#several boring books in a row is much more likely to put me in a reading slump than any bad book

[astarioffsimpmain]

astarion + console 💜

Hey, hon! Thank you so much for this prompt with Astarion!! I love a good hurt/comfort. 🥹 This one got a bit long and intense, so I'll go ahead and put a warning and pop it under a cut.

TW: choking (unintentional)

♡♡♡

He was trembling again. You laid awake in your tent that night, observing your lover who found himself in a fitful, restless trance for another night in a row. He had insisted that he was simply an active sleeper, and that it would be best to ignore his unconscious nonsense. However, with the way his lip trembled until he bit down on it with his sharp fangs, or the heart-wrenching sound of his whimpers and cries, you found yourself unable to leave him be.

Tentatively, you reached across to where he lay and stroked his hair gently. He murmured incoherently, then settled down. Emboldened, you laid the weight of your hand onto his cheek and carted your thumb across it gently. All was well until your nail slightly nicked his pointed ear on the way by, and, without warning, he sprang into action. Before you could even comprehend what was happening, you were pinned beneath him, his eyes wild and unfocused, and his hands wrapped tightly around your throat.

You coughed, panic rising in you. You pressed against his shoulders with your palms, hoping to push him away, but his strength was unmatched, and he only bore down harder on you. Your eyes bulged in your head as you tried to scream, clawing at his arms wildly. "S-Star!" You croaked quietly, hoping to snap him back to the present by using his nickname, but to no avail. The vision around the corners of your eyes began to blacken, and in a last ditch effort to stop him, you laid your palms flat against his cheeks and rubbed your thumbs gently across them.

All at once, the pressure on your throat ceased, and Astarion blinked, his eyes once again connecting him to what was around him. A flurry of coughs escaped your mouth, and your fingers immediately found the places on your throat on which would most certainly bruise by the morning. After several moments of gathering yourself, your eyes flicked to your lover, whose face was alight with horror.

"Star-"

"I thought- I thought you were-"

"I know, it's okay." Your voice was horse, and you cleared your throat a little before reaching out to him. But he wrenched himself away from you and curled up to the opposite wall in the tent.

"No!" He cried, staring down at your fingers as though they were daggers.

You retracted them and adjusted to face him. "You're safe, Star. You're with me, with our companions, and we will keep you safe."

"You're not safe." He muttered quietly, pulling his knees up to his chin. "You're not safe with me. I'm a monster." His voice was quiet, broken, and pained.

"I know who I chose to love, Star." You said softly in return. "You are no more a monster than I am. We've both done terrible things at the hand of someone else. But I'm not afraid; not of you, not of us, and not of our future."

He rested his head against his knees, and his expression softened ever so slightly; fear, apprehension, and possibly a flicker of something like hope. "I'll sit here and read for now." You said, leaning over to grasp the spine of your book. You didn't have to say the words. He understood that your statement was a silent invitation to stay as far away or get as close as he'd like; you'd be there for him no matter which he chose.

Several hours into the night, you peeked over the edge of your book to find a head of soft white curls tucked into your lap, his arms securely locked around your middle.

You smiled.

♡♡♡

No editing or revisions. We die like women with severe brainrot. ���

[infinitethree]

It is, to put it bluntly, too goddamned quiet.

Stepping onto the stage was supposed to be a big deal! A crescendo in the production, the climax of the story!

At the very least, things were supposed to be less fucking boring!

But it is, sadly, a ghost town. Even the Showrunner doesn’t have an exact idea of the metrics of the sad little platform their existence is really known on, but they know it’s not great.

Uhg. They really don’t love the idea of jumping the shark already, but…things need to get livened up.

The audience really needs to appreciate the marathon of bitching that will be Show’s reward for the bone they’re gonna throw into the spectral audience.

Quite literally kicking down the door into the library, they shout, “Hey, Scribs, we need to chat! Get your nose out of your fucking books!”

Much like the Showrunner’s stage, the library is the domain of another unusual individual. The infinite rows of bookshelves bear titles in indecipherable scripts, but…that’s the only real feature of the space.

Everything else is a void. A white, empty void, stretching out over Eons and Eras.

Show’s face shifts to a brief animation of an eyeroll. Great, in-jokes that exactly one person can possibly understand. That bodes super well for how this’ll play out.

From amidst the shelves, a figure slowly emerges.

Like the Showrunner, their form is…unusual. What little ‘skin’ is visible is, much like their counterpart’s, rather similar to a jointless mannequin. The color differs, though– a swirling, silver-and-lavender as opposed to the Showrunner’s gold-and-black.

But largely, they are obscured by a cloak.

The cloak covers most of them, bar their many extra arms– and the number of them keeps shifting, as do the sizes of the books they’re writing in– and their ‘face’. It looks almost like a universe is depicted in them.

Or…it is a universe. Because it moves– the stars, the celestial bodies, all of is moving. In just a few moments, several stars wink out, while others suddenly appear. Along the edges of the ‘garment’-- if it really can even be called that– are ever-shifting runes in that same silvery-lavender color that seems unique to them.

Each rune seems to be made up of a shifting mess of overlapping words.

In much the same way, the odd, dark purple, crown-like ring of horns that blends into the cloak are made up of untold words in seemingly eternal flux. Above the center of that crown is a large, cat-like eye made of yet more words– these in bright lavender.

Around the eye are dozens of rings of varying widths and sizes, spinning in seemingly random directions, with yet more eyes embedded into them.

And…that only leaves their face. Or what passes for one.

There’s a geometric, elongated sideways eye-esque shape in the center of an otherwise white mask. The edges of it shift slightly, but only enough that gives the impression that it’s capable of more change.

In an almost bored monotone, the Scribe says, I have made it clear I have no interest in being on your stage. Leave me to my work.

“It’s fucking boring, though! If there’s no audience, there’s no point in writing! Scribs, you gotta–” Showrunner, you have already interrupted me and dragged your audience along with you. Whatever game you seek to play, I will not be partaking.

The Showrunner groans, multiple extra arms appearing to help them emphasize, “The game is that there’s nobody to write for! The seats are empty, the stage is lifeless, and I’m bored outta my mind!”

At this, finally, the Scribe’s own additional arms pause in their writing.

…I already allowed you to use my name to, as you put it, ‘liven things up’. “That wasn’t even me, not really! That was the yahoo at the keyboard needing to make your precious little sociopath play nice!”

The first hint at emotion comes, the Scribe replying, You speak as though you have no favorites of your own. “I never said I was unbiased, but it still fucking helped you, too!”

The pupils of all the eyes thin in unison. I grow weary of your arguments. Leave, you have gotten the hint of mystery that you, ironically, are incapable of cultivating on your own.

A shriek of frustration accompanies a sound like breaking glass. Jagged, teeth-like shards of the Showrunner’s flickering red screen-face mouth along to the distorted echo of, “Holy fucking shit, how are you such a giant bitch!? Stop being such a useless stick in the mud and help me make this fucking work!”

Emotion is once again gone from the Scribe’s voice as they sigh, Still a spoiled child, demanding attention and affirmation. If your stage is so empty, stop waiting for a prompt to populate it. Simply…devise the scenario yourself.

The flickering gets more intense, and the Showrunner seems to become just a little larger. The circle of extra screens around their face spins faster and faster, until they stop looking like anything more than a glowing red ring.

And then it all cuts out. The audience has not yet earned this particular reveal, no matter the desires of the one who usually mans the cameras. 

[queen-kassiopeia-the-5th]

Now that I've finished all of stormlight (I'm not looking at the WaT previews before the book comes out), here's

My Ranking of all Works in The Stormlight Archives

1. Words of Radiance: My favorite of the series! It has, in my opinion, the best worldbuilding, connecting the dots from the everything that The Way of Kings set out, the character development of every single character is perfectly executed, heartfelt and captivating. The plot continues to escalate and more challenges and threats are revealed, all interwoven in a masterful manner. Could not put this down!

2. The Wat of Kings: An incredible book with so much thought put into it, all these little tidbits that are put in place that you miss at first, and then come out in later books and suddenly everything clicks. The dichotomy and balance between Kaladin, Shallan and Dalinar's POV is so immersive! You want to keep on reading to see the completely different terrain, sights, experiences and worldview from each one of them! Also heavily features the GOAT Jasnah Kholin, the most underutilized character in my opinion. Jasnah is a brilliant, world renowned academic, gorgeous af, one of the first people in this era to bond a Spren, and also an ink Spren, who are less likely to bond. The first time she fell into Shadesmar she figured out what it was and how to get out in 5 seconds max, unphased by the Cryptics trailing her. The first Radiant of the current era to swear the fourth ideal and get a Shardplate. Queen of her nation making reforms to better life for everyone, and not afraid to duel and get her hands dirty (but not her safehand, of course). Casually turns air a into rock and crystals, looking into 2 different realities simultaneously. Goes into full melee and battle. Is a woman Hoid has shown interest in! And yet all we get from her are one prologue, a few paragraphs in Oathbringer and RoW? Criminal! But anyway, awesome book, great characters, immaculate worldbuilding, hit the ground running with this one.

3. Oathbringer: I didn't like some parts of this. The Kholinar and Venli chapters were a bore for me, the shadesmar felt slightly flat at times, but the politicking, the Dalinar flashbacks and the ending really carried it. The ending alone earned the book 5 stars! The Dalinar vs Odium, the battle, Szeth changing sides. Chefs kiss. But still, there were weaker parts in this that overall knock it down a notch.

4. Edgedancer: Underrated novella. It's so fun! Lift is just Awesome, and her and Wyndle are the best comedic duo. It also balances the severity of the End of the World and her perspective, and shows her character grown from caring mostly about her survival, which makes sense, considering her life, and her showing that she does care for others and will go and fight for them, but she will remain Lift, eating pancakes and causing shenanigans. And I loved seeing Nale's worldview and justification, and his Skybreaker gang.

5. Dawnshard: Rysn and Chiri-Chiri are some of my faves. Every time there was an interlude I hoped for Rysn since first meeting her. But overall, the book fell flat – yes, even with Lopen there… Despite the title, we still know almost nothing about the Dawnshards, besides them granting Breath like powers. The sleepless were interesting, but we know too little about them to understand what role they play (I ultimately think they are the Kandra equivalent of Roshar).

6. Rhythm of War: I have a whole post dedicated to my grievances with this book. I didn't enjoy it. At all. It actively made me feel worse. 1400 pages and nothing happens. None of the characters have any development, besides Navani – which, good for her – and maybe Rlain, but she don't see enough from him still. Even Venli gets bullied into compliance by her Spren. Dalinar's arc is litteraly Just Kinda Stend there guy. The plot progressed almost nowhere, despite Urithiru literally getting conquered! One of the weakest Sanderson books overall ever, in my opinion.

[aaronburrdaily]

August 26, 1809

Couche at 12. I preferred to lay¹ on the sofa without undressing. The beds are too soft. At 6 came in the flika² with coffee. This is caffè³ and not breakfast, a little brö. or skolpen is served with it. At 8 walked over to the mines, two miles. (Note: Miles are always English miles unless I distinguish by S., which means Swedish.) This is a most beautiful village, and like that at Dannemora, is the property of the owners of the mines. All the streets with rows of trees; the houses neat. For an account of the mines see a loose sheet in which the errors of writers of travels are corrected.

The principal director not speaking English or French, he put me in the hands of the sub-director, Mr. ———, who has been in England. The doctor, brother of my compagnon de voy.⁴ devoted himself to my amusement. The mine is in constant danger of being overflowed by the lake; this has twice happened; the mine about 450 feet deep; from the orifice you see bottom. They insist that this lake cannot be drained, which I deny, and can demonstrate that it can. We talked much of it and they listened to me with great attention. They bore logs (for conduit pipes) by hand with an auger, having no such machine as we used at New York for the Manhattan works.

The doctor invited us to breakfast. It was a sumptous feast of chicken, ham, fish, beans, salad, with dessert of preserved ———, a wild fruit which I found delicious; other fruits and bonbons. Excellent ale, which is drank with sugar and water in my own mode. The sub-director played on the peasant's violin for me. The instrument with seven strings and sixteen keys; only three strings are played on. Polonaise, the dance of the Norland peasants; it is the waltz with varieties. A dance something like our contrè dance,⁵ whence, probably, the English country dance originated; very pretty and danced with great grace. A young peasant now played. On first coming to the director's house had heard the jungfru doing a few notes; begged her to sing a song. Sang several. Marching and dancing in a circle; erect, toes out, yeux baisseès.⁶ A fine Italian face. Danced with great grace and agility. Joanna ———; hazel hair parted over the forehead and so just above the eyebrow over the ear, hanging in the neck; ends in musa. Gave 1/2 rix dollar. She took my hand gracefully, kissed it, bowed, and thanked me in the dialect of her country.

Quitted with regret to see and hear the blasting, which is always at 12. The reverberations of the sound in this vast vault of solid rock are fine. The steam engine made in England. Makes no more noise than a house clock. The chateau; pictures, faun surprising two sleeping beauties; bear fight. The stables 350 feet long.

26. Sköklaster.⁷ We left the chateau at dusk to seek our supper. It was good and abundant; only the hard bread, however. Having eaten nothing the whole day save two very small skolpen and some goosberries,⁸ I did great honor to the supper. Je mangois comme gourmand.⁹

Beds were provided for us in the house of the menagere,¹⁰ a house twice as large as Richmond Hill.¹¹ The rooms spacious and well furnished. La menagere a smart, sensible woman, was all attention and civility. Couche at 11. Rose at 5. Our coffee was served before we were dressed. It is much the custom to take it in bed; a single cup; far better than the drams and too much with us. I never saw in London a dram taken before coffee. With this coffee nothing is eaten; it is always strong and well prepared; equally well in the peasant's cottage.

We returned to the castle. The library is said to contain 10,000 or 11,000 volumes, chiefly ancient; many are ancient manuscripts. The chateau, the furniture, the books, arms, and manuscripts are all entailed and cannot be alienated. The proprietor, Count Brahe, seldom visits this place, having two or three others, and no person is permitted to visit the library except on permission of the maitre d'hotel,¹² so that the contents are unknown. We visited also the chapel, which is built on the spot where stood the cloyster¹³ whose ruins are still visible. The chapel is about the size of your churches; is handsome without being magnificent; the organist played several tunes for us. The vaulted ceilings give a fine effect to the sound.

At 11 we went to seek our breakfast. It was sumptuous. La menagere, having learnt that I preferred the soft bread, had made some excellent and had in further compliment to my taste provided fish from the lake which is within 200 yards of the door. Ate as though I had not supped. At 12 embarked to return. A boat had been procured and awaited our orders. It is about three miles hence to the chateau of Rudbeck. The shores of the lake always riant¹⁴ and picturesque. Walked to the post-house, 3/4 mile and at 1 set off.

At 2 P.M. a ferry at which I was obliged to be ferryman and hard work it was. Thence to the main road leading from Upsala to Stockholm, being about five miles. The road a little stony, being not much used and having been injured by the rains and being in the midst of harvest, the peasants had not yet found time to repair. Nevertheless that part of the ride is [rendered] beautiful by the varied landscape; lakes, meadows, rich fields, rocks, hills, forests, all constantly and charmingly blended.

[26. At Sigtuna.] But I forgot to tell you that Sigtuna is the most ancient capital of Sweden, centuries before Upsala. Tradition and what is called history relates that it was taken, sacked, and burnt by the Russians about 1,800 years ago. Very fine ruins of three ancient temples; two of them, at least, are fine; fifty or sixty feet in height of the turrets are standing; several of the arches entire; trees growing on the tops; rude architecture. Of the date and particular use of these temples even tradition is silent. We visited the church; nothing very remarkable; much of the material taken from the old temple, which stands near and is within the same enclosure. On many of the stones Runic inscriptions so defaced as to be illegible. The priest asleep kept us waiting two hours for the key. Goosberries and blackberries in the churchyard; the latter tasteless. Left Sigtuna at 5, having taken there a dish of coffee and a skolpen, exactly our rusk. Everywhere, too, you get wafen¹⁵; our wafles,¹⁶ and made and eaten in the same way; an iron cut in diamonds. Sigtuna is now an inconsiderable town of about 200 wooden (log) houses.

