the English for holding Assange in Belmarsh prison.

When he is not on a crusade or unravelling a conspiracy, Stone relaxes through Buddhist meditation. “Moderation in all things,” the man who came up with the phrase “greed is right, greed works” says with no evident sense of irony. He enjoys hanging out with his friends. “I have a nice life. I’m lucky,” he says before quickly adding, “I wish I had been more honoured and respected in my lifetime, but it seems that I took a course that is in conflict with the American Empire.”

Stone’s films have had relatively few strong female characters. Ask if he welcomes the #MeToo movement and the challenging of old gender norms and he gives a typically contrary answer. “It cuts both ways, though. There are reasons for patriarchy through the centuries,” he says. “Tribes tend to have a strong leader. You need strong leaders, but I do see the feminine impulse as being important, especially when situations become too militant. The feminine impulse, I’m talking about the maternal impulse not the Hillary Clinton/Margaret Thatcher version of feminism. They’re men. They’re not women,” he says. “I don’t want women in politics who want to be men. If a woman is a woman, she should be a woman and bring her maternalism. It’s a leavening influence.”

The director deplores the rush to judge historical figures about past misdeeds from a contemporary point of view. “I am conservative in that way… don’t expect to rejudge the entire society based on your new values.”

He met with Harvey Weinstein in Cannes a few years ago to discuss a potential Guantanamo Bay TV series. “At that point, maybe he knew he was on the ropes; he was delightfully charming and humble.” The project was scuppered by the scandal that that engulfed the former Miramax boss, who is now behind bars as a convicted sex offender. Stone’s gripes with Weinstein are less to do with his sexual offences than with the way that he attacked films like Born on the Fourth of July and Saving Private Ryan to boost his own movies.

“The press loved him [Weinstein]. Don’t forget, they loved him in the 1990s,” he says, remembering the disingenuous way in which Weinstein portrayed himself as the underdog taking on the big, bad Hollywood system.

“I think he robbed Cruise of the Oscar, frankly,” Stone huffs at the intensive Weinstein lobbying which saw Daniel Day-Lewis win the Academy Award for Best for My Left Foot, denying Tom Cruise for Born on the Fourth of July in the process.

Stone acknowledges his status in Hollywood has diminished. “All that’s gone. The people have changed,” he says of the days when the studios doted on him and his films were regularly awards contenders. Now, he’ll often finance his work out of Europe. He is developing a new feature film (he won’t say what it is). “Never say die, never say it’s over,” he says of his career.

Stone is based in Los Angeles and also has “a place in New York”. During the pandemic, he still managed to travel to Russia to make his nuclear power/clean energy documentary. “I got my shots over there because the EU is so f***ing stupid,” he says of the of the Europeans’ refusal to recognise the Sputnik vaccine. “It’s ridiculous, part of the political madness of this time.”

Now, he is putting all his energy into his new documentary about nuclear power. He waves away the idea that the Chernobyl and Fukushima disasters show what can go wrong – they were accidents.

“Accidents you learn from. If there were not a few crashes, how would you fly?” he says. It’s a line that somehow seems to express his entire philosophy of life.

-Geoffrey Macnab interviews Oliver Stone, The Independent, Jul 15 2021 [x]

[ruknowhere]

[American Journal]

here among them     the americans     this baffling multi people     extremes and variegations     their noise     restlessness     their almost frightening energy     how best describe these aliens in my reports to The Counselors

disguise myself in order to study them unobserved adapting their varied pigmentations     white black red brown yellow     the imprecise and strangering distinctions by which they live     by which they justify their cruelties to one another

charming savages     enlightened primitives     brash new comers lately sprung up in our galaxy     how describe them     do they indeed know what or who they are     do not seem to     yet no other beings in the universe make more extravagant claims for their importance and identity

like us they have created a veritable populace of machines that serve and soothe and pamper and entertain     we have seen their flags and foot prints on the moon     also the intricate rubbish left behind     a wastefully ingenious people     many it appears worship the Unknowable Essence     the same for them as for us     but are more faithful to their machine made gods technologists their shamans

