#that had no punctuation whatsoever

[jaywonjuice]

head in the clouds 💭 | y.jw

synopsis you were enjoying a romantic picnic with your boyfriend in hangang park when all of a sudden a familiar face unexpectedly crashed (into) the date.

genre fluff, oneshot

pairing bf!jungwon x fem reader (feat. jake, niki)

warnings sfw intimacy, physical contact, kissing

wc 752

a/n had such a lovely time writing this one !! jw rly radiates romantic picnic date energy it just felt right ..) hope u enjoy !<3

with a contented sigh, you rolled over onto your back, gazing up at the afternoon sky.

‘aren’t clouds crazy?’ you murmured to the brown-haired boy sat next to you on the gingham picnic blanket. ‘like seriously, there are huge clusters of frozen crystals floating around up there and we’re just going about our lives paying no attention whatsoever,’ when no response followed, you propped yourself up on your elbows to look directly at him.

‘paying no… attention… at all…’ you watched him carefully. he sat not three feet away from where you lay, legs crossed and eyes glued to his phone screen. your words had clearly fallen short of reaching him in any capacity.

‘hey, earth to jungwon? hello???’ you punctuated the words with a prod to his knee.

finally, jungwon looked up. he blinked. ‘huh? oh, sorry, yeah, clouds,’ he scratched his head as he fumbled for the right words. ‘they’re… they’re pretty fluffy-looking. i think i’d quite like to pet a cloud,’ he offered.

another soft blink from those expectant doe eyes, and you had to fight back a smile tugging at your lips. despite giving this resistance your very best effort, you failed.

‘thank you for your insightful contribution to this intellectual discussion,’ you teased, causing his cheeks to flush slightly. ‘what, exactly, is occuring on your phone that’s that more interesting than clouds, then?’

‘erm… well, you.’

his cheeks reddened even more. you shot him a puzzled look. ‘ “me”? how d’you mean?’

in place of a response jungwon simply turned his phone towards you, showing you your own recent instagram post from earlier that day. he smiled shyly down at you.

‘you know, you’re much prettier than a cloud.’

you groaned at the sappy comment, covering your face with your hands, before eventually letting out a little laugh, deciding to embrace the ridiculousness of the whole conversation. ‘i wish i was a cloud,’ you joked.

‘i don’t,’ he pouted, leaning down towards you ever so slightly. ‘i don’t reckon i get to make out with a cloud, you know.’

now it was your turn to blush. ‘oh uh, no, i guess not. i hadn’t really thought about that…’ your voice trailed off as jungwon leaned in further still until his nose almost brushed yours.

‘i’m thinking about it,’ he murmured. before you could come up with a reply he pressed his lips to yours. your lips parted instinctively, moving to kissing him back.

all of a sudden you heard a faint shout from a voice you thought you recognised, and not a second later something came crashing into the side of your leg with force.

the two of you broke out of your kiss abruptly as you let out a surprised cry.

‘hey, watch it!’ jungwon shouted out to the figure jogging over to the two of you.

‘jesus, sorry!’ panted jake as he reached you, stooping to retrieve the rogue football from the picnic blanket. ‘sorry, sorry!! niki booted that one way too hard, totally lost control! i did call out to warn you but you must’ve not heard me,’ he looked down at you, face full of concern. ‘y/n, are you alright?’

sitting up, you nodded. ‘yeah i’m all good,’ you replied. relieved, the boy’s face relaxed.

‘you gotta be more careful jake, you could’ve actually hurt her,’ warned jungwon.

‘i know, i know, it was my bad.’ jake tugged the hair at the nape of his neck, clearly feeling awkward about his blunder.

‘don’t sweat it jake, really. i’m fine, won’s fine,’ you smiled reassuringly at your friend. ‘so no harm done.’ he shot you a grateful smile back, his anxiety seeming to dissipate.