Skokloster, August 26, 1809. At 3 P.M. yesterday the Häradshofding not appearing, went to his house; found all ready; took coffee with Madame. At 1/2 p. 3 set off; at 5 arrived at ———, where we proposed to traverse the lake. Took boat at the chateau of Rudbeck, formerly Wetterstedt's, who exchanged fortune for titles. An old woman rowed us over, about one mile English, and we walked about 1 1/2 miles to the palace of Skokloster. From Rudbeck's gardener we had got currants, apples, and a melon. They were gathering vegetables for market. Cabbages of uncommon size for 5 sch. each; paid a few sch. for our fruit.

Leaving Upsala in this direction you rise the hill on which is the castle and passing over the plain about 100 feet above the more extensive one to the north, you enter the park; fine, lofty pines, about 1/2 mile; then four miles to the river Sala, which you cross in a scow; three miles more to the post-house. Half a mile before reaching the ferry you are in sight of the lake and after crossing the river the road is parallel to the lake, distant perhaps half a mile. A gentle declivity. The country the whole way under high cultivation, interspersed with those little rocky hills and ledges which make it so picturesque.

The chateau now Rudbeck's is very beautifully situated on a promontory extending one-quarter mile into the lake; a long avenue of ancient trees; the body of the house five windows each story, being two stories in front and three in rear. The wings, three windows each story; a plain house; many outbuildings give it the air of a village.

Skokloster formerly a cloyster of which the ruins are still visible. The present chateau was built by ———, about ——— years ago. The four turrets about thirty-two feet diameter each; octagon; elevated a full story above the body of the building and again a dome and crowned with a sort of armillary sphere.¹⁷ The main building a square of —— feet on each side and —— feet in depth, containing an open court; below an arcade or open gallery all round; beautiful little brass cannon on each side; gallery in each story on the side of the court about twelve feet wide; on each pier, six in each story, the portrait large as life of some distinguished person, companion in arms or in council of Gustavus Adolphus.

On the opposite side of the galleries, some historical paintings; all painted on the walls; mottoes in Latin, French, Italian, Swedish. The building is three lofty stories and an attic. The gobelins in many rooms are well preserved and very beautiful; great number of paintings; portraits, battles; historical pieces. Of Aurora Comtesse de Koningsmare, by no means equal to that at ———. Ebba Brahe when a girl and when old woman; General Wrangle in every possible way; a picture of him on horseback large as life, underneath which is inscribed a complete history of his life. An equestrian statue in the apartment in the chapel where is his monument.

The attic story is principally a place of arms; ancient armour, spears, swords, bucklers, helmets, hung round with complete suits of armour, looking like so many men in armour. Guns, fusees, pistols, and firearms of all sorts, used 150 years ago; also wardrobes, boots, spurs, &c. Very few of the paintings of much value. The cabinet of ebony and ivory; and another principally ivory with a variety of jewels, trinkets, baubles. Four columns of two pillars each; each column with pedestal and capital of one solid piece of marble. These and many of the other things were brought from Prague when taken by Gustavus Adolphus. The columns, made in Italy, were in the palace at Prague; now supporting the arch of the vestibule. Bones found in Scania, believed to be human. A rib measured eight feet six inches, and is not entire; a vertebra of the spine, —— inches in circumference; near the same place was found a sword, here also kept, of singular construction; about seven feet long and of a weight which could not be used by men of these days.

1 Generally so in the MS. 2 For flicka. Girl, serving-maid. 3 Probably for French café, coffee, though possibly meant for the Swedish kaffe. 4 For compagnon de voyage. Travelling companion. 5 Meant for contra-dance or country-dance. Burr's accent is wholly wrong, there being no accent over the e even in French, in which the word is contre-danse. 6 For yeux baissés. Eyes cast down. 7 For Skokloster. 8 So in the MS. 9 I ate like a gourmand (mangeais). 10 For ménagère. Housekeeper. 11 His residence near New York. 12 For maître d'hôtel. Steward. 13 So in the MS. 14 Smiling, cheerful. 15 For våfflor. Waffles. 16 So in the MS. 17 A globe surrounded with circles.

[girltomboy]

I've been meaning to write another post, but I kept forgetting or putting it off or not having time. My parents left on Monday. I was starting to get used to early mornings and breakfast with my mom, so I was quite sad that she was leaving, and my apartment felt so different without her. Ofc I'm all good now, got back into my usual routine, with a positive spin on it thanks to my mom - getting up right away instead of snoozing some more in the morning. I mean I've never been the kind of person who sets several alarms and snoozes most of them. I wake up after the first one and that's it. But lately I'd gotten into the habit of lingering in bed, and my mom fixed that for me. It's actually quite nice to start my morning right away, it makes me feel like I've unlocked Time+ and I'm like generating more time. And I can actually eat breakfast, drink a warm beverage, I work better.

Anyway, my bf and I reunited yesterday (and had sex twice in a row for the 1st time ever lol - I mean we've had sex multiple times in a day before, but not in a row... it was kinda crazy good too) and had some quick dinner, then went for a short grocery trip to the supermarket. We actually didn't spend that much time together, and today he didn't want to meet up bc he had some chores to do at his apartment. And tomorrow is his bday but I think the gifts I got him are kinda lame 😓 I didn't find anything I planned on getting him. He needs a new backpack, but I haven't been able to find one that is spacious, sturdy, and nice looking. I've also considered buying him a winter coat, but I'm not too sure about his size. And I've been looking for like a sweater or a sweatshirt, but there are absolutely no options in men's sections. Like, anywhere. It's either navy, gray, beige, or white (if you're lucky), OR ugly graphic tees and hoodies. That is pretty much all men's fashion nowadays. I'm BORED. I keep telling my bf he needs more than just some graphic tees and hoodies, but he's like I don't really like anything else. And with the current options I can't even blame him. We need to go thrift shopping together. God damn I'm taking him to the thrift store in the city center. I found some really high quality and cool looking things there a while back.

So my stepdad needs to do a check-up on Friday, and my parents are gonna bring me some stuff. My mom told me that my stepdad's sister gave her a "camel hair blanket" for me a while ago, and she never got around to giving it to me. I had no idea they made BLANKETS - or anything else tbh - from camel hair, but now I'm super curious and excited about it lol. I have plenty of plans for this week: bf's bday tomorrow, parents coming here Friday (they won't be staying though), date night with my bf on Friday? We HAVE to go thrifting and then have dinner somewhere, haven't decided where yet 😬 Saturday I'm going to my work friend's roommate's birthday which is EXCITING because I haven't been in a social setting like this in ages (I mean with ppl I don't know) but I'm also nervous bc I don't know if she'll like the gift I got her... (the book Snowglobe and a cat shaped metal bookmark). And then on Sunday my work friend and I are gonna watch some movies.

[caribouv]

2022 best

If it's first it means it's not last. This is probably the most underwhelming and unexciting yearly list I've ever put together.

+ ALBUM

Foxtails - fawn

FONTAINES D.C. - Skinity Fia

Drunk Uncle - Look Up

Birds in Row - Gris Klein

Pool Kids - s/t

OCULA - Crossroad

Le Youth - Reminders

Horsegirl - Versions

Beach House - Once Twice Melody

Soccer Mommy - Sometimes, Forever

+ SONG

Chase Plato - Set You Free

djimboh - Up Here (with Lumynesynth)

+ RECORD/COVER

Honestly, whatever Lane 8 / This Never Happened cooked up this year. I spent too much time listening to mixes and not enough time paying attention to what was actually playing.

+ SET/MIX

Deep Woods with Pretty Pink was awesome, but Lane 8's season mixes played on repeat this year from start to finish. You could just throw any of these on and you've got instant 2-3 hours of deep house, trance. I'm listening to Fall 2022 right now.

Foxtails on Audiotree is awesome too. It's wild the vocals coming out of that girl.

+ MOVIE

This Place Rules (even though fucking Andrew certainly doesn't.)

Trainwreck Woodstock 99'

Nope

Pearl

Movies sort of sucked this year for me. Though to be fair I'm wildly behind on my list: The Whale, Marcel Shoes, Inisherin, Till, Quiet Girl, Avatar 2, All Quiet, etc. etc.

+ TV SHOW

Andor and Queen's Gambit. Without a dobut. Vox Machina is so so so good, but those two shows are on a different level.

Also to note: TV was really, really good this year. Half Bad, Power Rings, Dragon House, Yellowjackets, Arcane, Cyberpunk, Midnight Club, Eps 4 7 8 of Curiositiy Cabinents, Stranger Things 4, End is Nye, Prehistoric Planet, White Lotus, Severance, 1899, Wednesday, Maisel 4, Fleabag 2. I really don't think I watched much anything I didn't like other than that Salt Fat Acid garbage.

+ ACTOR

Voice actors from Vox Machina. I'm so stoked for s2 coming up here next week.

+ VIDEO GAME

Another year of Dead By Daylight. I can't get away from this game.

Project Zomboid and 7 Days To Die are both stellar. It reminds me of the Minecraft/Terraria split from 2010. WOTLK was generally a lot of fun, but I think it's more than just playing resto shaman is a blast. Cycle Frontier was cool af and the only reason I quit is because of how cracked the players are at it. But DBD. D. B. D. I think I'm at like 1,850 hours in it.

+ BOOK

Still going through Wheel of Time. I'm at book 9. They are not mindblowing anymore and I'm getting bored of the constant gender distrust themes, but they are absolutely epics.

+ ATHLETE

M FUCKING BPAPPE. I haven't seen a soccer game as exciting as that world cup final in years.

+ PERSON

Penny or Houdini or my Mom

+ FOOD

I stopped eating out as much this year and instead tried making the food I'd order because budget. Pad Thai, Enchiladas, Lasagna, Chicken Parmesan, Ragu, Soups, Roasts, etc.

The best thing I made over and over this year was Biba's Ragu though. It's dumb how easy it is for how good it is.

Also onions. No matter what you're making, if you add onion to it then it will be better. Spaghetti, eggs, potatoes, ramen, sandwich, burger, salad, pizza, chicken, soup, noodles, rice, beans, etc. ADD ONIONS.

+ TRIP

I went nowhere this year.

+ MOMENT

Probably quitting and getting the fuck out of my mismanaged firm. God damn that was liberating af. Two other attorneys peaced the fuck out right after me too.

+ BIGGEST LETDOWN

Losing Luigi was horrible.

The new Odesza and Flume albums were trash.

Blowing my ankles out in late Feburary sucked because I was starting to really get going with running in a good way.

Clerks 3 had such a brilliant concept to go full circle, but instead it just degrading into  clunky fan service, old references, and cameos.

//

Goals for 2023: Read more nonfiction & a bit the same as 2022: create something be it flash fiction, story, game, whatever.

[hillbillyoracle]

Getting Moving When You’re Stuck in a Small Room

I like sharing my notes with people and I’ve heard from a few people that I am not the only person who is disabled, living with high conflict people, or just stuck spending a lot of time in one room generally. These resources are also great for people who are depressed or just need a low barrier to exercise generally.  

Framework: For me, movement is a bit like the old school food pyramid. The bottom is gentle cardio/walking, the middle is strength, and the top is stretching and enjoyable activities. I put most of my time and effort into maintaining a walking practice and less as I go up. It might help to know that walking done indoors generally takes longer than walking done outdoors. More frequent movement breaks throughout the day might be more helpful and bearable than one big chunk. 

Mindset: I think it’s also important to keep in mind that none of these are going to “fix you”. They’re not a thing to beat yourself up for not doing. Every time you choose to do a little more movement in your day, you’re planting a seed. You don’t lose that seed just because you didn’t exercise for the last several days, weeks, months, or even years. The more you plant, eventually some of them will sprout into fruitful benefits - but just planting one is better than not planting any. Because even one has more opportunity to bring you benefit - planting none can’t don’t do that. You planted that seed and nothing can take that away from you.

So here are some resources I use for getting more movement in with about 2′ x 6′ of clear space in my room (total space 8′ x 8′; full bed and book shelves).

Get Fit with Rick - Walking Workouts

Get Fit with Rick was my lightbulb moment. It was about a year into the pandemic. Conflict with my partner was keeping me from wanting to so much as pass her in the hallway to get to the door some days so I started researching what was possible to do indoors. So many workouts required equipment, were loud if you were in an apartment, or were boring as hell. 

But some how I stumbled onto Rick Bhuller’s walking workouts and it felt honestly a little bit life changing. It was something I could do with headphones in, quietly, in my own space. 

I like his music taste, he gives you variations so you can make it harder or easier as you need, and it doesn’t require much space. Some moves don’t work in my extremely small usable area now, but I can still get through most of the workouts without having to change much. His 5k step workouts are on the higher end of what he does so if you need a shorter workout he’s got you covered. 

While he does mention weight loss on occasion, it’s not his focus. He has a very positive coaching style that really just encourages you to have fun with it.  

Hybrid Calisthenics - Strength/Bodyweight Workouts

I fucking love Hampton. 

He’s got such a lovely energy and is an incredibly positive and resilient person. When it comes to this workout videos, he focuses building a foundation for healthy functional movement and preventing injury. He teaches bodyweight progressions and doesn’t make any one progression the goal. 

While his pullup methods might not work in a very small space, everything else has for me. I can do it all on a yoga mat that fits in my little walkway. For the pullups, I replace them with rows that I do with a milk jug filled with water to at least get something in. I might look into kettlebells as I get stronger. Hoping he’ll make a video at some point with some variations. 

I still struggle with strength training but I’m the most consistent I’ve ever been thanks to his positive and adaptive style of teaching. 

His website is probably the most accessible way to get into his content. 

Dayana Wang - Workouts in Bed

Content warning with her stuff that much of it uses dated and toxic weight loss language so if you find that triggering I would skip her videos. 

But if you can tolerate that, her bed workouts are really helpful! I did these when pain was keeping me from getting out of bed. I’d just follow along until I couldn’t anymore. I slept better and felt better and my flares were a little shorter as a result. 

Take care not to strain yourself with some of the moves. Depending on the firmness of your bed, some might not be advisable. 

She has some bed workouts for different areas - arms, core, legs, etc - so if you have an injury in one area, you can always follow a workout for the others. 

But overall, excellent resource for bedbound folks. 

Yoga with Adrienne - Yoga/Stretching

Who hasn’t heard of Yoga with Adriene at this point? 

She’s a favorite for a reason. She really does have videos for every skill level. I really enjoyed what I was able to complete of her 30 days of Yoga series that she has. It’s a great spot to jump in to her channel and get a sampling of her different offerings. 

What I most like to use her videos for are for stress relief stretches. I can’t really get into yoga personally but her hip, back, and neck progressions have been wildly helpful. Her bedtime yoga videos are also a treat. 

Hope this helps someone out there or at least saves them a little time! I really felt like I was wondering around in the dark on this a few years ago so I really hope this spares someone that experience. 

[gatheringbones]

["At the end of August in 1981, I found myself in a small town in Arkansas, where I knew no Lesbians other than my new lover, Lynn. I wanted it that way. We were living in hiding from my armed and vengeful ex-lover who had abused me for four years and had threatened both of us with deadly harm. This was five years before the publication of Kerry Lobel's ground-breaking book, Naming the Violence: Speaking Out About Lesbian Battering. I knew I had been battered, but I did not understand how deeply I had been injured.