oceans deserts mountains grain fields canyons forests     variousness of landscapes weathers sun light moon light as at home     much here is beautiful     dream like vistas reminding me of home     item     have seen the rock place known as garden of the gods and sacred to the first indigenes     red monoliths of home     despite the tensions i breath in i am attracted to the vigorous americans     disturbing sensuous appeal of so many     never to be admitted

something they call the american dream     sure we still believe in it i guess     an earth man in the tavern said     irregardless of the some times night mare facts we always try to double talk our way around     and its okay the dreams okay and means whats good could be a damn sight better     means every body in the good old u s a should have the chance to get ahead or at least should have three squares a day     as for myself i do okay     not crying hunger with a loaf of bread tucked under my arm you understand     i fear one does not clearly follow i replied notice you got a funny accent pal     like where you from he asked     far from here i mumbled he stared hard     i left

must be more careful     item     learn to use okay their pass word     okay

crowds gathering in the streets today for some reason obscure to me     noise and violent motion repulsive physical contact     sentinels     pigs i heard them called     with flailing clubs     rage and bleeding and frenzy and screaming     machines wailing     unbearable decibels     i fled lest vibrations of the brutal scene do further harm to my metabolism already over taxed

The Counselors would never permit such barbarous confusion     they know what is best for our sereni ty     we are an ancient race and have outgrown illusions cherished here     item     their vaunted liberty     no body pushes me around i have heard them say     land of the free they sing     what do they fear mistrust betray more than the freedom they boast of in their ignorant pride     have seen the squalid ghettoes in their violent cities paradox on paradox     how have the americans managed to survive

parades fireworks displays video spectacles much grandiloquence much buying and selling they are celebrating their history     earth men in antique uniforms play at the carnage whereby the americans achieved identity     we too recall that struggle as enterprise of suffering and faith uniquely theirs     blonde miss teen age america waving from a red white and blue flower float as the goddess of liberty     a divided people seeking reassurance from a past few under stand and many scorn     why should we sanction old hypocrisies     thus dissenters     The Counse lors would silence them a decadent people The Counselors believe     i do not find them decadent     a refutation not permitted me    but for all their knowledge power and inventiveness not yet more than raw crude neophytes like earthlings everywhere

though i have easily passed for an american     in bankers grey afro and dashiki long hair and jeans hard hat yarmulka mini skirt     describe in some detail for the amusement of The Counselors     and though my skill in mimicry is impeccable     as indeed The Counselors are aware     some thing eludes me     some constant amid the variables defies analysis and imitation     will i be judged incompetent

america     as much a problem in metaphysics as it is a nation earthly entity an iota in our galaxy     an organism that changes even as i examine it     fact and fantasy never twice the same     so many variables

exert greater caution     twice have aroused suspicion     returned to the ship until rumors of humanoids from outer space     so their scoff ing media voices termed us     had been laughed away     my crew and i laughed too of course

confess i am curiously drawn     unmentionable     to the americans     doubt i could exist among them for long however     psychic demands far too severe much violence     much that repels     i am attracted none the less     their variousness their ingenuity their elan vital     and that some thing     essence quiddity     i cannot penetrate or name

[latetotherant]

“Are you rich?” Is Shrill too Economically Idealistic for Its Own Good? ••• By Meredith Salisbury

“Oh My God. What’s happening? I’m afraid that I am feeling myself.” These are the words we here Annie (Aidy Bryant) say to her best friend and roommate Fran (Lolly Adefope) while she’s dancing in a new dress and enjoying some new found self-love towards the end of the first episode of Hulu’s comedy Shrill. The show, which is based off of Lindy West’s memoir Shrill: Notes from a Loud Women, follows Annie as she navigates life as a fat millennial woman living in Portland, Oregon. Shrill has been rightfully praised for its blunt and realistic depictions of everyday life as a fat woman and for its nonchalant handling of abortion. For all the care Shrill puts into authentic depictions of Annie’s everyday life, Shrill does so at the expense of showing the larger and more systemic issues fat women face. The omission of these larger cultural forces makes Annie’s transformation seem idealistic, unrealistic, and impossible for the women watching replicate.