‘y’know, i was gonna come over earlier to see if you guys wanted to join me and niki for a game but you guys looked kinda, uh… busy,’ he grinned sheepishly.

you rolled your eyes, and jungwon groaned, ‘ugh, get out of here already jake!!’

with a wink, and still grinning boyishly, jake turned tail and began to jog away again. after only a few paces however, a thought struck him, and he turned back, about to call your name out again, only to see that the pair of you had wasted absolutely no time at all picking up right where you left off. chuckling to himself, he let the thought go, and headed back.

‘are they gonna come join?’ niki asked as jake approached.

‘nah,’ jake shook his head, smiling. ‘head in the clouds, the pair of them, honestly.’

©jaywonjuice | do not copy or re-upload my work on any platform

[shadebloopnik]

Angelic Alastor AU

"Al!"

The angel turned to the voice and the sound of flapping wings just in time to see the two Archangels land behind him. The smaller of the two- with porcelain skin, rosy cheeks and an otherworldly beauty, bounded towards him full of energy. Golden eyes peered up at him as he spoke.

"Just finished with our spar, and Michael said he loved the hat! I told you it was a good idea!", Lucifer spoke, deep chuckles seeming to brighten the area by its mere presence. He punctuated his words by adjusting the top hat on his head, replacing the usual golden crown, a prideful smile on his face.

"Your brothers clearly love you too much.", Alastor snipes before facing the taller angel, and giving a polite bow. "Your Highness."

Michael gives a solemn nod, adorning a small soft smile. "Always good to see you, Altruist. I had ample time before my next meeting, so I figured I'd accompany my brother on his way to your little appointment."

Michael bore nearly identical features to his younger brother, possessing the same blonde locks, white skin, and golden eyes, albeit being considerably taller. What he lacked, falling a bit behind Lucifer's beauty, he made up for with his dignified grace, a regal authority that rivalled no other. He reminded Alastor of a frozen tundra amidst the plans for the creation of life, as precise as every detail on each snowflake.

"Very well that you did, your Grace, as your brother appears to need it quite a lot."

"It was ONE time! And your directions were very unclear!"

"I fail to see how 'meet me at the gates' translates to 'circle the entirety of heaven for 3 hours', my friend."

"There are a lot of gates in heaven! No matter! They just finished constructing the new nebula! We gotta check it out Alastor! Come on!", Lucifer said, practically bouncing on his feet in excitement and circling the other in flight before dashing off in a burst of speed.

Michael let out a rare chuckle as Alastor sighed in seeming annoyance.

"Always so sprightly, makes me wonder how you keep up with it all, Altruist.", the Archangel spoke, stepping to stand beside the red eyed angel.

"Trust me Sire, its tempting not to follow.", Alastor replied, deadpan as he set his gaze to the direction the Morningstar set off on. Left alone with the other Archangel, without Lucifer with him, Alastor couldn't help but feel a bit insecure. Shuffling his mismatch wings, he subtly moved the upper white set to cover the red and black wings below, his hold on his cane, tightening ever so slightly, though not enough for Michael to notice.

Michael smiled, finding no offense whatsoever from Alastor's words and the casualty of his jabs towards Lucifer. Despite his words, Michael could see the fondness Alastor possessed for the shorter angel, clear as day. Alastor was powerful, only ranking below the Archangels themselves in sheer strength, and would be of higher standing if not for his reclusive nature.

He always wore a smile wherever he went, but it was different for Lucifer, softer, fuller. Alastor shied away from any interaction with his angelic kind, but fully welcomes Lucifer's presence, seeking it, even. It was without a doubt that Alastor cared for his younger brother, his loyalty and selflessness when it came to the younger angel was palpable, fitting of his title, and for that, he had Michael's complete and utter respect.

"But you will, you always do.", Michael turned to face the angel, golden eyes meeting peculiar red. "Its why I trust you with his life."

Its a bit ridiculous perhaps, considering Lucifer was far more powerful than Alastor could ever be, but in the end, it mattered little. Alastor held his brother's heart, and Michael could guess it rang true vice versa.