I only knew that I seemed to have saved my life at the cost of my sanity. I jumped at loud and not-so-loud noises. A frown from a stranger could reduce me to tears. I was afraid to bathe if I was alone in the apartment. I relived every word of every fight in relentless flashbacks. I had blocked much of the unbearable pain of the previous four years out of my consciousness at the time, in order to cope with immediate danger. Now that I was "safe" it all came flooding back. To escape, I watched TV compulsively, avoiding anything violent—nature shows were my favorites—and I read science fiction. Having lost faith in women as well as men, I was a serious candidate for a species-change operation.

Luckily, at some point in that bleak winter, I read a magazine article on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) in Vietnam Vets, and I recognized all my symptoms. I had a name for my suffering, and 1 knew I was not "crazy." I'd felt so much guilt and anger towards myself for not being okay, that is, my old self, since I was "free." Now I knew healing would take time and effort, and I gave myself permission to not be normal right away. Also, seeing how much my condition resembled that of war survivors helped break down some of my denial about the hell I'd been through.

Still, I had no guidance on how to recover from PTSD. I followed only the dimmest instincts. First, I began to read accounts by survivors of any serious trauma. These people became my invisible support group. I found myself drawn especially to stories of political prisoners and concentration camp survivors. Although my experience was not like theirs, these were the people I felt would understand how my will had been sapped and my strengths twisted, how the smallest acts of resistance and mere endurance had needed all my wits and courage. Bruno Bettleheim in his chapters called "Behavior in Extreme Situations" (The Informed Heart) finally answered the question I'd put to myself every 44 hour since my escape: "How could I have been so stupid?" He made me realize that under abuse, especially the combination of intermittent threats, unpredictable violence and constant psychological torture, everyone responds differently, but everyone changes fundamentally, and everyone has their breaking point.

One day as I sat reading at the kitchen table, I looked out the window at the small yard beside our duplex apartment, and I began to imagine growing a garden there in the spring. It seemed like a highly improbable idea: the area was very small, steep, bare of everything but gray shale and orange clay, and the house shaded it part of the day. But the notion of a garden took root strongly. For the first time in several years I had something pleasant to anticipate.

I wrangled my landlady's permission to put in a garden. Then I mailed off postcards for seed catalogs. I persuaded an acquaintance who owned a truck to bring me a load of cedar slabs discarded by a local sawmill, and I used these to construct two frames, about four feet by six feet, and two even smaller ones, just three feet by four feet. By this time Lynn and I had saved enough money to buy a very old VW bug, so we drove to a nearby creekbank and filled bushel baskets with rich bottom dirt, which we dumped into the frames to make raised beds about four inches deep.

To supplement the tiny growing space, Lynn scavenged large cans from the cafeteria of the hospital where she worked. I painted them a hopeful green, filled them with soil and placed them along the sidewalk below our porch. Old-timey "Corn-row Beans," originally bred to tolerate the shade of cornfields, grew up strings tied to the roof and bore prolifically.

I didn't have much money from my SSI income to spend on garden gadgets, so I made do. I wove a trellis for my peas from six-pack rings liberated from a liquor store trash bin. (I can testify that this plastic never biodegrades—the pea fence survives to this day.) I got some more bushel baskets from the local grocery, painted them with non-toxic preservative and lined them with garbage bags after snipping a few drainage holes in the bottom. Placed around a small stone patio above the garden, these became containers for large plants.

The garden rewarded me before the first mouthful of early spinach was harvested. It moved me out of the gloomy apartment and into the sunshine, watering can in hand. It motivated me to interact with people and to occasionally risk asking for help. I found out they would usually say yes. My attention was now focused on the future, not the bitter, unchangeable past. At night when the flashbacks threatened to roll, when I dreaded the dreams I might have, I put myself to sleep with 45 detailed plans of my next crop rotation. I found out I could learn a major new skill, a little at a time. I could do things right, even come up with ingenious solutions to seemingly impossible difficulties. And when I did things wrong, plants were most often forgiving. The plants themselves were a tremendous source of inspiration. Talk about survivors! They defied every book written about their needs, often thriving with too little sun, too little water, and too little soil. At the end of a year, I could easily stick my shovel in the dirt up to the hilt, where only four inches of top soil had previously existed; compost and the action of the roots had created friable loam out of shale and clay.

When I experienced failure with gardening, it was never the kind of disaster I'd grown to associate with mistakes. We didn't go hungry, because other crops outstripped our expectations. My lover didn't beat or berate me, but sympathized and helped. The garden was important to us economically, because we'd both lost almost everything we owned in our escape. Luckily, in southern Arkansas, it's possible to garden yearround. The garden gave me precious, desperately needed tastes of success. Disabled, unemployed, I still felt like an important contributor to the household. I even had food to give away sometimes, and that was a delicious feeling.

Gardening was not the only factor in my recovery, but it was an important one. I didn't grow up with abuse, but battering and similar traumas can expand minutes into hours, years into decades, until four years feel like most of a lifetime. At the end of a year and a half of gardening, I no longer felt as if I'd spent the majority of my life in a battering situation. Healing had acquired a new definition for me: I didn't insist on having the old me back; I'd mourned her long and well. I accepted the fact that some injuries are too severe to be made whole, that I might never be the same again. But I began to actually like and trust the me I am now, scars and all. As my garden taught me, I must make do with what I am. I have discovered that my flaws are not fatal and my successes are greater than I'd hoped for. So far I have not gone hungry, and I even have something to offer."]

Amy Edgington, Gaining Ground, from Garden Variety Dykes: Lesbian Traditions In Gardening, Herbooks, 1994

[van-der-linde-worms]

Take Your Cigarette From Its Holder, Burn Your Initials On My Shoulder

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/ Mary Gillis Linton

Fic summary: AU in which Mary is wanted for the murder of her husband and that of her father, and Arthur is a bounty hunter going after her.