Shrill is set in Portland, Oregon. It makes sense that one of the most accepting and liberal cities in the popular imagination is the setting for televisions first radically positive representation of fat women. Like Portlandia, another socially conscious television show set in Portland, Shrill uses comedy to point out where its liberal audience fails in their liberalness. In Shrill, radical self love, queerness, and anti-capitalist ideals are all casually accepted from the get go. Annie’s parents praise Fran’s, who is a lesbian’s, love life with her rotating door of queer partners and Annie’s ex-punk gen-x boss Gabe (John Cameron Mitchell) vilifies “the establishment” regularly. In a way Shrill feels like it teeters on the line between comedy and parody. It is unclear that the Portland represented in Shrill is different than the one created by the sketch comedy show Portlandia. Carrie Brownstein, the creator and star of Portlandia, even directed the Shrill episode “Date.” The similarities between the shows’ representation of Portland is not necessarily a bad thing—Portlandia did a great job at pointing out to liberal people where their liberal ideologies fell short—and Shrill picks up where Portlandia left off and continues this crusade. The issue is that Portlandia was satirical whereas Shrill is meant to be realistic. Shrill, like Portlandia, does not take into account Oregon’s white supremacist past or the fact that Portland is the whitest large city in America nor does it acknowledge how Oregon is one of the most expensive states to live in and that Portland is experiencing an affordable housing crisis.

The fact that Annie and Fran are never plagued with systemic issues leaves room for the show to explore interpersonal ones like Annie’s relationship with her boss Gabe. Gabe is Shrill’s villain. He is the editor-in-chief of The Weekly Throne, the alt-weekly newspaper Annie works for. At first he frustrates her by passively blowing off her pitches and asking her to keep working her way up, but by the fourth episode, the one titled “Pool” he begins a crusade against fatness. After learning The Weekly Thorn can save “a buttload of money” if the staff can “pry [their] cheese-thighs off the couch more than once a week” he gets rid of the vending machines and requires the staff to do “one heart healthy grouptivity once a month.” At the first “grouptivity” Gabe mutters “lazy bodies lazy minds” under is breath. He goes on to question whether Annie takes work seriously and tell her that “success is about an effort” and that “[she] didn’t [try] today.”

Through Gabe, the show pushes people who believe they are fighting against dominant culture to see that they still have biases they need to work on. Gabe is portrayed as a gen-x, ex-punk, and “feminist” through jokes about being the “original bassist in Bikini Kill,” by wearing band t-shirts for bands like Quasi (Janet Weiss of Sleater-Kinney fame’s band), and the fact that Gabe is played by John Cameron Mitchell who is an queer gen-x icon in his own right. We are led to believe that Gabe’s work was once gritty and boundary pushing. He claims when he was Annie’s age he was already “burnin’ shit down and fuckin shit up.” But, what we see now is someone who was on the right side of history, but lost his way as he became older and more financially stable. He is a former radical who is hindering Annie’s growth professionally and personally.

The way Gabe treats Annie at The Weekly Thorne is terrible. Shrill uses Annie and Gabe’s work relationship to drive Annie to find self confidence. The thing is for women work is not just another place for interpersonal relationships. It is a place that provides people with an income and (hopefully) benefits. Individuals need these to survive. In Shrill Annie never once thinks about the financial ramifications of her actions. At work she is not very professional. She is seen sitting on tables, hugging her boss when he gives her an assignment, pestering him about pitches, and posts an article to the paper’s site without permission. While some workplaces are significantly more informal than others, Annie’s behavior at work does not make it appear as though she values her job. Gabe is by no accounts a good boss and she has every right to be upset with the way he is treating her, but it is still fascinating to me that Annie never once seems concerned about the possibility of losing her job. She even quits in a fit of rage in the last episode. It is known that fat women face discrimination when they are applying for jobs and full time jobs in any media industry are nearly impossible to find these days. There is never a moment where Annie stops and worries about what the implications of leaving her job would be. Sure she stood up for herself, but at what cost? She walked away from an income and health insurance without batting an eyelash. What other millennial women who works in media could do that?  