Alastor's smile froze on his face, his sharp tongue silent as he gazed into the Archangel. A bout of silence passed, broken only by the Morningstar barreling back into Alastor at high speed.

"Alastor come on slow-wings! Hah! Get it? Slow? Wings? Come on, its hilarious, lets goooo!!", Lucifer bounced, gripping at the taller angel's arm, making a show of pulling him along. Evidently he didn't use much force, seeing as how Alastor wasn't immediately carried off, but it was enough to drag the angel rather quickly still.

"Later Michael!", the star spoke with a cheerful wave, before speeding off, dragging a squawking Alastor behind him as the other hastily flapped his mismatched wings, as he struggled to keep up.

Michael smiled at the scene, before turning to leave for his meeting.

Protect his heart, Alastor, it's all I ask of you.

_________________________

The wind roughly brushed the trees around them, as 3 pairs wings fluttered to land, every flap bringing forth powerful gusts. Michael surveyed the area as he went down to Earth, a mossy swamp littered with fireflies, blues and greens seeming to glow under the night sky. He wrenched his eyes down. He couldn't bear to look at a star right now, not after....

He shook the thought away, marching to look for the angel he was looking for. He'd been searching for hours, burning through the whole day. Alastor truly was a recluse, he was impossible to locate when he didn't want to be found. This was the last place he didn't look yet. They'd let Alastor design these swamps, letting him have at least a little hand in the creation of Earth despite his numerous refusals.

There at the edge, he could see him, standing at the edge of the water, mismatched wings cocooning him, the white set covering his entirety until his black wings were nearly out of sight.

"Altruist."

Alastor remained silent, his back to the Archangel. It was perhaps the most disrespectful thing Alastor's ever done to him, what with all his usual obsession with propriety.

"Altruist.", he called again, voice growing desperate, frustrated.

Still, there was no answer.

Michael clenched his teeth, the day's proceedings catching up to him, leaving him with far, far too many emotions.

"Alastor-"

"Don't."

Alastor's voice was cold, an icy tone that rivalled his own. It made Michael angry, frustrated and bitter. Can't Alastor see that he's hurting too? That he's also grieving?

"I lost him too, Alastor."

His voice was filled with emotion he wouldn't dare name. He had to be strong and steady for his brothers, for the rest of heaven. Im front of Alastor though? In matters regarding Lucifer? There was no one Michael could relate to more.

So why can't Alastor see? Did he think this was easy for Michael?! He lost his brother too! He's not the only one suffering!

But deep inside, Michael knew. It wasn't the same. He knew how deep the bond between Alastor and Lucifer ran, perhaps deeper than he ever had with his brother.

Michael's heart was already given to Heaven as a whole, but Alastor's only belonged to one.

"Tell me Michael, whose life did you entrust to me, again?", Michael felt ice crawl up his spine, his heart growing heavier with each word. Alastor spun around, unfurling his wings to face the Archangel. His crimson eyes were redder than usual.

"How, pray tell, am I supposed to do what you asked, when you cast down the one I was supposed to protect? Tell me how can I protect him from the fiery pits you all threw him into? How, am I supposed to GO ON WITHOUT-!"

'Without them', he almost said. No, he couldn't be reckless, couldn't let his emotions get the better. They couldn't know about his own relations with Lilith, he promised the two he'd stay safe. No matter how much it ached, he couldn't go against them.

Michael furrowed his brows in understanding, letting the accusations wash over him. If it were anyone else, he'd have already smote them down for the audacity, but this was Alastor. This was the angel who held his brother's heart; angry and emotional and dreadfully loyal to the star even now. If anything, in respect for his brother, he could endure this.

Schooling his expression, he'd gaze back at the fuming angel before him, his face a blank slate.

"Lucifer's actions were reckless and destructive, with severe consequences. His reckless disobedience, his affiliation with the first woman, its shattering the very foundation of order we worked so hard to maintain. Such crimes cannot go unpunished."