Rating: Explicit

Genre: Enemies to lovers, slow burn

~~~~~~

Chapter VI: A Blast From The Past

Word count: 3439

Last chapter: Chapter V

“Mornin' sweetheart,” Arthur drawls, heading out of the bedroom in his union suit. He sees Mary busying herself before the stove, wearing his shirt as a chemise under her corset and petticoat. He grabs a kettle from the counter and fills it with water. He puts it over the fireplace, waiting for it to boil so he can make some coffee.

“Whatcha makin'?” he asks, looking over her shoulders. He rests his hands on her hips and raises a quiet eyebrow at the grayish mush stirring in the pot.

“Just some porridge, might have burned it a bit,” she answers as she pours in pieces of canned peaches into the boiling pot of oatmeal. “Figured you'd be sick of bread and eggs at this point.”

The coffee is ready in no time. He leaves a cup on the counter for her and sits down at the table. She scoops the porridge into the bowls and allows them to cool down for a bit before bringing them to the table.

“You going anywhere today?” she asks, mindlessly stirring the steaming bowl of oats with her spoon.

“Think I'll head to the sheriff's office to see if they've got any new bounty,” he says, sending a spoonful of porridge into his mouth. “There's no need to wait for me for dinner tonight. It may take me a few days.”

“Oh, well, alright. Write me if it takes longer.”` Mary replies. It’d be nice to get some quiet time alone. He had been home for the past few days, they hadn’t really taken a break from each other. 

“Sure.” 

There was stuff to do anyway, the floor to be scrubbed and some more laundry. 

—

She folds the last shirt and places it in the closet again, neatening them up. She notices how boring things had gotten there. She didn’t dare walk to town or the woods around alone, being a wanted woman after all. She walks around the table and sits down, taking a deep breath. Everything was clean and tidy, everything was done. She hates to admit it, but she kind of misses him. He’s at least interesting to talk to and fun in bed. 

There weren’t many books on the shelf, nothing she hadn’t read before.She plays with a strand of her hair and braids her hair again. 

Back home, at least she could leave the house and spend time in nature. Even at her father's home, after chores she could do something outside, she could read or take a ride to keep herself busy. 

She decides to clean the shelves a bit. They can really use some dusting. The amount of dust is pitiful, but it’s something, at least.

His drawers seem tidy enough, so she figures she should just leave them be. She takes out everything out of the cupboards and clears off all the dust with a dry rag, since she can't seem to find a duster anywhere within his house.

They’re mostly full of random objects, sometimes an errand can. Nothing that special. 

Finally, she gets to the shelf in his bedroom. It seems the nastiest among all of them, everything on it covered in a thick layer of dust. She sneezes several times in a row while trying to take a better look at the photos on the top layer. Covering her nose with her sleeve, she takes down one of the frames from the shelf and wipes away the dust with the rag, revealing three men, the youngest one presumably being Arthur. 

Arthur seems to be much younger in the photo. His hair is a tad darker, his face way smoother and he is lankier too. The young man lounges on his chair with a cigarette in his hand, looking away from the camera. She smiles, amused by the somber look on his boyish face. It seems like he used to be a pretty grumpy kid.

There are two other men too, faces completely new to her, a handsome blonde man sitting down by Arthur, and one with darker hair standing behind them both, a tall awkward looking one. She assumes these are the fellas he told her about, the guys who raised him, Hosea and Dutch. She gently puts down the photo on the nightstand as she takes down another frame from the shelf. There’s a woman in this one, slightly older looking. His mother, perhaps? It’d make sense, they have the same eyes. Or maybe another relative. She wipes it and places it down too. The last one is that of a dog. She gives it the same treatment and finds the shelf empty.

To her surprise, there is a newspaper clipping pinned on the wall behind the shelf. It almost seems ancient, the paper so worn down that it is going yellow. She carefully pats away every bit of dust on the shelf and leans in to read the clipping:

April 15th 1887

BRAZEN BANK ROBBERY

THREE MEN SOUGHT

Major T.J. Bellard has been a cashier at the banking house of Lee and Hoyt for a number of years but nothing prepared him for what transpired last week. "It was about 2 o'clock. Three men, strangers to me, came through the door and walked up to the counter. One of them, the eldest of the three, was a fine talker and engaged me in conversation. Suddenly the largest, a big, sullen young man, brandished a firearm and held it up to my face.

"Throw up your hands," the third one said, who appeared to be the boss. The other two repeated the order with an oath and the leader said, "My fine patriotic friends and I are going to relieve you of that gold and introduce a few folks to the benefits of civilization." They came around the corner and the counter, and grabbed some sacks which contained $5000 in gold. They demanded to know where the rest of the money was, and I pointed out three sacks containing silver, but it was too bulky for them. They retreated and one warned against sounding an alarm. I was never so terrified in my life," Mr. Belford told a reporter.

The robbers are reported to have lingered in town, and there are unproven claims that the men traveled to hovels and shanties and even a home for orphans and gave handfuls of the ill-gotten gains to the poor.

“You hypocrite,” she thinks with a chuckle. She places the clipping down on the table into plain view. 

She places the photos back on the top shelf and gets to the layer below it. There are two other frames and a leather box on the second layer. One of them seems much newer than the other ones. The same young man from the other photo is sitting on an armchair. He looks much happier here, there is a small grin on his face and a little girl with a braided bun sitting on his lap. A dark-haired teenage boy sits on the floor next to Arthur's foot, glaring into the camera with a frown. She assumes they are John and Tilly, the siblings whom he has mentioned not long ago.

 The other photo is turned away from view. She turns it around and wipes the glass clean, revealing a man with a thick mustache. The chalkboard he is holding reads:

Lyle Morgan

Larceny

12-7-1874

She tilts her head to the side, this must be his pa, she thinks. He is even wearing the same black hat that Arthur always wears. She turns the photo away again. There's gotta be a reason why Arthur doesn't want to look at his face.

She hears the door unlock again and freezes. Panic rushes through her as if this was something she wasn’t allowed to do. She squeezes her eyes shut. She hears his footsteps approach and stop by her. 

“Oh, I’ve been lookin’ for this one here, where’d ya find it?” he picks up a photo. She looks up to see the one of him and the two children. 

“It was just on the back of the shelf.” she replies.

“Got your stuff back, by the way, I was just passin’ by there.” he gestures to the sack in the other room. 

“Why thank you mister, you didn’t have to.” “Well I got it anyway.” he replies.

“Where were you?” she asks.

“This one was hiding out in the woods out east, so it was just on my route anyway,” he lies. It had been out of his way, but it was worth it. Having her wear his clothing was a distraction to be frank. She stands up and dumps the sack out on the table. It had some of her clothes and some trinkets. He picks up a framed photograph from the pile.

A young woman with dark hair sits on a chair, holding a boy with a rather long face. He recognises the lady as Mary. Half of the photo frame is empty, and the edge of the picture seems to have been torn or cut. He tilts the frame and sees a scrap behind the photo. 

“S'that your brother?” he asks with interest.

“Yeah,” she says, gazing lovingly at the little boy's face. “It's taken some years ago. Right before we sent him off to New York.”

“Ah,” he muses, putting the photo on the shelf. “Mind if I put it up 'ere?”

He sees her bewildered face, “Just think you'd wanna look at it.”

She nods, “It'd be great. Thank you.”

He smiles at her before his gaze shifts back to the photograph. “Ain't the frame a li'l bit too big?”

She remains silent for a moment, and he wonders if he has said the wrong thing. But then she sighs and picks up the photo.

“I'll show ya,” she says, removing the back of the frame. Behind the photo is another piece of the paper. She inhales deeply before flipping over the piece. He can immediately tell that it is the other half of the photo at the front. There are two men, both looking to be the same age, both looking to be in their 50s. One of them must've been her father, the other presumably her husband. He doesn’t ask and places it back the way it was. “So, what’ve you done then?”

“There's this guy who's wanted for fraud in Blackwater. Apparently he was last spotted in Valentine. I found his camp in the woods and I waited for him to show up, and there he was,” he says, taking off his hat to hang it on a hook on the wall. “Wasn’t really anythin’ special, figure he’ll just be in jail for a bit. You?”

“Mm, not much. Cleaned up a bit, been a little bored to be frank.” She gathers her things off the table and folds them again to put them back in the bag. She pushes it under the bed.

“S'ppose anyone would be bored to death being stuck here,” he says with a laugh. “I can get ya some books in town, y'know?” he offers.

“That sounds great, thanks,” she happily says, picking up the rag she left on the shelf earlier and puts them back where they belong. “I'll pay ya back.”

“Oh, come on,” he says with a snarl, sitting himself down on the old armchair next to the fireplace, “I may be broke, but I ain't gonna sponge off a lady.”

“It ain't right for me to sponge off you either, I'm already living at your place,” she says, taking out a tiny box from her bag. “Here, just take it, I don’t wanna keep it anyway.” She opens it and shows a fancy ring of silver and sapphire. 

He gently shoves it back to her, “Look, I ain't gonna take it. 'sides, there are… other ways you can pay me.” he glances at her, dragging his gaze over her figure. 

She lets out a small chuckle at his little joke, but once again pushes it towards him. “Barry gave this to me, I really don't want to see it again. So please, just take it.”

Finally, he accepts it. “Well, I can help ya sell it in town, but you're gonna keep the money.”

“Come on, can’t you take it as rent?”

“Ya need the money anyway.” 

He walks up to the drawers and takes out a heavy rectangular box. He strains a bit and sets it on the table. Then he walks towards the shelf in the bedroom.

“Come here,” he says. She does as she is told and stops at his side.

“Just so ya know, this is where I keep the key,” he mumbles as he turns over the photograph of the lady, revealing a tiny key behind the frame.

“Is this your ma?” She remembers hearing a rattle as she cleaned that photograph earlier.

“Yeah,” he answers as he picks up the key. He walks back to the table and unlocks the box. Inside the box are a small stack of money, a golden ring and a pocket watch. “You can keep that stuff here, in case someone breaks in.” “Why should I trust that you won’t just steal ‘em like this?” she asks, folding her arms.

“Well I'm letting ya know where my money is,” he laughs as he pulls out another thin stack of money from his pocket. The money he got for the bounty, she figures. Then he takes out the ring from the box and places it inside too. “ ‘sides, I could just take it anyway. Ya got any more valuables?”

“Yeah, wait a moment,” she says, turning around to take out several more velvet boxes from her bag. Most of them are from Barry, barely worn and tossed in a drawer and it pains her to even look at them. There is a gift from a suitor as well, given to her after Barry's death, when she was living with her father again. What little her mother left stays elsewhere, no matter how sincere he seems, she’d never trust him with them.

“Got some meat for dinner tonight on my way home too.” She turns to look at the direction he is pointing and finds something wrapped in paper sitting on the counter. 

“Oh, venison?” she asks, peeling the wax paper open.

“Yup.”

“Looks real stringy.” she picks up the paper and moves it aside. She pulls out a pot andlights the stove.

“Ain’t much but it’s food.” he sits down watches her shred up an old newspaper for kindling. She leans over and pushes in a log. His eyes linger on her figure for a bit, her bending over as she drops in a match. He thinks of reaching out to touch her, but she stands up.

“What kind of butcher are ya?” she asks, stabbing a fork into the pieces.

“Gotta tell ya that I ain't that good at it, miss.” he lets out an amused huff.

“I can tell.”  he leans back on his chair, as she places a pot on the stove.

“What are you gonna make with that then?” 

“Mm, I don’t know.” she responds, grabbing a bag of flour from the cupboard. “I know it’s gonna be dinner, at least.”

“Ain’t a good sign, ya know.”

“Shut up, it can’t be that bad.” 

She pours water and flour into the pot with a dash of salt. He scrunches his nose, it certainly doesn’t sound good.

“I got some spices you know, add some colour into that.” he stands and finds a small paper bag of pepper. He dumps some in and she gasps.

“That’s too much! You didn’t even measure it!”

“Measurin’ ain’t essential sweetheart.” he grabs another bag and adds a dash in, along with some leaves she doesn’t recognize. 

“WHAT IF YOU RUINED IT?” she asks in a panicked tone. 

“Christ, calm down woman, it ain’t that serious.” he grabs a spoon and dips it into get a taste. Could use some salt, and oregano. He drizzles the ingredients in over her shoulder. “Stir it.”

“I know I’m working off a recipe, that wasn’t in it!” 

“It’ll be better, I promise.” 

“You can’t just do that, I’m cooking!”

“Well if you added some salt every now and then I wouldn’t interfere.” “ ‘scuse me, that most certainly wasn’t just salt!” she hisses. “Why don’t you take over then?” she slips away from him and sits down, furrowing her brow. 

“Maybe I will then,” he grabs what she was using to stir.

“Maybe you should, I’ll just sit here and leer at ya like you.” she leans back and stares at the back of his head. He steps back, grabs a carrot from a different cupboard and chops it up, dropping the pieces in. He stirs it once.

A few minutes later and pours the food into plates and places it in front of her, dropping a spoon in a moment later. “Eat up then.” He settles down with his own plate.

She picks up the utensil and tastes it. It’s burnt and bitter, she grimaces. She lets out a little chuckle. 

“It’s burnt.”

“At least it tastes like something.” He remarks, taking another spoonful. His face scrunches up for a moment, but he swallows and takes another defiant bite.

“Burnt ain’t a good flavor,” she eats some more. She hadn’t eaten much all day and at least it’s food. If it wasn’t burnt, it’d taste alright, she admits to herself.

“You’re eating it anyway, girly.” 

“I’d rather taste something else,” she grumbles. He coughs and wipes his face, falling into silence. She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow at his strange reaction. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” he replies. Oh. “You filthy bastard,” she laughs and tosses an errand cork in his general direction. He dodges and chuckles. 

“Just eat up,” he says, finishing the bowl in a matter of seconds and scrunching his nose at the bitter aftertaste. She laughs and pushes her own spoon through her lips.

—

He blows out the light and lies back down on the soft bed. She shifts closer to him, pressing their naked, perspiring bodies together.

They're both still sore and breathless from the activity minutes ago. His pants slowly subsides, and he turns around to find her still awake. He rolls over to get a better look, she seems to be deep in her thoughts.

“So, about the books, what do you usually read?”

“Hm?” she says, slightly confused. “Oh, right. Well, y'know, anything's fine. I do prefer plays to the other stuff though.”

“Plays?” he asks, amused. “Don't think I've really read that sort of thing before. What sort of plays?”

“All sorts, kinda,” she shrugs, “y'know, Shakespeare, the Greek tragedies, oh, and there's this Norwegian guy named Ibsen and an Irishman named Goldsmith.”

“Alright, I'll see if I can find some of these in town.”

“Novels are fine, or just anything, really, I ain't picky. Oh, and would you mind helping me send a letter to my brother later? His birthday is coming up, I'd really like to let him know I'm safe.”

“Sure; where's it?”

“Right on the nightstand, thanks.”

“You're welcome ma'am. When's his birthday?”

“Thirtieth of June.”

“And yours?” he asks, curiosity suddenly overcoming him.

She pauses for a second, surprised, “Turning thirty on the fifth of August, but I don't celebrate it, not really.”

“Aight.”

“And when's yours?”

“Okay, this is ridiculous, but I actually don't remember,” he says with a chuckle.

She turns to look at him, “Really?”

“Yeah,” he explains, “I remember celebrating it with my ma in winter, but I don't really remember the date. Before Christmas, I think. My old man never bothered to celebrate anything with me. Didn't even remember how old I was, probably.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be, it's nothing serious.”

“How do you remember how old you are then?” she asks, shifting to look at him.

“I just count the winters. I'm thirty-one now, or at least that's what I think.”

“Ah.”

“Aight, figures that's enough talkin'. Goodnight sweetheart,” he says, shutting his eyes. 

“'Night.” She lays awake for a moment. It’s sad, he should at least know.

—

The next morning, she wakes up in an empty bed. She sits up and looks around, finding a tiny note on the nightstand.

Heading to the sheriff's again. Took your ring and your letter. Should be back in a week. Looking forward to seeing you again.

She slides back down on the bed with a heavy sigh. Seems like she'll once again be bored to death for the next few days.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

(Because - as has rightfully been pointed out - the angel needs his cuddles, too.)

--

“Crowley?”

“Nnnnh?” The sprawl of limbs dozing on the sofa shifted, resolving into six feet of lazy demon.

“Can you help me with this?” Rising up on his toes, Aziraphale gestured with the book in his hand. “I can’t quite reach the top shelf.”

“Don’t you have a stool or something?”

“It’s on the other side of the shop, and you’re right here.”

With another groan, Crowley rolled off the sofa in a strange, almost fluid motion, and sauntered across the room. “Where does it go?”

“Just there.” He pointed again as Crowley took the book, glaring at the top shelf. It was, in reality, slightly too high for either of them to reach.

Crowley stretched, standing on his own toes, one hand resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder for balance, until he could just barely get the corner of the book into the gap between two others, and shoved it hard into place.

“There. If that broke the thing, s’not my fault.”

“No, I wouldn’t dream of…thank you, my dear.”

“Mmmh.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a half-grin before wandering back towards his favorite resting spot.

Behind his back, Aziraphale pressed his own hand to where his shoulder still burned with lovely heat.

--

“Crowley? I think I could use a hand again.”

“Are you serious?” he groaned. “You going to tell me you can’t reach your own mugs now?”

Aziraphale glanced at the cupboard again. It did look too low for that, didn’t it? “Of course not. I…I think I should reorganize my wine. I need you to hold some bottles for me.”

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Some of those wine bottles haven’t moved in over a century. Why would you need to do this now?”

“That…” He felt a flash of embarrassment, quickly turned it into indignation. “That’s hardly any of your concern, now is it? You come to my shop, day after day, just to lounge about. This isn’t one of your – your ancient temples, you can’t just laze around while the human worshippers fan you and feed you peeled grapes…”

A shadow fell across Aziraphale, and he turned to see Crowley, leaning against the doorway to the little kitchen, lopsided grin on his face. “That’s a very elaborate fantasy you’ve concocted.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and turned back to the wine, grabbing a few bottles at random. “It’s not a – a fantasy. I know what you used to get up to in Egypt. And Greece. And a dozen other snake-worshipping cultures.”