Annie and Fran’s financial situation remains a mystery throughout the six episodes. How is it that two marginalized women in creative careers can have very little financial anxiety? The only inkling of concern comes from Fran when she asks Annie “Are you rich? That’s like $50 every time you have sex with Ryan” when she finds out Annie has been taking the morning after pill every time she has sex with Ryan. Annie never addresses this, she is rightfully preoccupied with the abortion she needs to have, but it still leaves the viewer wondering how she is finacially staying afloat.

Annie’s spending on the morning after pill is not the only unexplained expense in the show. A quick google search revealed that Annie and Fran live in a home that last sold in 2016 for $500,158 and rents for similar houses in the same neighborhood are around $2400 a month. It is unclear how they can afford to live there with Annie working for a small alt-weekly newspaper and Fran cutting people’s hair out of her house. It’s even more baffling when you add in the fact that Fran does not even require payment for her work. The only time we see her compinstated for her work she is paid in stolen clothes. How do these two afford a multi-bedroom house in Portland, Oregon, a place that is notorious for unaffordable housing, while working in independent publishing and freelance hair styling?

The walls of Annie and Fran’s home are adorned with art prints like this one that used to be sold at Otherwild and Fran is often spotted in Wildfang overalls and coveralls. Both brands have become trendy in recent years and are recognizable in queer urban circles as marker for a type of queer financial stability. Wildfang coveralls are the velour Juicy Couture track suit of lesbian culture. Rachel Syme explains that the “Juicy’s suit was just pricey enough to radiate status, but attainable enough to become a part of the everyday wardrobes of thousands of high-school girls.” Wildfang’s clothes do the same thing for queer women. Fran’s $188 coveralls signal to queer women watching that she is financially stable, yet still relatable, but it is never addressed how she got this way.

Annie quits her job in a fit of rage after Gabe writes a rebuttal to her article claiming her fatness. In this moment we see Annie stand up for herself. She calls Gabe a “bully” and tells him he is “stomp[ing] over an entire group of people.” We are supposed to cheer Annie on in this moment—she has finally began to believe in herself—but she just walks out of her job without any real concern about her future. This moment is the climax of the season. But what is she going to do now? Study after study has found that fat women face major discrimination when applying for jobs; especially in the media industry. I am proud of her for standing up for herself, but I do not see how any real person could do that without some type of financial safety net.

For fat women and queer women Annie and Fran appear to be wonderful role models. Annie is smart, and stylish, and finding her voice in a way many of us hope to and Fran is strong, and unwavering in her sexuality and standards. Shrill does a wonderful job creating inspiring role models, but Annie and Fran’s lives are impossible to replicate in everyday life. Throughout the season we see Annie strutting around Portland in a collection of adorable and perfectly tailored dresses. It turns out that almost all of Annie’s clothes were custom made for the show by costume designer Amanda Needham. Fran’s strength is a linchpin of the show and she is portrayed as the foil to Annie. In her review of Shrill Emily Nussbaum explains that Fran “specialize in brassy self-assertion, a bravado that doubles as a shield and as a weapon.”  and later explains that it’s Annie’s “niceness ... that fuels the show.” Fran’s self-assertion comes from her ability to opt-out of interacting with straight men, other than her brother or the occasional boy Annie brings home. Shrill leads us to believe that Fran’s lesbianism is what makes her that brash woman who refuses take shit and this is why she is able to empower Annie. Although all women are taught throughout their lives to seek the validation of men; coming out as a lesbian frees you from some of those expectations. Although male bosses, relatives, and friends still exist; there is no longer the expectation that one of the men in your life could be your future partner and this alleviates some of the compulsory need to please them. Annie on the other hand still believes she needs to placate a boy and win over a boss and those needs hinder her ability to stand up for herself. The thing is that queerness does not suddenly alleviate all of those pressures. As much as I would love to exist in a world without problematic straight men and the patriarchal nonsense they bring with them it is not possible. Fran has created a life where she only cuts cute girls’ hair and somehow still has a roof over her head a wardrobe full of $200 Wildfang overalls. Her queerness and lack of traditional employment may allow her to accept herself without pause, but the lack of hardship or pushback she receives is implausible and unlike the experiences of any queer women I have ever known or heard about.