His voice was cold, adopting the mask of a ruthless prince. Right now, he wasn't a brother, he was Michael, Sword of Justice, Protector of Heaven. He had to learn to separate each title, it was the only way to ensure he did his role right. He can't be a brother right now. He won't, not for this.

He wishes it made it hurt less.

As emotionally compromised as he was, Alastor couldn't mask the pain in his face as he squeezed his eyes shut at Michael's tone, knowing he was now speaking to a soldier, not a friend. The sight of it almost made Michael want to break down the mask. Almost. Not nearly enough to actually do so. He was able to bear casting down his own brother, this was nothing.

The thought sent another pang to his heart, and he pushed it to the back of his mind.

"I love him too..", his voice was low, resigned, all energy leaving him as he looked away from the angel before him. Michael was so so tired. "It had to be done."

The swaying of the leaves and the buzz of nearby fireflies were the only things breaking the deafening silence. Now that he thought about it, didn't Lucifer help make these? Little bursts of light flying amidst a darkened swamp...

Why must everything hurt Michael today?

He heard the other take a deep breath, and turned to see the other adopt a smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Thank you for your visit, your Highness. You may take your leave now."

Alastor always smiled, even when he didn't mean it, but none of those ever felt as wrong as this one.

"Alas-"

Michael cut off his own words at the other's glare. Alastor's eyes glowed a deep red, his sclera giving its own crimson glow. His glowing wings seemed to curl closer around him. All this while still keeping on that damned smile. It was uncomfortable. It served little to intimidate someone as powerful as Michael, but this wasn't about power.

He's never seen Alastor look so broken.

He may be set apart from the other angels, but he always looked so happy with Lucifer.

......but Lucifer isn't here anymore, is he?

Suppressing a sigh, Michael kept his voice level. ".....Altruist."

Alastor's smile only seemed to widen, contrasting with how his wings curled tighter around himself in a cocoon.

"I wish to be alone. Now.", the deceptively cheerful tone made Michael sick.

Without another word Michael turned around. There was no fixing this. Alastor looked as though a single action would cause him to flee. If Michael didn't take his leave, he'd have left anyway. All Alastor wanted was Lucifer, and Lucifer was condemned in Hell. There's nothing he could do.

As he spread out his wings, he took one last glance at Alastor's smiling face, before taking off, ignoring the muffled sounds of sobbing he left in his wake.

It was the last time he's ever seen Alastor smile.

[samkerrworshipper]

heyyy guys

had heaps of reqs for some daddy lucy smut and i haven’t been able to finish any of it lol so i thought i’d give you all a little blurb/sneak peek so enjoy! if y’all like this i’d be willing to finish it just lmk !

spanking & implied smut warning minors dni

daddy?… sorry

lucy bronze x reader

——————————————————————

“Can you remind me how we have found ourselves in this position?”

You decided to punish me? Were the words running through my head, but I didn’t have anywhere near enough nerve to vocalise those thoughts, not considering the position I was already in.

“I broke your rules.”

I flinched as another slap came down on my ass, 11, 12, 13, 14. I tried my best not to move, not to make any noise, knowing that it would only make things worse for me.

“Our rules, and what rule would that be?”

Her words were punctuated with another set of spanks, this time falling what felt like a centimetre below the previous one, 15, 16, 17. This time I let out a little bit of a cry, bucking slightly in my position, trying to find some kind of release from the pain that was being administered to me, Lucy’s arm held my hips steady though, her hold hard enough to tell me that my movement was not permitted.

“I put myself in danger on the field and I put someone else in danger.”

In my defence, I hadn’t really meant to slide tackle the girl so aggressively, I think I’d hurt myself more in the process then she had. We’d both been running full speed down the field and one second we were running and then the next I was throwing my feet out in front of her and we were colliding. Lucy slapped her palm down against my ass another three times, earning a groan from me and the feeling of tears prickling at the edges of my eyes.

“Hm, why?”

I took a deep breath as another set of spanks fell down across my ass. 18, 19, 20, 21, 22. I felt the tears start to leak down my face, dripping down and onto the carpet below me.