“I was hardly—oof.” He grabbed the bottle of red that Aziraphale had all but thrust into his stomach, long fingers dragging across the back of Aziraphale’s hand, leaving behind a trail of fireworks.

“Good. That.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, staring at a row of champagne bottles. “That should go in the, er, Italian section. Tuscany.”

“You going to arrange them geographically now?”

“Of course! Region, then year, then type of grape. Perfectly logical. These are from, um, Piedmont.” He held out two more bottles.

Shrugging, Crowley put the first on the table and reached out. Aziraphale stood perfectly still, so that he couldn’t miss Crowley’s smallest finger brushing against his thumb in passing.

--

“Now what are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m – I’m sweeping under the sofa. Kindly move those – those pipe cleaners you call legs.”

“You never sweep.”

“That’s entirely untrue.” Aziraphale reached as far as his arm would go, vaguely sliding the brush from side to side. Shuffled a little to the left, until his shoulder bumped up against Crowley’s calf, fire bursting through him again.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbled, and in an instant the legs were gone, neatly folded up beneath him.

Blast. Aziraphale glanced up with feigned concern. “You better not be putting your boots on…ah.” Crowley wiggled his toes, covered in a black snakeskin sock that was a little too skin-tight and convincing. With a grin and a shrug, the demon curled in on himself again, neatly out of the way, and turned his attention back to his mobile phone.

“Right. Well. Good.” Aziraphale ducked his head, and scrubbed hard at the floor.

--

“Crowley, help me move this chair.”

“Crowley, hold this ladder while I climb.”

“Crowley, hand me that cloth, I dropped it again.”

“Crowley…”

“Crowley…”

“Crowley…”

--

“Crowley, come over here, I need your hands again.”

“Are you going to pay me for all this work?”

“Nonsense. I’m exploiting you, like any good capitalist.” He pressed his hands down on the cover of the book, sharp scent of glue filling the air. “Come along, I can’t actually go over there to get you.”

Another string of garbled syllables, and once again Crowley stood at his shoulder. “What are you doing this time?”

“I’m rebinding this book. The glue sets overnight, so I need you to hold it while I get something heavy to put on top.”

“Um.” A long pause. “I can get something heavy for you.”

“No, I need you to hold this.”

Another pause, this time the silence tinged with suspicion. “Don’t you have a – a press or something?”

Aziraphale kept his eyes firmly forward, away from Crowley. “Will you just…stop asking foolish questions and do as you’re asked?”

Two hands slapped down onto the cover, perfectly between Aziraphale’s without touching either of them. He could feel the warmth of Crowley’s shoulder, so tantalizingly close.

“Well?” Crowley finally prompted. “Aren’t you going to move?”

“No.” He swallowed. “Not when you’re holding it wrong. Look. You need to be here, in front of the book.”

“Yeah. Where you’re standing.” Aziraphale could feel the look Crowley shot through his glasses.

“Oh, fine.” Removing his hands, Aziraphale stepped back and to the side, letting the demon take his place. “No, not like that! Honestly, my dear fellow, you need to pay more attention.”

“Wha—?”

Before he could think better of it, Aziraphale’s hands shot out, carefully encircling Crowley’s waist, just above the hips. “Center yourself,” he said, nudging to the left as his arms soaked in wave after wave of heat. Not enough. “And a little closer.” An infinitesimal push, enough to bring his chest almost, almost against Crowley’s back. He ached for it, that last bit of space.

Well. There was one option.

“Good. Now. Just need to position your hands correctly.”

Leaning forward, Aziraphale placed his hands on the backs of Crowley’s, pressing against his back. His feet shifted, and now his chin rested on that black-clad shoulder, and his legs bracketed Crowley’s, his arms rested against Crowley’s…

Every part of them, together.

With his eyes closed, everything else fell away, except for Crowley, his presence fluttering under Aziraphale’s skin like a second heartbeat. He drank it in, more and more, trying to fill every empty space inside himself, but it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough—

“Angel?”

In an instant, he was back in the shop, stumbling away. “Yes. That. That should…I’ll…”

Aziraphale spun and hurried away, closing his ears to the worry in Crowley’s voice.

--

“Crowley? Can you—”

“Nope.”

“I…” Aziraphale tried to muster up his indignation again, but after the bookbinding fiasco, it was impossible. “Of course. I’ll just…”

“Nope, I need your help.”

He turned, slowly, to where the long shape of his companion sprawled across the sofa, one foot over the arm, the other dangling off the side, hands folded behind his head.

“What…what do you need.”

Crowley lifted one hand and pointed to a shelf behind the sofa. “That one.”

“I…” Aziraphale moved closer, trying to see what he was pointing at. “You want a book?”

“Mmmh. Right there.”

Frowning, he took a few more steps. “Isn’t that a dictionary?”

“Nnh? No, not that one, that one.” The finger didn’t move.

“Why…why can’t you…?”

With a snort, Crowley dropped his hand, tucked it behind his head again. “Sprained my back doing all your chores. I’m out of commission. I need a book to entertain me during my long convalescence.”

“And what happened to your clever little telephone?”

“Finished it.”

“You…you finished it?”

“Yup. Browsed the whole internet. Found the end. Lousy twist in the last chapter.”

From the tilt of his head, Aziraphale could tell that Crowley’s eyes were shut, lost in the perverse joy of his silly claims. That should have made this easier, but he still hesitated as he leaned across the sofa, rested his hand on the back. His arms passed over the top of Crowley’s head by several centimeters.

“Did you mean…this one?” His fingers hovered over a likely tome.

“Hmm. Nope. Further down.”

A step to the side, knees coming close to where Crowley’s leg carelessly hung, as if it were too much work to pull it onto the sofa with the rest of him. “This one?”

“One shelf down.”

He bent even lower, until his stomach hovered, just above—

Crowley struck, fast as a serpent, his lazy sprawl suddenly a flurry of motion as arms and legs grappled Aziraphale, constricted, twisted around to slam him into the sofa cushions, to lie there with Crowley straddling his middle, hands pressing down on his shoulders.

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered so that he could hardly breathe.

“Good. Now. What do you want?”

“I…” Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t…”

“Yes. You do.” One hand shot up and ripped his glasses off, tossing them aside, then pressed down again on the angel’s chest. Golden eyes bore into him. “Bless it, Aziraphale, all day you’ve asked me to do everything except for – whatever it is you need! Just tell me!”

“I…” He pressed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the way his skin burned, electrified, alive. “I can’t. It’s…it’s foolish. It’s too much…”

“Angel.” Softer now, so soft it could break his heart. “Nothing will ever be too much. Just ask.”

“No…”

“I can’t help you if you don’t ask.”

With an effort, Aziraphale managed to press one trembling hand against his eyes. Tried hard to steady himself. “Crowley. I…I don’t know how to explain it. I feel…cold. Empty. Alone, even with you here. Like something inside me just…died, and left me hollow…”

The weight shifted, easing off his shoulders, and when he looked, Crowley was sitting up. Further away.

“Do you…did Heaven do something to you? When you left?”

“No.” How his voice shook! “No, I – I thought that at first, but…in truth…it’s been coming on…for simply ages.” The shop grew misty, and Aziraphale closed his eyes again. “A little worse every time I – I felt my superiors’ disappointment. Every time I failed at a task. Every…every time I visited Heaven and realized…I didn’t belong.” He tried to rub his eyes again and found they were wet. “No…no this isn’t anything but…my own…inadequacy.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true! I’m not…not strong they way you are.” His hand reached out, grasping, and found Crowley’s, wrapping gently around his fingers. It surged through him again, warmth, strength, solidity. Everything Aziraphale lacked. “I can feel it in you. It’s beautiful. And I want – want to drink it in, fill myself, but I’m bottomless, I just take, and take, and it’s not enough. It will never be enough!” He pulled his hand away, ready to flee from the sofa, to hide from his shame. Ready for his only friend to pull away in disgust at his selfishness, his greed.

Instead, Crowley lowered himself, stretching his long body across Aziraphale, head tucked under his chin, hands resting on his arms. “Is this better?”

It swept through him again and again, with every beat of Crowley’s heart. Not just heat. Something that Aziraphale had been lacking, craving, for more centuries than the Earth had existed.

Love.

A sob escaped him, pitiful, even as he drank it all in, greedily, more than he ever deserved, possessive arms twisting around Crowley as if to pull him into Aziraphale’s chest.

“S’alright,” Crowley murmured, and his hand pressed against the curve of Aziraphale’s cheek, brilliant as starlight. “How’s this? Any different?”

“Yes, it’s…” There was no hope he’d ever be able to control his voice again. “It’s stronger when…ah…when we touch…directly.”

“Got it.”

And just like that, the weight on his chest vanished, leaving him empty and cold again.

Of course.

Aziraphale sat up, trying to wipe his eyes dry, humiliated by the loss of composure. “If you want to leave,” he managed, blinking them clear, “I won’t…”

Crowley stood before him, jacket and tie discarded, fingers flicking down the buttons of his black shirt.

“What on Earth are you doing?”

“You said touching directly, right? Skin to skin?”

“You…you can’t be serious.” A different sort of heat began to race into his cheeks.

“Nrg.” Crowley shrugged, rolling the shirt off his shoulders as he did. “If it helps you…”

“No, my dear – you don’t understand. I want more than – than you could ever give me. I’d – I’d drain you entirely if I could.”

“I’d like to see you try.” He pulled off the last layer, a blac vest, then bent forward, resting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Besides. Everything I have is yours. Our side, remember?”

Aziraphale bowed his head, fists clenched in his lap. “You…can’t mean that…”

“Angel.” He felt the warm press of Crowley’s forehead against his own. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life.”

Slowly, slowly, Aziraphale tugged at his bowtie, trying to remember how to loosen it.

--

Moonlight filtered in through the bookshop windows.

Crowley lay on the floor, Aziraphale curled up against his bare chest, arms around his shoulders, one leg hooked over his knees – clinging to him like a lifeline even in sleep. Some of the strain was finally starting to leak out of his furrowed brow, though he was still a long way from looking like himself.

The fingers of one hand ran through Aziraphale’s curls, carefully, rhythmically. Crowley had never seen the angel sleep before, but as soon as he’d started carefully scratching at his scalp, those blue eyes had begun to drift shut. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but if there was even a chance that this was helping him rest, Crowley would be damned, blessed, and cast into the void before he’d even consider stopping.

Everywhere they touched – which was just about everywhere – Crowley could feel something, an energy buzzing off Aziraphale’s skin. He’d felt it before, many times, but never this distinctly; it curled into him, whether he wanted it or not, flowing through his veins, keeping his heart beating.

“Y’know,” he whispered, slightly worried that the motion of the air would be enough to waken the angel. “You really shouldn’t have worried. Steal my strength? Ridiculous.”

Aziraphale shifted, just a little, pulling himself closer.

“I don’t have a blessed ounce of strength of my own. Or warmth. Solidity? Give me a break.”

A cloud must have moved out of the way; the moonlight suddenly grew brighter, and the pale angel seemed almost to glow in the silver light. Ethereal beauty.

“No. Whatever I’ve got, whatever’s kept me going, for thousands of years – it all comes from you.”

His angel shivered, just faintly, and Crowley quickly miracled up a thick blanket, wrapping it around both of them. Aziraphale sighed, fingers kneading and relaxing across Crowley’s skin.

“So you see, s’not a problem if you need it all. It’s already yours. Everything I have. Everything I am. Yours.”

--

Crowley was wrong for two reasons.

First, the warmth they felt hadn’t begun in Aziraphale, any more than it had in Crowley. It was a different kind of force, generated by their proximity to each other, and flowing constantly from one to the other, an eternal cycle. The strength belonged to both of them, and neither of them.

Second, of course, it would never run out. After all, love is increased – never diminished – by being shared.

[limetimo]

Regulus' bedroom

and my thoughts on it

Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black

An angsty teenager seeking to estabilish boundaries. Since he never bothered to take it down after Sirius left it was likely aimed at Walburga and Orion and his cousins just as much. I don't think anyone respected the sign ever.

They moved over the threshold together, gazing around. Regulus's bedroom was slightly smaller than Sirius's, though it had the same sense of former grandeur. Whereas Sirius had sought to advertise his diffidence from the rest of the family, Regulus had striven to emphasize the opposite. The Slytherin colors of emerald and silver were everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along with its motto, TOUJOURS PUR. Beneath this was a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crossed the room to examine them.

The Slytherin colours decor: I think it's more Hogwarts house pride rather than 'advertising' he belonged with the Blacks. The Black family crest, either version, has no green or silver on it.

The crest and the motto, I consider it to be Regulus' way of reassuring his parents of his loyalty to them and the family after Sirius run away, perhaps even a reminder to himself.

What really strikes me as interesting is the contrast between "painstakingly" and "ragged". painstaking = done with or employing great care and thoroughness ragged = (of cloth or clothes) old and torn / having an irregular or uneven surface, edge, or outline / lacking finish, smoothness, or uniformity I may be reading this wrong, but the 'ragged collage' evokes the image of a thing hastily put together rather than a meticulously created art piece that grew over the span of several years. If it was a shrine to Voldy I'd imagine some of the articles would be on colourful paper and there'd be decorative tape and stickers and stuff. Make it pretty, you know? TLDR I think the newspaper collage was only made after Regulus started seriously re-thinking his involvement with Death Eaters and was looking for "What he says vs what he does" evidence and "if i fuck this up will he kill me or my entire family as well?"

Harry, meanwhile, had noticed another photograph: a Hogwarts Quidditch team was smiling and waving out of the frame. He moved closer and saw the snakes emblazoned on their chests: Slytherins. Regulus was instantly recognizable as the boy sitting in the middle of the front row: He had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, slighter, and rather less handsome than Sirius had been.

I love loner Regulus as much as anyone but I think he must've been friends at least with his Quidditch teammates or he wouldn't have put the photograph on his wall. Or he wouldn't be smiling on it.

The Slytherin Quidditch team had their own personalised merchandise thank you and goodbye I do not accept criticism on this one

I already said this once: we don't know how old Regulus is in that photo. Harry's default Young Sirius is from Snape's Worst Memory AKA 16, perhaps almost 17 years old, and photo!Regulus could easily be younger than that. I'm not saying he couldn't be rather less handsome than Sirius had been at the same age. But I AM saying that and teenagers change basically from month to month and Reg just might still be a baby in that pic.

Yet again, somebody had searched before them. The drawers' contents had been turned over recently, the dust disturbed, but there was nothing of value there: old quills, out-of-date textbooks that bore evidence of being roughly handled, a recently smashed ink bottle, its sticky residue covering the contents of the drawer.

I know the room was ransacked by Mundungus but you don't get "roughly handled" textbooks from a five minutes search. Therefore 1) Regulus wasn't mindful of his school books, the goth little jock 2) Regulus inherited at least some of them from Sirius or even his cousins. The syllabus hardly ever changes for most subjects and why would you buy new books if you already have them. My 7 years younger brother used the same math and biology books we got for my older sister even though we could easily afford new textbooks.

and that's about it I'd appreciate your thoughts on the "ragged" bit

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Looking for a Place to Happen 2

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), age gap, general stupidity, some violence and threats

This is dark!biker!Sam Wilson x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Series Synopsis: There’s lots happening in Birch and you find it all too amusing.

Sister series to Smalltown Bringdown, When the Weight Comes Down, Little Bones, and Fully Completely

Note: Here’s chapter two. Think I’ll probably slow down writing. Appreciate y’all.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Chapter 2: I follow every little whiff

💀💀💀

You gave yourself a day off that week. Rather, the desolation of Birch allowed you an excuse to get away from your desk. An internet outage across the town had you up and wandering the main road just after noon. Your grandmother refused to join you so she was left to her true crime novel and the weekday droning of talk show hosts.

After a peek in the book shop where you picked out some used thrillers for your nan and a guilty splurge on one of Babs' pies to add to the surprise, you stopped by the diner and had some soup to warm up from the unrelenting cold. You played around on your phone as you blindly slurped from your spoon. With no available connection, you swapped candies to achieve a score high enough to get to the next round.

After another loss, you put your screen down and added some pepper to the tomato soup. You leaned your chin in your hand and peered across the road. The Asp was just diagonal from The Chipped Saucer and from your seat by the window you could see the comings and goings of the dingy bar.

You chuckled to yourself as you remembered the hundreds of comments on your video. You weren't entirely surprised that the internet cheered at the sight of a woman beating up a man in broad daylight, you'd seen much worse on the web. But many were curious and asked about how it started and about the small town alluded to in the caption.

You picked up your phone and flipped open the camera. You pointed it through the glass as one of the many bikers strutted out of the bar and down the street. You knew him, like most in town, he was the leader's right hand man. Steve Rogers. He had an odd gait, rigid with long strides, and you remember Kelly used to make fun of him when you walked home from school. That felt like forever ago.

You ended the video and dropped your phone again. You'd send it to Kelly when the outage was over. It would be a good laugh. Plus, you hadn't heard from her much since she moved to the city.

You finished your soup and paid. You went out into the street and cut around to the backstreets. You made your way back to your nans and found Pippin scratching at the front door. You stopped and scooped him up before you let yourself in.

"Don't like the snow, do ya?" You set him down and he whipped his tail before skittering off, "hey nan, I got you some stuff."

"You spend too much," she grumbled as you hung your coat and grabbed her treats.

"Only on you," you sang as you entered the front room, "sugarless blueberry pie, your fave, and some books about murder and all that freaky stuff you love."

"Hmm," she watched you put the pie and books down on the coffee table, "suppose the pie will go good with tea."

"Ah, and I suppose I'll be making that tea?" You returned.

"My arthritis…" she pouted but her grin came through.