Shrill represents a radical hope for fat women’s futures. It presents a nuanced depiction of the everyday struggles of fat women, but refuses to complicate its narrative with the broader and more systemic sexist and homophobic struggles fat women face. By diving deep into specificities it allows Annie to overcome her personal problems but misses the mark on addressing larger structural ones. In Shrill’s universe, Annie can quit her job without ever acknowledging how hard it is for fat women to get hired in the first place and Fran can live a blissful queer life in Portland without ever facing a racist or homophobic person. And both of them never have a financial care in the world while living in one of the most expensive cities and working in underpaying careers. I wish the lessons taught in Shrill were applicable to everyday life. I wish I could call out a fat-phobic boss on the internet without the fear of losing my employment and possibly my health insurance. I wish I could only cut cute girls’ hair and still have a roof over my head and some of the most stylish clothes in queer culture today. But alas I do not live in the world Shrill has created and I do not think I ever will.

[lake-lyn]

ET’s exclusive excerpt of The Tyrant’s Tomb by Rick Riordan (1/2)

Chapter 1

There is no food here

Meg ate all the Swedish fish

Please get off my hearse

I believe in returning dead bodies.

It seems like a simple courtesy, doesn’t it? A warrior dies, you should do what you can to get their body back to their people for funerary rites. Maybe I’m old-fashioned. I am over four thousand years old. But I find it rude not to properly dispose of corpses.

Achilles during the Trojan War, for instance. Total pig. He chariot-dragged the body of the Trojan champion Hector around the walls of the city for days. Finally I convinced Zeus to pressure the big bully into returning Hector’s body to his parents so he could have a decent burial. I mean, come on. Have a little respect for the people you slaughter.

Then there was Oliver Cromwell’s corpse. I wasn’t a fan of the man, but please. First, the English bury him with honors. Then they decide they hate him, so they dig him up and “execute” his body. Then his head falls off the pike where it’s been impaled for decades and gets passed around from collector to collector for almost three centuries like a disgusting souvenir snow globe. Finally, in 1960, I whispered in the ears of some influential people, Enough, already. I am the god Apollo, and I order you to bury that thing. You’re grossing me out.

When it came to Jason Grace, my fallen friend and half bropppther, I wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. I would personally escort his coffin to Camp Jupiter and see him off with full honors.

That turned out to be a good call. What with the ghouls attacking us and everything.

Sunset turned San Francisco Bay into a cauldron of molten copper as our private plane landed at Oakland Airport. I say our private plane. The chartered trip was actually a parting gift from our friend Piper McLean and her movie star father. (Everyone should have at least one friend with a movie star parent.)

Waiting for us beside the runway was another surprise the McLeans must have arranged: a gleaming black hearse. Meg McCaffrey and I stretched our legs on the tarmac while the ground crew somberly removed Jason’s coffin from the Cessna’s storage bay. The polished mahogany box seemed to glow in the evening light. Its brass fixtures glinted red. I hated how beautiful it was. Death shouldn’t be beautiful.

The crew loaded it into the hearse, then transferred our luggage to the backseat. We didn’t have much: Meg’s back- pack and mine (courtesy of Marco’s Military Madness), my bow and quiver and ukulele, and a couple of sketchbooks and a poster-board diorama we’d inherited from Jason.