“I thought she was going to shoot for goal, I had to stop her.”

My words were followed up very quickly with another set of slaps that echoed across the walls of our bedroom, making a cacophonous noise rebounding back at us. I could hear the sound of Lucy’s hand connecting with my ass, and it hurt, it hurt like a bitch.

“So you made the choice to put both you and her in danger because she decided she was going to shoot for goal?”

23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28. I let out a sob as Lucy’s hand continued to slap down against my skin, the mixture of the burning sensation and stinging starting to get to me. She left just enough time between the spanks for me to feel the sting but not enough time that it started to mellow out.

“I didn’t think that it was going to be that bad.”

I knew my words would fall on deaf ears, she wouldn’t have been punishing me if she thought that I hadn’t intended to cause some harm in the process of my actions.

“A red card and the girl getting stretchered off is pretty bad if you ask me.”

The red card was probably the worst part, especially considering that we’d been down by a point when I’d been sent off the pitch, leaving us with ten players to scrap to get a goal.

“I didn’t mean for her to get hurt.”

29, 30, 31, 32.

“What did you mean to do then? Because you can’t tell me that when you were flinging yourself at her knees and decking her that you didn’t understand the possibility of you or her getting injured. Explain to me what rule number 7 is?”

Tears and snot were basically free flowing down my face at this stage.

“To never put myself in a position where I could harm myself.”

Each word that left my mouth was punctuated by a slap. 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44.

“And how did you act today?”

45, 46, 47, 48.

Each slap drew a sob from my chest, loud sobs that I was completely unapologetic for producing. Lucy wasn’t holding back whatsoever, not that I expected her to, she never took it easy on me.

“In a way that could have harmed me.”

49, 50.

“Not just in a way that could harm you, but also in a way that could harm another person. You could have easily broken one of her legs or knees, or concussed her, the possibilities of what you could have done are endless. Maybe you didn’t mean to hurt her, but you still did. When this happens in the future we are going to find ourselves back here, is that understood?”

I nodded quickly, the tears and snot still dripping down my face without stopping.

“Y-yes, daddy.”

[maxwell-grant]

I’ve been diving a bit back into Batman 66 for research, and this is the cliffhanger from the very first episode. As such:

Jesus Christ

For context: Batman had his drink spiked by one of Riddler's goons at a bar he was investigating in, and he realized this just in time to call Robin to his aid, but Robin was tranquilized and kidnapped by the Riddler's gang just as he left the car. The scene above is what happens almost directly after Batman does the Batusi, and together they kinda form a microcosm for the whole show: That it is super silly and played for laughs and done with tongue-in-cheek irony, but when you’re a kid or just suspend your disbelief more easily, this is all extremely real and serious, there’s hardly much that funny or campy about the plot here

Adam West is so good here, drugged and despairing and worried bad enough that his composure is gone. The scene is funny in one way, because it’s drunk Batman handing the keys to the Batmobile to the police because he’s too sloshed to drive, but it’s also fucking horrible, because he’s just been roofied and has to stand by as his partner / son is taken by very, very bad people who want to do very bad things to him and he’s completely helpless to do anything about it. I don’t think even the movies (outside of maybe The Batman’s scenes with Falcone) ever got this dark

Frank Gorshin is so fucking good here, so goddamn creepy. The episode itself pivots hard tone-wise to get to this cliffhanger and most of Riddler’s scenes beforehand were all fairly comedic, with him trying to destroy the Batmobile or handing Batman the lawsuit, but he ping-pongs masterfully between affable conversational charm laced with uncurable arrogance, smug satisfaction and high-pitched manic giggling that causes his whole body to spasm and bend and curdle like the laugh is going to leave his body, and then he just as frequently punctuates those with ice-cold homicidal whispering with not one bit of humor in it whatsoever, and he shuffles these three multiple times per scene or even dialogue