"Yeah, yeah," you snickered as you went to the kitchen to put on the kettle, "we going black today or something lighter?"

"Put on some of the pekoe," she called back, "make a whole pot."

"Will do, ma'am," you trilled and basked in her annoyed mutter.

💀

When the internet came back, you sent of an email to inform the agency of the interruption and promised to meet your deadlines. Then you puttered around and added a caption to the video before you sent it off to Kelly; 'why he walk like that tho'. She sent a series of crying emojis back and told you to post it.

'Nah, it's a dumb joke.' You typed back.

'Saw ur last vid, ppl will eat it up,' she insisted.

'Well, got nothing else to put up. The account’s dying since no one cares about my writing.'

'DO IT.' Her words sealed your resolve and you uploaded the video with some dramatic music in the background.

The response was almost instantaneous. Several comments saying they were happy to see more and others being for another video. 'We all wanna see inside this fucked up town' one added and several latched on. Ignoring the questions of where this was, you gave a thin promise of future small town thug content. 

You turned back to your work email and opened up your draft for your next gig. You couldn't help but smile as you went over your work. You might have just found your niche.

💀

You knew your nan would lose it if she knew you were snooping around the club, so you didn’t tell her. You went down, made her breakfast, went back upstairs to do your work, then tiptoed out in the late afternoon to poke around town for something to upload. Birch was so dull when you lived there but to those outside, it was a novelty you were all too eager to provide.

You got more videos of the bikers; some revving their bikes, others arguing, but there was nothing overly usable. You were getting bored of it until the man himself walked out of the bar. You record the man’s glower expression as he marched down the sidewalk and turned off just down the way.

‘His name is Bucket… wtf?!’ you keyed in and snorted as you waited for it to load to your account.

Still, there was nothing special going on, like always in Birch, and your grandmother was bound to get suspicious if you kept sneaking around. You went back and hid your phone before she could bitch about it. You cooked her dinner and sat with her as your thoughts swung between work and your TikTok.

You went to bed but couldn’t sleep. You ended up watching YouTube on your phone as the windows shook with the night winds. It wasn’t until the darkness began to glow that you were roused from the cocoon of your comforter. You looked out and saw smoke coming from the main road.

You didn’t think before you pulled on your jeans and shoved your feet into your slipper, unconcerned about them soaking through as you barreled down the stairs, the sleeves of your hoodie only half on. The back door bounced behind you and you crunched down into the snow and clamored past the row of lifeless houses. 

You were out of breath as you got to the end of the path and rounded the diner to gape over at the burning garage. You got closer as the line of bikers stood in their leather with breath puffing before them in the frigid night. You stepped back into the shadow of the brick façade of the realty office and swiped your camera open.

Your hands shook and you struggled to steady the image on the screen as the mechanic woman raged in only her tee shirt. You didn’t quite understand what was going on; only that her garage was up in smoke and then men were doing nothing to smother it. She swung at the dark haired man and spat at several others; “cowards”... “fuck all of you!”

You gulped and held your breath as she was dragged away by the large redheaded henchman of the slender outsider. She fought for a moment before she was flung over his shoulder and the biker followed their leader back to The Asp. You sidled in between the building and hid until the voices faded into the wind.

Well, that would be a hell of a video. It might even go viral.

💀

Your phone did not stop. You almost felt bad as you saw the screen limn the edges of your cell as you left it face down on the little table beside the couch. Your nan sat in her rocking chair talking away on her corded phone to Linette from down the road. You suspected that every other person in town was gossiping about the same thing; the fire.

You finished your coffee and rubbed your eyes as you checked the time and ignored the pulsing notifications. It was too much to keep up with.

Your grandmother hung up and sighed, “can’t believe it. You hear?”

“Hear what?” you pretended ignorance.

“That old garage burned down. The one with the lady,” she said, “pity. When I was a girl, that place was a salon. Ma used to take us there to get our hair cut. The barber would give us wrapped candies and pretend to cut himself with his scissors.”

“Oh? It burned down?” you weren’t sure you were very convincing but you also could just say you saw it happen.

“Yep, no one really can say. You know, maybe she was welding or some rag caught, but I bet my money on those bikers,” she sneered.

“Good thing you’re poor,” you kidded, “and why the bikers?”

“Oh, well, you know Kimmy, Linette’s girl, works down at the diner and she saw that mechanic arguing with one of those strangers, the ones dealing with the club men. Well, it’s no coincidence that trouble follows those leather jackets around,” she rocked as she nodded knowingly, “oh, one of the boys I knew back in the day, he was found burnt up with his bike. They said the tank blew… well, I saw it and that tank was pristine.”

“Nan,” you gasped, “you… Jesus.”

“Well, things don’t change in Birch, we just get older,” she continued, “when you’re young, everything seems new but then you age and it’s all just the same.”

“Wow, how… inspiring,” you said dryly.

“Girlie, you gotta be careful,” she intoned, “that fire, that’s a lesson to all the women in this town. To everyone. You don’t cross the Commandos.”

“I don’t think anyone--”

“That’s another thing, there has never been a shortage of stupid people, not now not then,” she girded, “those women who get tied up in that club, their lives are already done.”

You frowned and hid your phone in your pocket as you stood. You rubbed your neck and picked up your empty mug, “I should get started.”

“Mmm,” she said as she dialed the phone again, “I wonder if Fran knows yet.” 

💀

You were being really fucking stupid but peer pressure was not a logical thing. Even through a screen, you found it hard to resist the goads. So there you were, your phone in your hand as you live-streamed your walk down to The Asp. The data costs alone would make you regret it but you were caught up in the hype of you fifteen second of internet fame.

“Alright,” you stopped across the street and gave a view of the moniker with Cleopatra sultrily looking down at you, “this is it… I just gotta play it cool…” you turned the lens towards you and smiled nervously, “hopefully that dude at the front doesn’t stop me.”

Comments flicked up the bottom of the screen so fast and smilies and hearts floated up the side around your face. You crossed the screen as you turned your phone against your coat and approached the bar door. The large biker butted out his smoke and you bared your teeth nervously. He didn’t stop you as he rolled his shoulders and coughed.

You entered to the noise of classic rock and low voices, the clink of glasses and tap of chalk on marble. You glanced around and quickly swept your phone around to give a view of the patrons. You hurried over to the bar and climbed up on a stool.

“You need a drink?” the woman behind the bar scowled. She looked worn out even with her lips painted bright pink and her eyes clouded with blue shadow.

“Uh, sure, can I… can I get one pint of everything you have on tap?” you asked as you set your phone down and shrugged out of your coat. You draped it over the next stool and reposition your phone as you flipped the cam and used the built in stand on the case to angle yourself onto the screen.

“Sure,” she narrowed her eyes and glanced past you.

You swung your feet as you waited for her to pour the five pints; some with too much foam and the others with no head at all. You took the first and held it up for the camera.

“A classic, BudLight,” you held it up to the light, “no head and…” you sipped, “flat.” You plunked it down and coughed as you grabbed the next, “this is a raddler?” you looked at the tap for confirmation, “grapefruit… smells like piss…” you had a sip, “tastes like it too.”

You chuckled to yourself and asked for a water. You made a show of swishing it around in your mouth before you moved onto the third beer.

“Had to cleanse the palate,” you joked, “now… lots of foam on this one, dark. You know, I’m pretty surprised they have Guinness here but let’s see…” you tasted it and crinkled your nose, “that’s it. Exactly like toilet water!”

You read some of the comments telling you to check the bottles for bugs and laughed. Suddenly you were yanked off the stool by the back of your shirt and your phone was swiped up by another man as the first restrained you. You struggled against his thick arm as it hooked around your neck and the leader of their crew stared at the screen of your cell.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snarled as he hit the screen with his thumb but the stream kept going. He dropped the phone to the floor and stomped it instead.

“This is the bitch posting about us online,” the man at your back growled. It was Steve, the one with the weird walk.

“I doubt either of you know how to use a computer,” you scoffed, “hey, let me go.”

“And why would we do that when you’re snitching to the whole world, sweetheart?” Bucky kicked your phone away as he crossed his arms.

“Actually, I’m--” you grasped Steve’s arm as it threatened to get tighter, “--promoting your trash business. I was just having a tasting, if you had just asked--”

“Shut up!” Bucky stepped closer and brought your legs up and stopped him as you planted your feet against his stomach.

“Hey,” a woman’s voice came from behind the bar as the waitress shoved aside her empty tray, “hey, she’s just a kid.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky huffed, “she looks full-grown to me.”

“So what are you gonna do?” she said, “she’s young. You can’t--”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” he snapped.

“She’s right,” another voice intoned and that man, Sam, came up beside them with a pool cue in hand, “she’s just goofing around.”

“She’s a rat,” Steve insisted.

“You’re being dramatic. It’s called a meme and you do walk a little strange,” he chuckled, “no one’s gonna follow her breadcrumbs back to this shithole anyway.”

Bucky considered Sam and then looked at Steve. He poked his cheek with his tongue and sucked his teeth.

“So… you vouching for her?” Bucky asked.

“She won’t cause any more trouble, promise,” Sam said, “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You better,” Bucky snapped his fingers and you were released, “get her out of here.” 

[dragonblobz]

I'm on my bullshit again. No lemons. Just Shinigami goodness. Wrote this to In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth 3 by Coheed and Cambria.

Ryuk has been around for such a long time. Ever since she had found that notebook sitting on that tree stump years ago. Cover soft looking and beaded with dew. It had looked as if it had been there some time. And, although the pages looked weathered and yellow, there was no mold or outward damage.

Surprising given its location in the middle of the woods. She’d only even seen it because she’d stopped and knelt to retie her shoe. Just an alien black square looking sharp and unreal sitting on that stump just off the jogging trail.

She can remember how the thing had felt when she’d picked it up. Soft in texture. Like careworn leather.

The words “Death Note" emblazoned on the cover had made her feel a little unsettled. Eerie out here in the predawn misty quiet.

A silent voice inside her mind had whispered that maybe she should put it right back down on that stump and keep running. As far and as fast as she could.

Another voice, vapid and cunning, had laughed at the absurdity of such a book, with such a title, being left out here in the middle of nowhere.

She hadn’t left it there. Without opening it, she’d tucked it under her arm and continued on her morning run.

She performed all the menial tasks of her daily life, forgetting all about that Death Note leaving dew marks on her dining room table.

Breakfast was bland. Work was tedious. No different than any other day. Even when she’d reentered her home and plopped her work bag next to the thing, her eyes really didn’t focus on it.

It was the tall bony Shinigami standing in her kitchen that finally arrested her fuzzy mind from the blandness of living.

He hadn’t even been looking at her. Instead, the spinous processes of his vertebrae pressed onto the dark material upon his long back as he leaned over her counter. Observing a bowl of fruit as if it were a still life masterpiece.

She hadn’t moved. Was utterly frozen. Just watching this creature as it looked at her food.

“What’s all this junk? Taking up room that could be used for perfectly good apples.” It’s voice, low and yet raspy, grated on her eardrums as it lifted a hand and poked a claw into the ripe flesh of an orange. The movement causing several pieces of fruit to fall out of the over filled bowl entirely.

With a deft movement, the creature caught the only apple which had exited the bowl. Rubbed it with the pad of it’s thumb as it finally lifted it’s face to look at her.

It’s face………

Cadaverous. Eyes beady and large and yellow. Nose squashed. Like a mummy who’d decided to affix it’s hair for a punk rock concert. It was even sporting a dangling silver earring on one of it’s little ears.

At her gawping expression, it had smiled. Wide thin dark mouth sporting a row of razor teeth appearing aged and yellow.

“No screaming, eh? Hiya, Y/N.”

She hadn’t bothered to question how this thing knew her name.

“Um…….. hi?” Her own voice sounded dry and distant in her ears. “And you are?”

It bit into that apple, it’s eyes closing. As if savoring the fruit. A stray drop of the juice dribbled down onto it’s chin.

It said a word. But muffled thru a mouthful of apple, it nearly sounded like a retch.

“Ex….Excuse me? I didn’t…… I didn’t quite understand that.”

“Not a good listener tho. Ah well. Nobody is perfect.” It’s long tongue snaked out to swipe at that bead of juice as the creature had studied her.

Raising it’s free hand, it extended a long bony finger. She noticed now the rings glinting on his hands.

“I. Am. Ryuk.” He said it very slowly. As if she might have been a child who might not understand. But there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm or ill temper in it’s behavior.

“So….. Ryuk…… why…… um…. What……. What do you want?”

At this, it’s smile had widened.

“I’m just here Y/N. YOU are the one that picked up the Death Note.”

Imagery of that notebook popped up in her head.

“I….. I did……”

“Yes. You did. And I’ll be with you until you die now. Or I do.” It was leering now. “Whichever comes first.”

“I see….” She didn’t really see. Turned from him and went into the dining room to pick up that notebook. Opening it. Reading the first thing written on the inside of the cover out loud.

“The human whose name is written in this note shall die.”

It had been frightening in retrospect. Not those words. Not that Death Note. Not even the monster standing in the doorway happily crunching it’s way thru a second apple and watching her.

What had been utterly terrifying was that she had not blanched. Had not set this note down and backed away. Had not told that creature to take it and go.

Instead, she’d stood there. Continuing to read. A name and face already coming to mind.

A face belonging to a monster who’d put that apple eating shark mouthed monster to utter shame. The man who’d killed someone she had loved.

Without looking away from the Death Note, she’d reached over and started rummaging thru her work bag. Fingers shaking and fumbling at keys and change.

“Never can find what you’re looking for if your bag is too full, Y/N.” Ryuk looked vastly amused. “You’re not even going to question the validity of the Note? That’s what you humans usually do.”

She hadn’t answered. Simply gasped as her fingers had clutched onto a great fistful of bullshit in her bag. Lifting the whole mess out to drop carelessly on the table. Chapstick and a tampon scattering across the surface.

And there, rolling and coming to rest against an old broken key chain, had been a blue ink pen.

She’d looked up at Ryuk. Eyes wide, almost manic.

“Any person?”

He smiled again. Repeated her words.

“Any living person.”

There had been no eloquence. No artfulness nor ritualistic care taken in that first death. She had scratched the name onto the paper. And a way to die. Almost stabbing it in. Breathing coming out in ragged desperate gasping.

After the deed had been done, the pen clattered to the floor as she’d wept. Fingers numb.

It hadn’t occurred to her that there would be no way to instantly verify this death. Not until that moment. And so, with a frustrated cry, she’d slapped the Death Note onto the table and fled into her bedroom. Right over to the dark corner to collapse, wrap her arms around her knees, stuff her face into her knees, and cry as a child. Ryuk following her, tilting his head quizzically at this suffering.

“Why are you crying? You couldn’t have liked that human if you wanted them to die.”

“Please…… please go.”

But he didn’t. Simply had sank down. Knobby knees on either side of his ghastly face as he sat across from her.

“I told you. I’m here till you die, Y/N.” There was no camaraderie or sympathy in his voice. It had been matter of fact. “But this surely will get boring very soon, won’t it?”

“When will I know if he died?”

Ryuk smiled again. Leering.

“My my. Impatient aren’t you. Actually that’s a quality I like about you humans. As for your question, I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself.” His eyes glint as his smile turns wicked. “You could always write a name belonging to someone closer. If you’re seeking validation, of course.”

“There isn’t anyone else I wanna kill.”

“Then this is going to get very boring very quickly, Y/N.”

She hadn’t had to wait long. Two days later, she’d received correspondence that her presence would no longer be required at a hearing. The defendant was dead.

A quick Google search verified that the person had died just as she’d written.

Setting the phone down, fingers numb, she'd simply looked up at her Shinigami.

She knew that’s what he was now. She’d been peppering him with questions about himself and his kind. And about the Death Note. He hadn’t answered many of them. At least, not until she’d given him an angelic grin and revealed a bag of bright green apples.

“Your apples can be green???” He'd looked absolutely delighted. And had been far more forthcoming.

“He’s dead. He’s really……. Gone…….”

Ryuk merely grunted in visceral enjoyment as he popped the core of that Granny Smith into his maw.

Without warning, she’d reached forward, patting at another errant drop of juice on his chin with a Kleenex she’d just snatched from the box. The action was mainly impulsive. And she’d laughed.

“You’re so messy.”

The Shinigami had frozen. Utterly motionless. He didn’t breathe himself. Statue still. Simply looking at her.

The years passed by like this. The shock and relief provided by this first killing soon giving way to an almost comfortable routine. She didn’t go on a wholesale slaughter. And often targeted those who hurt children. The pain of such cases resonating with the events of her own life.

And there were so. Many. Apples. Loads of them. Ryuk loved all kinds. Although he did seem preferential to Honey Crisp. She never once could get him to try another fruit. And she DID try. Not even a damn orange.

“It’s yummy. Ya know, for somebody that says he gets bored easily, you sure are picky.” She waggled the bright fruit.

“I’ve watched you peel one of those things. What sort of food makes you work so hard? Now THIS……” He'd held up his half eaten apple. “THIS is the pinnacle of crisp and juicy. Now leave that orange wherever you found it, if you please.”

Time was littered with conversations as simple as these, intermingled with serious discussions in which he was as non informative as ever.

It was one of these more serious conversations which followed an observation on her part.

She’d noticed changes in him. Very slight. But she was simply around him so much that she could see them. His movements had become slower. More careful. His speech slowed as well. As if he might be thinking more carefully. Or even forgetting things. She never once pointed this out.