I signed some paperwork, accepted the flight crew’s condolences, then shook hands with a nice undertaker who handed me the keys to the hearse and walked away.

I stared at the keys, then at Meg McCaffrey, who was chewing the head off a Swedish fish. The plane had been stocked with half a dozen tins of the squishy red candy. Not anymore. Meg had single-handedly brought the Swedish sh ecosystem to the brink of collapse.

“I’m supposed to drive?” I wondered. “Is this a rental hearse?”

Meg shrugged. During our flight, she’d insisted on sprawling on the Cessna’s sofa, so her dark pageboy haircut was flattened against the side of her head. One rhinestone-studded point of her cat-eye glasses poked through her hair like a disco shark n.

The rest of her out t was equally disreputable: floppy red high-tops, threadbare yellow leggings, and the well-loved knee-length green frock she’d gotten from Percy Jackson’s mother. By well-loved, I mean the frock had been through so many battles, washed and mended so many times, it looked less like a piece of clothing and more like a deflated hot-air balloon. Around Meg’s waist was the pièce de résistance: her multi-pocketed gardening belt, because children of Demeter never leave home without one.

“I don’t have a driver’s license,” she said, as if I needed a reminder that my life was presently being controlled by a twelve-year-old. “I call shotgun.”

“Calling shotgun” didn’t seem appropriate for a hearse. Nevertheless, Meg skipped to the passenger’s side and climbed in. I got behind the wheel. Soon we were out of the airport and cruising north on I-880 in our rented black grief-mobile.

Ah, the Bay Area . . . I’d spent some happy times here. The vast misshapen geographic bowl was jam-packed with interesting people and places. I loved the green-and-golden hills, the fog-swept coastline, the glowing lacework of bridges and the crazy zigzag of neighborhoods shouldered up against one another like subway passengers at rush hour.

Back in the 1950s, I played with Dizzy Gillespie at Bop City in the Fillmore. During the Summer of Love, I hosted an impromptu jam session in Golden Gate Park with the Grateful Dead. (Lovely bunch of guys, but did they really need those fteen-minute-long solos?) In the 1980s, I hung out in Oakland with Stan Burrell—otherwise known as MC Hammer—as he pioneered pop rap. I can’t claim credit for Stan’s music, but I did advise him on his fashion choices. Those gold lamé parachute pants? My idea. You’re welcome, fashionistas.

Most of the Bay Area brought back good memories. But as I drove, I couldn’t help glancing to the northwest—toward Marin County and the dark peak of Mount Tamalpais. We gods knew the place as Mount Othrys, seat of the Titans. Even though our ancient enemies had been cast down, their palace destroyed, I could still feel the evil pull of the place—like a magnet trying to extract the iron from my now-mortal blood.

I did my best to shake the feeling. We had other problems to deal with. Besides, we were going to Camp Jupiter—friendly territory on this side of the bay. I had Meg for backup. I was driving a hearse. What could possibly go wrong?

The Nimitz Freeway snaked through the East Bay flatlands, past warehouses and docklands, strip malls and rows of dilapidated bungalows. To our right rose downtown Oakland, its small cluster of high-rises facing off against its cooler neighbor San Francisco across the Bay as if to proclaim We are Oakland! We exist, too!

Meg reclined in her seat, propped her red high-tops up on the dashboard, and cracked open her window.

“I like this place,” she decided.

“We just got here,” I said. “What is it you like? The abandoned warehouses? That sign for Bo’s Chicken ’N’ Waffles?”

“Nature.”

“Concrete counts as nature?”

“There’s trees, too. Plants flowering. Moisture in the air. The eucalyptus smells good. It’s not like . . .”

She didn’t need to finish her sentence. Our time in Southern California had been marked by scorching temperatures, extreme drought, and raging wild res—all thanks to the magical Burning Maze controlled by Caligula and his hate-crazed sorceress bestie, Medea. The Bay Area wasn’t experiencing any of those problems. Not at the moment, anyway.

We’d killed Medea. We’d extinguished the Burning Maze. We’d freed the Erythraean Sibyl and brought relief to the mortals and withering nature spirits of Southern California.

But Caligula was still very much alive. He and his co- emperors in the Triumvirate were still intent on controlling all means of prophecy, taking over the world, and writing the future in their own sadistic image. Right now, Caligula’s fleet of evil luxury yachts was making its way toward San Francisco to attack Camp Jupiter. I could only imagine what sort of hellish destruction the emperor would rain down on Oakland and Bo’s Chicken ’N’ Waffles.

Even if we somehow managed to defeat the Triumvirate, there was still that greatest Oracle, Delphi, under the control of my old nemesis Python. How I could defeat him in my present form as a sixteen-year-old weakling, I had no idea.

But, hey. Except for that, everything was fine. The eucalyptus smelled nice.

Traf c slowed at the I-580 interchange. Apparently, California drivers didn’t follow that custom of yielding to hearses out of respect. Perhaps they gured at least one of our passengers was already dead, so we weren’t in a hurry.

Meg toyed with her window controls, raising and lower- ing the glass. Reeee. Reeee. Reeee.

“You know how to get to Camp Jupiter?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“ ’Cause you said that about Camp Half-Blood.”

“We got there! Eventually.”

“Frozen and half-dead.”

“Look, the entrance to camp is right over there.” I waved vaguely at the Oakland Hills. “There’s a secret passage in the Caldecott Tunnel or something.��

“Or something?”

“Well, I haven’t actually ever driven to Camp Jupiter,” I admitted. “Usually I descend from the heavens in my glorious sun chariot. But I know the Caldecott Tunnel is the main entrance. There’s probably a sign. Perhaps a Demigods Only lane.”

Meg peered at me over the top of her glasses. “You’re the dumbest god ever.” She raised her window with a final Reeee. SHLOOMP!—a sound that reminded me uncomfortably of a guillotine blade.

We turned west onto Highway 24. The congestion eased as the hills loomed closer. The elevated lanes soared past neighborhoods of winding streets and tall conifers, white stucco houses clinging to the sides of grassy ravines.

A road sign promised CALDECOTT TUNNEL ENTRANCE, 2 MI. That should have comforted me. Soon, we’d pass through the borders of Camp Jupiter into a heavily guarded, magically camouflaged valley where an entire Roman legion could shield me from my worries, at least for a while.

Why, then, were the hairs on the back of my neck quivering like sea worms?

Something was wrong. It dawned on me that the uneas- iness I’d felt since we landed might not be the distant threat of Caligula, or the old Titan base on Mount Tamalpais, but something more immediate . . . something malevolent, and getting closer.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Through the back window’s gauzy curtains, I saw nothing but traffic. But then, in the polished surface of Jason’s coffin lid, I caught the reflection of movement from a dark shape outside—as if a human-size object had just own past the side of the hearse.

“Oh. Meg?” I tried to keep my voice even. “Do you see anything unusual behind us?”

“Unusual like what?”

THUMP.

The hearse lurched as if we’d been hitched to a trailer full of scrap metal. Above my head, two foot-shaped impressions appeared in the upholstered ceiling.

“Something just landed on the roof,” Meg deduced.

“Thank you, Sherlock McCaffrey! Can you get it off?”

“Me? How?”

That was an annoyingly fair question. Meg could turn the rings on her middle fingers into wicked gold swords, but if she summoned them in close quarters, like the interior of the hearse, she a) wouldn’t have room to wield them, and b) might end up impaling me and/or herself.

CREAK. CREAK. The footprint impressions deepened as the thing adjusted its weight like a surfer on a board. It must have been immensely heavy to sink into the metal roof.

A whimper bubbled in my throat. My hands trembled on the steering wheel. I yearned for my bow and quiver in the backseat, but I couldn’t have used them. DWSPW, driving while shooting projectile weapons, is a big no-no, kids.