Not until, one day, after clearing 6 entire apples, he’d actually groaned as he’d flopped upon her couch. Long booted feet hanging over one of the arms.

She plops next to him. Poking at one of the skulls on his belt. He’d long since stopped being surprised by her impulsive touches and nearness. Her humanness. Simply tolerating it.

“Are you hurting, Ryuk?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Oh. No reason.”

“I’m dying, Y/N.”

For once, it is she who freezes.

“I thought Shinigami lived a long time.”

“We do. My time is simply running out.” He’s just watching her.

“You’d said….. you’d said that you guys get more years by taking ours.”

“We do.”

She stops toying with that skull entirely. Turns her body so that she’s facing him directly.

“Is it time, then?” She’s oddly unafraid.

“Time for what?”

“For you to….. ya know…… write my name in YOUR Death Note?”

At this, he chuckles.

“I’m not going to write your name.”

She looks confused.

“But….. why not?”

Now he’s actually laughing.

“Do you WANT me to write your name in my Death Note?”

She chews on her bottom lip. Reaching out to pat his chest. Once again, he doesn’t react.

“I don’t want you to die.”

He laughs again. But there is no more true mirth in the sound.

“Why?”

She counters.

“Why won’t you write my name?”

“I am not entirely sure, Y/N.” The slight confusion in his voice gives credence to this answer.

“Well. I am sure.” She’s staring intently at him. “Everything ends, Ryuk. Nobody ever stays. Nothing is constant. I’ve never had a single person ever remain in my life. Except….. except you.”

He sighs. Patiently repeating himself.

“I will be with you until you die.”

“I don’t care if it’s because you have to be here. You’re still HERE……. Will it be soon?”

That same, toothy leer.

“You know I won’t tell you your lifespan, Y/N.”

“I don’t mean me.”

He just looks at her. She’s never seen his face so expressionless. Then repeats yet again.

“I will be with you until you die. Or until I do.”

“I will write my own name then. Will that do it?”

“Stop being foolish. Be a dear and get me another apple won’t you?”

“Yeah….. I will. But I’m not done.”

“I’m sure you’re not.” He chuckles.

It is as if this conversation opens a chasm in this inevitable process. Everything about Ryuk is changing. And so quickly.

Already emaciated and pale, even his dark lips turn papery and light grey. His hair grays too. Yellow eyes growing filmy where they had been so keen before. As if, when the aging process actually begins in a Shinigami, it is accelerated.

It is barely 2 weeks after this conversation that he gives a defeated grunt, sprawled on her bed as she’s on her laptop.

“I can’t get up.” He barks out a laugh. As if this is genuinely funny to him.

She closes her laptop and rises from her chair. Turning and walking over to the bed to flop next to him. Staring at the ceiling just as he is.

“You want another apple?”

“Thank you, Y/N. But I do not.”

“That close, huh.”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Will the Death Note still work? When you’re gone I mean.”

“Yes.”

Her voice is oddly cold.

“Do death gods go to hell? I cant go to heaven or hell. What about you?”

He doesn’t answer for several minutes. She doesn’t speak either. Finally…

“I suppose we will end up in the same place, Y/N.”

“I'm glad.” She turns her face to look at him. “I’ll need something before you go.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“The Shinigami eyes.”

At this, Ryuk turns his face as well. And they just stare at each other.

“Clever greedy impatient girl.” The insult is almost affectionate. “Are you truly that afraid to die alone?”

“Nobody should die alone. And this way, neither of us will half to. Half my lifespan for the Shinigami eyes. We’ll die at the same time.” She looks back up at the ceiling. He does too.

When he feels her fingers intertwining with his, as always, he doesn’t react.

“I never actually made that offer to you. Merely spoke of it.”

“I don’t care. I want the Shinigami eyes.”

He turns his face to her.

“Who am I to turn down such a lucrative deal?”

She sees his hand coming towards her face. Closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, the picture of her and some old friends on the wall is noticeably different. One face, the face of the friend who’d committed suicide years before, is clear and unblemished. The other faces each have a name and numbers above them.

And when she looks back at Ryuk, she sees that his hair is once again jet black. Eyes just as clear and sharp as she remembers. He leers at her. Squeezes her hand as she’s squeezing his.

“I’ll take that apple as well. If the offer is still there.”

She grins.

“You got a new lease on life and you STILL won’t try an orange?”

He scoffs.

[writing-with-olive]

Tracking goals with a bulletin board instead of a planner

I don't know how helpful this is going to be to everyone, but switching away from using a planner was an absolute GAME CHANGER, so I'm going to share my system because it's not as intuitive as a planner, but at least for me, it's much more effective.

This got kinda long(ish) so the following is under the cut:

why I switched from using a planner to using a bulleting board

what kind of goals I set with this system

measuring success

how it actually works (how to set it up, and use it to actually track goals)

affordability (spoiler alert: it’s better than most planners)

First of all, why did I switch?

My biggest issue with using a planner was that I wasn't seeing my goals often enough. In the closed pages of a book, they are very nicely hidden, and goals I can't see are goals that don't exist. This took me, oh..... five years to realize (starting when I first tried setting and tracking goals), but once I did, everything suddenly made sense. As far as I can tell, the more often you're interacting with your goals, the more likely you are to complete them. 

What kind of goals do I set?

I track goals quarterly, which means I set new goals at the start of every three months (January, April, July, October). This is pretty effective, as I can set ambitious enough goals that I have to actually work to meet them, but there's enough space for setbacks like "I don't wanna" and "Oh look! Life!" without completly obliterating my chances of being able to finish. Quarterly goals are also pretty standard, at least for corporate America (idk about elsewhere, but it seems fairly likely).

In terms of content, I set several goals for the following catagories:

school/academics (if you don't go to school, work-based goals could go here instead)

social media and writing (most of my social media presence revolves around writing, so I kinda lump them together)

personal/private goals (home-based, tasks that I need to set aside more time to do, family, etc)

self care/habits I want to build (take a walk daily, eat breakfast, screentime limits, read books, etc)

This quarter, I have five for each section, which means twenty goals overall. That's a lot. (I'll get to my metric of success in a sec) The benifit though, is that pretty much all of the most important parts of my life are accounted for, meaning that it's not about making time for my goals, it's about structuring my day so that the bulk of it focuses on one goal or another. Whenever I'm bored, I can see what I have on my goals list, and I'm usually able to find something that's interesting to me in the moment. (This method of spreading out goals to cover multiple facets of my life is heavily inspired by Jenna Moreci's goalsetting method)

How does success work?

(The stuff above was adapted from Jenna Moreci. This part is lifted wholesale from what she does.) I have a lot of goals. Because of that, it's pretty unlikely that I'm going to be able to complete all of them, and setting that expectation is a great way to end up failing, and lacking the motivation to do much of anything. Therefore, a successful quarter is completing at least 50% of the set goals. It's still a challenge - I still have to complete 10 goals in 12 weeks, but it's doable. A success is listed as a win, whereas not completing 50% is a loss. Since I am a competitive person by nature, putting it in a win/lose dichotomy is an excellent motivator. 

This is great and all, but how do you actually set it up?

Okay this is the fun stuff! So it would seem like the board would get pretty crowded pretty quick, but it actually doesnt. 

I do all of my tracking on notecards. Each card holds five goals on them, which I write in pen, and I mark my progress by highlighting a progress bar on top of the row I've written my goal on. This means I can tell at a glance what goals I have the most or least progress on, and approximately how far I have left to go. I don't have to get bogged down by writing out fractions/percentage completion, which would definitely clutter things up. 

To set my board up overall, I used string to block out four columns, each with header labels: Quarter, Week, Day, and Other.

The quarter column is where I list all of my goals I've set without breaking it down into little pieces. I have four notecards in this section, each with five goals apiece. It's the way I track how far I am toward completing the whole goal. Since some goals take most of the quarter to complete, I only update the progress bars once a week. 

The week column also has five notecards, but broken down into pieces I can accomplish in a seven-day period. Usually, I set it up, so that the goals on each card directly correspond to the goals on the quarter goal card to it's direct left. You can mix and match which goals you work on any given week, but it's effective for both keeping everything organized, and also for making sure I'm not neglecting anything. I also make sure to label each of the week goals what it's the week of (for example [W- Mar 4] would indicate that this is a weekly goal card, and also that it's the week of March 4th). This is useful in case I want to go back and see what I was up to at any given time. 

The day column looks a little different in that there are only two notecards. This is to help limit what what volume I'm trying to take on, because one of the biggest demotivaters is seeing a giant pile of work and knowing there's no way to finish it in the time you've got. Usually, I align the first card with the top row established by my quarter/weekly goals, and I write out five things I want to achieve during the day based off what I've written in my top two weekly goal cards. The other card is on the third row, and corresponds to the third and fourth weekly goal cards. As a very strict rule, I don't give myself more than four hours of work each day (this excludes going to class). I've experimented with other timeframes, and I've found going over that number means my chances of doing what I've set out to do plummet if I assign myself more. 

The Other section is where I keep all of my past week/day notecards. On top, I have my weekly goal notecards in one of those triangular paper clamp thingys (I have been informed that these are technically referred to as binder clips), organized in chronological order, with the most recent at the front. Below that, I have my daily goals. This way, I have my progress easily accessible (this comes in useful for proving that yes, I did do the dishes three times last week and yes, it's your turn)

How affordable is it?

Actually really affordable. Yes, it takes up more wall space, but you can get a bulletin board for about $20-$45 depending on where you shop (sometimes they cost more, but usually you can find one in the given range). Notecards cost on average about $3-$4 per 100 card pack (which lasts about two months if you use front and back). Thumbtacks cost about two to three dollars, and a small ball of yarn costs about three to seven dollars. This means tracking for the first quarter costs about $35-$60 dollars, but every quarter following is between $4 and $7. 

For comparison, most quarterly planners, cost about $25-$35 dollars per quarter.

Over a year, that adds up to:

 $50 - $80 for a bulletin board tracker

$100 - $140 for quarterly planners

Over two years, it adds up to

$65 - $100 for a bulletin board tracker

$200 - $280 for quarterly planners

Anyway, that got pretty long, but maybe it'll be helpful to you!

[serendipityjxmn]

Mr. President

Chapter 2

TW: Mentions of bruises, scars etc

Words Count: 1.3k

Link to Masterlist

Link to Chapter 3

The sun feels very blinding on your face. Trying to move your muscle one by one, pain suddenly rips through your body making you whimper.

“Careful.” A voice in the room says which you somehow immediately know belongs to Mr. Park.

Your eyes fling open to search for him and you find him in no time as he is seated on the bedside, watching you carefully. It’s almost unfair how illegally good looking he is.

You try to sit up but ends up groaning in pain. Your whole body hurt, every muscle is aching and screaming in pain.

“Your body’s still recovering. You need to take it slow.” He says impassively, not a hint of warmth.

“Where.. am I..?” Your voice hoarse.

“My house.” He simply says.

His house??? How- why-

Wincing and grunting, you eventually manage to sit up. You finally realize that you’re in a large and spacious bedroom with sleek beige furnitures and interiors decorating it.

You then allow yourself to stare at your saviour. Now that it’s morning, you can clearly see him and all his features. His gaze bores into you but you can’t deny how beautiful they are, his nose although not high but is sharp enough, his cheeks high and his lips.. he has a pair of very pretty pink plump lips, you note. Almost reluctantly, you drop your gaze to avoid being called lunatic or pervert for staring unashamedly.

Your gaze flickers back up when he stands, one hand in his pocket.

“I placed the painkillers there.” He juts his chin towards the bedside table and only now you notice the medicine and a glass of empty water there. “Feel free to leave once you’re capable enough to do so.” He frowns slightly, then turns.

You reach forward almost immediately, wincing at the throbbing pain on your ribs especially due to sudden movement. Without thinking, you reach for his free hand, gripping it desperately.

“Please-“ you croak and he turns, still frowning at your daringness to touch him. “Please- take me in. I’ll- I’ll.. do anything, I’ll work for you- anything. Just.. just please don’t-“ You trail off, because you don’t exactly know what you wish for.

For several moments, he just regards you. And for the briefest second, you think he would smile, takes your hand and mutters softly that he’s going to help you.

But nothing of the sort happens.

He just continues to stare at you impassively, clearly not impressed. The way he stares at you makes you feel small so you withdraw your hand, flustered and embarrassed for coming to this point in your life.

He sighs then. “Just rest.” Is all he says before he turns and leaves you alone, feeling even more helpless than ever.

Your shoulders slump back down and suddenly the realization that you really are going to be in the streets with no one to help brings fresh tears to your eyes. So you cry. For hours until you’re exhausted enough to fall asleep again.

The dark must’ve just set when you find yourself awake again, body aching even more now though there’s a lesser pain in your chest since you’ve let it all out from all the crying session.

You struggle to sit up when you feel your throat burning. You’re very thirsty. Letting out small squeaks with each muscle and limb you’re moving, you manage to sit yourself on the edge of the bed.

There’s a faint knock on the door that you think if you’re asleep you wouldn’t have heard them at all. Before you could react, the door opens and an elderly woman with her hair tied up in a bun appears. She smiles kindly as she calls your name.

“Miss..?” She hovers near the doorframe. “I brought you some fresh clothes, you can change into them. The bathroom is just beside you and if you’re done you can come outside and I’ll show you to Mr. Park’s study. He wants to see you.”

Your stomach lurches in response. He couldn’t possibly want to sue me.. or worse, kill me, right? Flashes of images of him beating your brother makes you shudder. One thing you know for sure is that he’s not someone to be messed with.

You stand though staggering slightly as your legs wobble. The elderly woman who introduces herself as Mrs. Lee immediately steps in and asks with a concern look whether you need help. You shake your head, telling you just need to take it slow and Mrs. Lee leaves you at your own devices after that.

Though not without numerous wincing and grunting, you somehow manage to shower as well, or more like wiping your body here and there. You briefly think that if you’re well enough, you’d be basking in the warm water the hot tub offers and appreciates the lavish interior of the bathroom.

You flinch when you see your own reflection in the mirror. You couldn’t have been in a worse state than this throughout your whole life. Bruises littering your body everywhere, it’s all marks of blue and purple, wounds and scratches from being thrown to the ground and your lips are slightly torn at the edge. There is also a cut above your right brow. You couldn’t really recognise yourself.

Sure, you had plenty experiences of being beaten by your abusive brother but last night, your brother seemed determine to beat you half dead. You sigh, tears almost threatening but you quickly brush it off. You have to be strong.

Outside the bathroom, there’s a white medium dress laid on the bed together with matching undergarments. You pick the dress up, eyes litting up at the beauty of it. You’ve never worn a dress before, simply because you can’t afford to be dressing up when you’re burdened with financial debts your whole life.

Still, you’re grateful since wearing a dress is still an easier task than having to fit through a jeans or leggings.

There’s a knock on the door again and Mrs. Lee appears again. Wow, she really has a knack of figuring your timing. She approaches you as you stand awkwardly on the dressing table.

“Would you sit down, Miss? Let me brush your hair.”

“Y- you don’t have to.” She doesn’t listen though, instead placing firm hands on your shoulder and putting slight pressure to make you sit in front of the dressing table. It somehow feels weird to be staring at your own reflection.

Mrs. Lee brushes your hair tenderly like a mother would her daughter. She then braids your hair slightly and tie it up in a bun, letting a few strands fall freely on each side of your head.

You feel weird. For once.. you think you look decent. Though bruises are still apparent on most of the surface of your skin and no makeup to cover your face, you don’t look so tired like always.

“Miss..?” Mrs. Lee interrupts your reverie as she taps your shoulder lightly. “I’ll show you to Mr. Park’s study. He’s waiting for you.”

And there goes your stomach churning again at the mention of Mr. Park. You’ve no idea what to expect and that makes your stomach churns further, anxiety almost swallowing you whole.

Mrs. Lee leads you out of the bedroom into the hall filled with arts and paintings on the wall and only coming to a stop when you almost reach the end of the hallway in front of a double mahogany door. She knocks on them and you don’t miss the escalating heart beat of yours as your anxiety heightens as she announces your arrival to whoever’s waiting on the other side of the door.

She doesn’t wait for an answer but opens the door and urges you to enter. Filled with trepidation as if you’re entering a lion’s den, you step inside.

If you thought the bedroom you were in just now was huge, it doesn’t compare to this study room. It’s vast, with bookshelves surrounding it and rows and rows of books, old or new filling it. Across the room, there’s a table by the window and you finally see the man sitting behind it. He doesn’t look up when you enter so you stand there awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

There’s also another man standing across the table, facing Mr. Park.

He turns at the sound of you entering and your jaw almost drop at the visual of this man. He’s tall, skin slightly tanned but above all, the features of his face are almost out of this world. Eyes sculpted to perfection, tall nose and sharp jaw, he stares at you making you stop short in your tracks. The corner of his lips tugs very lightly as he addresses your presence.

“Ah, Miss Y/N.” His voice is very, very low without him having to make the effort. “Please, come here and have a seat.”

He gestures towards your right and you notice a seating area with plush white sofa and modern table. You don’t move until the guy who was speaking just now moves towards the sofa followed by Mr. Park. You chance a glance at Mr. Park as he takes confident strikes across the room and you marvel at the way even his walking exudes charisma. He takes his seat gracefully, sitting cross legged and you miss the way he eyes you from top to bottom as you walk over while the tanner guy remains standing beside him and only now you notice he’s holding several papers in his hands.