“Maybe you can open the window,” I said to Meg. “Lean out and tell it to go away.”

“Um, no.” (Gods, she was stubborn.) “What if you try to shake it off?”

Before I could explain that this was a terrible idea while traveling fifty miles an hour on a highway, I heard a sound like a pop-top aluminum can opening—the crisp pneumatic hiss of air through metal. A claw punctured the ceiling—a grimy white talon the size of a drill bit. Then another. And another. And another, until the upholstery was studded with ten pointy white spikes—just the right number for two very large hands.

“Meg?” I yelped. “Could you—?”

I don’t know how I might have finished that sentence. Protect me? Kill that thing? Check in the back to see if I have any spare undies?

I was rudely interrupted by the creature ripping open our roof like we were a birthday present.

Staring down at me through the ragged hole was a withered, ghoulish humanoid, its blue-black hide glistening like the skin of a house y, its eyes filmy white orbs, its bared teeth dripping saliva. Around its torso uttered a loincloth of greasy black feathers. The smell coming off it was more putrid than any dumpster—and believe me, I’d fallen into a few.

“FOOD!” it howled.

“Kill it!” I yelled at Meg.

“Swerve!” she countered.

One of the many annoying things about being incarcerated in my puny mortal body: I was Meg McCaffrey’s servant. I was bound to obey her direct commands. So when she yelled “swerve,” I yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. The hearse handled beautifully. It careened across three lanes of traffic, barreled straight through the guardrail, and plummeted into the canyon below.

[musical-chick-13]

Thoughts on toxic yuri?

One of my very favorite storytelling concepts, I love it when women make each other worse. <3

I do think it's important, for me anyway, to note the difference between a dynamic that's toxic in one direction versus something that is mutually toxic. The first one doesn't really interest me a whole lot, usually because it means one character suffers constantly without being allowed to do anything else--at the very least, it will come across as the more ""normal"" character not really being that into the relationship in question. I need BOTH parties to be unhinged.

The important thing for any fictional relationship (though we're specifying toxic yuri here, obviously) is that it's interesting. If there is no limit to what the women can do within a dynamic, then there are an infinite number of ways for that dynamic to go. And while you can learn a lot about a character through examining their values and positive qualities, you can learn just as much (if not more) by considering their flaws. And those flaws really come out in the case of toxic yuri; characters get to show the uglier parts of themselves in this context, which I am always a fan of. A fraught, complex relationship, when written well, can be a really great way to psychologically explore the characters: what inspires them to act this way? why do they think this behavior is acceptable? if they don't think it's acceptable, why do they keep doing it? what do they think about the concept of love as a whole? how far would they go for intimacy or to be understood? how do they view other people in general? and probably most importantly, what led to them developing the beliefs underlying their actions in the first place?

From a more "psychologically, why do people enjoy this" standpoint, mutual toxicity often goes hand in hand with extreme obsession, extreme jealousy, and a willingness to forgive a whole lot of horrible shit. Which, yeah, in real life you don't want to be in a relationship like that. But I think there's a lot of emotional resonance in exploring those feelings. The idea that someone will never leave you. That they think so intensely about you specifically that they'll break anything and anyone to stay with you. That even if you're the worst version of yourself, someone will still want you because that's still you. Someone knows exactly how to fuck you up because they genuinely understand you. Things in fiction that we would never want in real life can be incredibly interesting or even cathartic to witness from a distance. I think we all feel things that scare us sometimes (or even simply feel an innocuous emotion so intensely that it scares us), and looking at unpleasant feelings within fiction can help identify, parse out, process, and successfully cope with those feelings. And I think, at the end of it all, a lot of people want to matter to someone, in some way. It makes sense that some creators would take that concept-of meaning a great deal to another person, of affecting them deeply-to its absolute extreme through writing.

(And also, consider. That I am very gay. And that horrible women are very attractive.)