He looks at you and gestures you to take a seat once more which you do. You almost buckle in nervousness as the two’s gaze land on you.

“So, Miss Y/N,” the guy standing starts. “My name is Kim Taehyung, nice to meet you.”

If your senses aren’t tingling all the time and you aren’t fidgeting so much in anxiety, you’d probably have half the brain to answer to his sentence but right now you’re trying very hard to do as much as breathing that you end up mumbling incoherent reply, much to the guy named Taehyung’s amusement though Mr. Park’s expression remains impassive.

“I understand that your family had been a tenant of one of Park Corporations housing area for more than twenty years now. You also have a history of late payment since five years ago and currently has a backlog of payment for one year, amounting 4 million KRW. Is that correct?”

You feel beads of sweat starting to appear on your forehead but you still nod nevertheless.

“You failed to pay for the past year which resulted to the house being seized and you’d be homeless but.. here you are..”

You try to hide the grimace as Taehyung addresses the obvious situation.

“And you still owe Mr. Park here 4 million KRW and may I ask if you have any means to settle them within this month?”

You swallow. You want to ask for another chance, to give more time but you know even if they do give you a chance, there’s no way you can rake millions just like that. Unless you sell yourself, perhaps. And that still might not make up the amount of money. So naturally, you just shake your head slightly.

“So, Miss Y/N, since you’re owing such huge amount to Mr. Park and you have no means to pay.. that means you’re technically..” Taehyung continues but was cut off by Mr. Park.

“Mine.” He says and the word echoes in your mind a million time. You’re.. what? You look up at him and see the corner of his mouth slightly quirks up like he’s smirking. Your gaze flickers to Taehyung too and he’s doing the same as well making a shiver run down your spine. Why do you feel like you’re being sold to the devil..

“So I have a proposition for you.” This time it’s Mr. Park speaking. “A marriage contract.”

A WHAT?

Link to Chapter 3

Posted on 210325 9:00PM

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Twelve Months - Good Omens fanfic

Happy 31st Anniversary of Good Omens! :D

To celebrate this momentous occasion, I have posted a slightly-sad, slightly-sweet Wake the Snake fic on AO3, because our demon has been napping for a whole Twelve Months, and sometimes Angel gets a little lonely!

Thank you all for another fantastic year in this fandom!

--

Twelve months.

Aziraphale pushed open the door to Crowley’s flat, a simple shopping bag tucked under his arm.

The lights were still off, the curtains drawn in the awful empty room he called a study. Nothing had changed.

He passed through the enormous, rotating section of wall and into the solarium. This was still bright—many of the plants flourishing despite being unattended so long, despite clearly not having enough water. A few had started flowering. They waved their branches at him as he entered, perking up eagerly.

The angel waved back, but first he peeked into Crowley’s bedroom.

He was still where Aziraphale had left him, on his last visit a month before. Bright red hair spilled across black pillows, grown into a stringy mop. Duvet pulled up to his messily-bearded chin. One hand curled up beside him on the bed.

Still asleep.

With a sigh, Aziraphale crossed over to the plants, who greeted him excitedly, unfurling their newest leaves, a few vines hanging down to brush his face.

“Hello, my lovelies. How are you all doing? Look at you, grown at least a foot since I saw you, I’m sure. And you! What beautiful pink buds. Very impressive.”

He didn’t think Crowley would approve of how he spoke to the plants, but the poor things had been so distraught on his first visit, straining to keep upright, trying to hide their yellowing leaves. So much healthier now, much happier for just a bit of attention. He picked up the watering can and gave them all a quick splash. He didn’t know how much water each needed, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“You keep it up, dears. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Picking up his shopping bag again, Aziraphale headed down the hall to the kitchen. The kettle sat on the island where he’d left it, and he quickly refilled it and set it to boil. While he waited, he pulled his latest creations from the bag: a small pumpkin spice cake from a recipe he’d been perfecting since fall, a lemon coconut cake, and a few apple cinnamon muffins.

Two plates—a muffin for each, a slice of the coconut cake for himself and the pumpkin spice for Crowley.[1] The rest went into the refrigerator, where they would never go bad or stale.

Aziraphale put the plates onto a tray, along with forks and napkins. Next he found two mugs and pulled the little tin of his second-favorite tea out of the bag just as the kettle boiled.

For himself, a teaspoon of the expertly blended leaves, steeped for exactly three minutes, resulting in a pale brown tea with a slightly spicy aroma. For Crowley, he dropped a tea bag into boiling water and let it sit until it was almost black.[2]

He carried the tray back to the solarium and selected a bright red-and-gold tulip that was nearly vibrating in its eagerness to be noticed. A moment to assure the other plants that they were still doing fabulously—particularly a self-conscious little succulent that had rather drooped over the winter but was making a fine recovery—and he once more headed into Crowley’s bedroom.

Crowley had rolled over, and now sprawled on his back, sleeping soundly. He’d apparently kicked a bit, too, as the blanket had slid down past his stomach. Aziraphale smiled as he set the tray on the chair he’d brought in some months ago and got to work.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, dear,” he started cheerfully, carefully rearranging the objects on the little bedside table. “I have a few things for you again, I hope you don’t mind.” Just enough space to slide the mug and the little plate. Perfect.

“I received a package from Tadfield again. Everyone wrote a note and then gathered them all together, really quite clever. They’re all doing well, if a bit bored.” The table was nearly overflowing with little items now, brought in by Aziraphale to cheer the place up. Framed pictures of their human friends, quarantining with their families, clustered in one corner so tightly you could hardly see them anymore.

He pulled the latest out of the shopping bag. “Anathema has started a garden,” he explained, pausing to show the photograph to Crowley’s sleeping form. It showed the witch, kneeling outside her little cottage, working on growing several rows of herbs. “I got the impression she was off to a rough start, but she hopes to send us some mint in the next package. Although Newt warned me not to expect too much, as they’d already forgotten which patch is mint and which is oregano.” He set the picture with the others, and slid the potted tulip alongside it. “I’m sure she could use some advice from you, when you’re ready to share.”

“Nnnnh.” Aziraphale spun eagerly, but no, just Crowley shifting in his sleep again, rolling onto his side.

The angel paused to pull the duvet back up to Crowley’s chin, tugging it straight and smoothing a hand down his back. In a way, his friend was nearly unrecognizable, with that hair and ridiculous beard, but in another way looked the same as ever. That was always Crowley’s way, of course, constantly changing yet somehow always the same.

He lingered, taking in the shape of that face, leaning close, lips hovering above his cheekbone—

Aziraphale pulled back, quickly digging into his bag again. “Oh! Ah, the, um, the children have been making projects for their art class. This past month was sculpture, and they sent us some. Look!” He pulled out four little figures of oven-baked clay. “Ah, young Wensleydale has made a very clever model of a train car. Brian’s is…abstract.” He turned the next a few different ways. “And Pepper’s is, ah, either a very complex symbolic representation of the Patriarchy, or…a troll, I think.” They just fit on the edge of the table, all in a line, a very mismatched tableau. The fourth, on the end, was the best, in Aziraphale’s opinion. “Adam made a little Dog, and it’s very well done, don’t you think?” The canine figure posed with one leg raised and head cocked, ready to play, but the shadow it cast was just a little too large, too ominous, for such a small creature.

With a sigh, Aziraphale shifted the row this way and that. “I sent a letter to Warlock, over in America, but haven’t heard back since Christmas. I believe they’re very busy with something. Politics. You know how it is.” When the Dowlings had left England, they’d planned to return for a visit the following summer. A global pandemic had had other ideas.

“In any case, that just leaves Tracy and Shadwell. I understand he’s decided to hate the concept of literacy this month, so no word on how his war with the squirrels is going. And Tracy has declared she will spend the summer making a fairy garden. I thought her sketches looked very promising, and she promised to send us an update in June. I’m sure you’ll find it charming.”

“Hrrrrm.” Crowley sank under the duvet, nestling down a little deeper. Aziraphale smiled, settling into the chair with his plate and mug.

“Things are loosening up again,” he explained, taking a bite of cake. Delicious, if he said so himself. Sharp and not too sweet. “People are getting vaccinated, shops opening up. It’s really a lovely breath of fresh air, at least when you’re not wearing a mask.” A long sip from his mug, then he held it, fingers tapping. “It’s been nice walking through the park again, just in time for the baby ducks. And that record shop at the corner, they’ve had some wonderful new additions. Which reminds me.”

Putting aside his mug, Aziraphale dug through the bag again and pulled out a handful of square plastic cases. “They had a whole shipment of those little records the Bentley likes. Modern music. I picked out the ones with the rudest names. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.” He pulled out the first disc and placed it atop Crowley’s phone. The device blinked in confusion a few times, then obediently copied all the music.

“Of course, it’s not all good news.” He stacked the rest of the discs atop the phone and returned to his tea. “Reopening means the customers are coming back. Yesterday, this one individual spent almost an hour browsing the same three shelves. And then he tried to make off with one of my books.” Another long sip. “Granted, he offered to pay, but still. What sort of establishment does he think I’m running?”

Aziraphale paused, waiting for Crowley to respond, not that he ever did. The demon’s eyelids moved a little, but no more.

Sighing, Aziraphale turned to his muffin. “You know, many times in the last year, I’ve wished you were there. Particularly during reopening phases. You could have posed as a customer, and then I’d be able to tell people I was at the capacity limit. Oh, and the people who would call to try and buy my rarest books. Collectors, or so they claimed, but then they just turn around and sell to anyone for twice the price! I’m sure you’d have some biting things to say about such people.” He smiled at Crowley’s sleeping face. “I’ve missed that, and your jokes. Rather more than I expected to.”

When his plate and tea were finished, Aziraphale set them on the floor and reached again into the bag. “Now, I have been attempting to teach my computer how to use the internet. I think it’s going quite well. Adam and his friends gave me a ‘homework assignment’ to find articles on recent news events, and I made the most wonderful discovery. Did you know that humans now share their news through humorous pictures? I printed out my favorites to show you.”[3]

He flicked through a few. “Ah, to start with, a few months ago there was this American politician with amusing mittens who showed up everywhere for a few days. It was extremely droll.” He leaned closer, holding them up for Crowley to see. “Ah, a few more from America. The murder hornets arrived, though by that point everyone had forgotten them. The election became increasingly confusing, and it all ended in a parking lot. For a little while everything was ‘This-or-That Total Landscaping,’ and before that everything was cake.” He showed a few extremely clever illusions. “I did try to make my own, but couldn’t manage it without miracles, which I felt was cheating.”

Really, leaning like this was starting to strain his back. Aziraphale shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, the better to share his pictures. “Ahhh. Also for a time everyone’s calendars were stuck on ‘March.’ And then earlier this year, a group of people learned how the stock market works, but sadly not how to spell it. The whole situation seemed very much like the sort of thing you’d be involved in. And…Oh, this angel from a television show was sent to Hell for…reasons.” He glanced at the shape beside him. Crowley had curled in slightly, pressing against Aziraphale’s back. “Yes. Various reasons. And then this musician, I suppose, went on his own. Both had many people extraordinarily upset.”

The next few images would really tickle Crowley, if he could actually see them. “The biggest news is that a large ship got stuck sideways in that canal in Egypt. Stopped half the world’s shipping for a few days while they dug it out! I’m sure you would have liked that very much. Exactly your sort of trouble. The humans were all very excited.”

The final photo was another of the ship, an image Aziraphale had made himself, printing out a blank version and writing on it in felt-tip pen. The hull of the enormous ship was labeled, “An eternity putting up with the tedious bureaucracy and frequently conflicting commands of my superiors until I begin to doubt my own judgement and sanity,”[4] while the small digger working steadily beside it was “Crowley.”

Aziraphale watched the demon beside him, not really expecting a reaction, certainly not getting one. He reached over, brushing brilliant hair back from Crowley’s forehead. “I think you’d have had rather a lot of fun last year. Or perhaps you’d have been upset you could only watch from a distance. Or…”

He’d leaned much closer than he’d intended, hovering just above Crowley’s forehead.

“Well!” Aziraphale stumbled to his feet. “I suppose that’s just about everything.” He picked up the tray from where he’d rested it on the floor, starting to re-load it with everything he’d brought in. Crowley’s cake and tea sat untouched, as always, but Aziraphale wouldn’t dream of skipping them. “We’re all very optimistic for the summer. Two months and everything should be just…just tickety-boo. Perhaps we can go for that picnic soon, if…yes…”

They’d made such plans for 2020. All the things they would do now they were free. Plans, and other thoughts carried in their minds, possibilities that would play out in their own time. Not too fast, just a slow, steady exploration of everything they could be…

“Well. Pleasant as that idea is, best not to—to plan too much, as the previous year made fools of us all. I just…” He turned away from the tray and watched Crowley sleep, hands clasped before him. “I miss you terribly. And I wish…very much…”

He picked up his shopping bag. One item still inside. The same one he’d been carrying for months, trying to find the courage to bring it out.

With a shaking hand, he reached in and drew forth a soft hand-made doll. He’d spent much of the winter on it. Simple white cotton for the head and body, wooly curls for the hair, and stiff white lace for the wings. Dressed in waistcoat and bowtie made from Aziraphale’s favorite tartan.

He still wasn’t sure why he brought it. He’d stitched several little toys, particularly a lovely black-and-red serpent with gold button eyes that had watched him from the sofa since November. But this, for reasons he couldn’t articulate, this one was for Crowley.

“I, ah…” He shuffled closer, doll clutched in both hands. “I made, um…” Back to the edge of the bed, one hand fumbling across the duvet. “…thought you might like…”

Crowley’s face stood out in stark contrast to the pillow, pale skin and bright hair. Aziraphale wanted to drink it in, memorize every detail, to hold him over until next month. The curve of his nose, the sharp angle of his cheekbones. His lashes flickering as his eyes moved. His lips, pursed ever so slightly…

“Bless it, Angel, are you going to kiss me or not?”

Aziraphale gasped, pulling back from the bright gaze of slit-pupil eyes. “You—you’re awake!”

“Nnnh. Half.” Crowley shifted, head moving across the pillow, eyes threatening to shut again. “Wouldn’t miss your visit.” One hand reached out, plucked the doll from Aziraphale’s unresisting fingers. “For me?”

The angel nodded. “If…if…you like it…or I could—I could just…”

Without a word, Crowley pulled the doll under the duvet and curled up, tucking it under his chin, a faint smile on his lips.

“If you were awake you—you should have said something! I’ve been going—going off like a fool all this—oh!” Aziraphale could feel his face turning hot as he recalled a few times his tongue had been a bit too loose for propriety.

“Mmmmmh.” The golden eyes were shut again.

“Crowley?” No response. “Crowley!” Aziraphale scowled. “Anthony J. Crowley, if you’ve fallen asleep again, I swear, I’ll—”

He’d do what? The angel fumed, but what could he really threaten? To stay away? Never.

“Alright then, I suppose I’ll see you in June. I’ve had several new requests for extremely rare manuscripts and I need to go pen some responses reprimanding these vultures for their cheek. I can—”

“You can stay.”

He spun around. Crowley had one eye barely cracked open. Gently, he pulled back the duvet, showing there was just enough space for Aziraphale beside him.

“I…I couldn’t.” But he stepped forward, not back. “I have business tomorrow, things to—”

“Just tonight then.”

His fingers brushed the mattress and pulled back as if burned. “You—you don’t really mean this, you’re just talking in your sleep.”

“Nah.” Crowley settled the doll by his pillow, making space. “Why else would I give you my key?”

“I…to…water the plants?”

“They take care of themselves.” Crowley held open his arms, eyes shut once more. “I missed you, too.”

Well. What could he say to that?

Aziraphale took off his shoes and slid into bed, into Crowley's arms. They wrapped around him gently as Crowley wriggled closer. “Mmmm. Y’r softer than the doll.”

“Oh.” He’d been called soft many times, generally as a way to imply he was a failure as an angel. But just this once, it made him feel rather pleased. “Soft is good?”

“Verrrry good.” Crowley twisted a bit, trying to find a comfortable way to rest his long limbs, and finally settled curled up against Aziraphale’s chest, tucked below the angel’s chin with a leg hooked over his knees.

The angel smiled. “And you’re…you’re noodlier than a stuffed snake. Err…”

A chuckle, just a stirring of breath across his throat. “Can’t wait to hear the story behind that.” Crowley nuzzled against his shoulder with a sigh. “Good night, Angel.”

Aziraphale swept the brilliant hair back again and bent down, pressing his lips to Crowley’s forehead. A soft, gentle kiss that made his friend smile a little more broadly. “Good night, my dear.”

Crowley drifted off again, burrowing close, as the angel continued to gently tease the back of his hair. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps tomorrow's work wasn't so very urgent. Perhaps a bit of rest would do him good. And perhaps...

Well. Don't plan too much. But for the first time, Aziraphale felt a bit of optimism about the coming summer and its possibilities.

“Sleep well, Crowley.”

[1] Crowley had invented pumpkin spice, and Aziraphale assumed he must like it. In truth, Crowley despised it, and regretted every autumn how it took over the entire world. He missed apple cider season. [2] Aziraphale had suspected since the early 1950s that Crowley secretly took his tea with several lumps of sugar, but would continue to pretend he didn’t know until Crowley confessed. Considering current circumstances, that was unlikely to be any time soon. [3] Aziraphale’s fax machine, revived after over three decades of disuse, had been somewhat confused to be asked to perform any task at all, much less to print memes onto photo paper with perfectly balanced color; but like the plants and Crowley’s phone, it couldn’t stand to disappoint the angel. [4] It was possible he hadn’t quite mastered this new form of communication.