I wanted to more personally confirm the stuff people have said about his performance, that he was the only villain in the show who conveyed genuine, chilling menace (not sure if he’s the only one as of yet), that he was the blueprint that 70s-onwards Joker ripped everything from, and yeah, forget just the Joker, he feels like a baseline for so much of modern film supervillains on a scale maybe only matched by Heath Ledger’s Joker (that I can think of right now)

Batman really doesn’t break composure in this show that much and that’s part of the charm, which helps make these two first episodes and his desperation with Robin more notable. I know there’s one major scene in the movie where he goes berserk around the villains to protect his date, but I’m liking how this matches something that's a fairly consistent pattern with Batman media, from the early comics to this show to the cartoons even all the way to The Batman, which is The Riddler’s ability to fucking piss off Batman to the point his composure evaporates and he goes berserk with violence.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

open your mouth for me, sugar

NSFW (this is literally just porn) - part of the Steddie Upside-Down AU universe, but can be read as a standalone

“What are you doing, Munson?” Steve asks, tone teasing enough to keep away the sting of being last-named by his boyfriend.

The carpet’s rough against his knees where they show through the holes in his jeans as he slides forward far enough that he can pillow his head on Steve’s thigh. Steve’s jeans are scratchy, too. Eddie rubs his cheek against the denim, turning his head just enough to catch Steve’s tender gaze.

“I’ve never done this before,” Eddie replies. His cheeks instantly warm at the admission, but their bedroom lights are off, the only light that of the fading day filtering in through the curtains. Maybe Steve won’t notice.

As if in answer, Steve reaches out to caress Eddie’s cheek. He closes his eyes against the feeling, overwhelmed.

“Never done what?” Steve asks.

He runs his fingers up Eddie’s cheekbone and into his hair. His scalp tingles where Steve scratches at it. A high-pitched whine unwillingly slips out of his slack mouth as Steve’s fingers get caught in a tangle at the back of his head.

“Hmm?” Eddie asks, opening his eyes just to drown in the dark pools of Steve’s eyes, pupils blown with need. Steve clenches his fist in Eddie’s curls and pulls.

“Never done what?” Steve asks, still pulling at the roots of Eddie’s hair.

Eddie can’t think past the fire on his scalp and the way it somehow flows through his veins straight into his cock. “You know what.” He tries to modulate his voice, but it comes out breathy and desperate.

When they’d first talked about sex, he’d told himself that he’d play it cool. He’d be suave, and sexy, and seduce Steve right off his feet. He should’ve known that one touch from Steve’s wanting hands would be his undoing.

Steve’s smiling down at him, full of sharp edges and sharper teeth. “No, I don’t know,” he says around a smirk. “Why don’t you tell me?”

What comes out of Eddie’s mouth is less words and more a string of consonants and vowels that hold no meaning whatsoever. Because Steve’s not even blinking, and his grip is almost too firm, and if he doesn’t suck Steve Harrington’s dick right now, he might actually die. 

“What was that?” Steve prompts, and it’s all cock-sure King Steve fucking Harrington. He’s never been more in love.

God, this is tripping into so many of Eddie’s forbidden dirty fantasies from before King Steve had become his Angel. Eddie wonders, half-dazed as he inches his cheek closer to the bulge in Steve’s tight jeans, if he can convince Steve to fool around beneath the bleachers before they graduate. Or in the locker room, the boy’s bathroom, on his throne during Hellfire, he’s not picky.

Steve’s still smirking at him with an eyebrow raised, so Eddie moves forward even further. Close enough to exhale slow, hot breath against Steve’s clothed dick as he says, “wanna suck you off.”

He punctuates the request with an open-mouthed kiss to Steve’s bulge. The denim’s rough against Eddie’s tongue and doesn’t taste like much at all. He sucks on the spot, lets all the moisture in his mouth soak into the fabric as he looks up to meet Steve’s hooded gaze.

Holier than thou King Steve has fallen away and something even more holy is left in his place. It’s just Steve, bathed in the dim light of Eddie’s lamp, mouth open and gasping, as he presses Eddie’s face down into his crotch, two points of color high on each cheek.

He wants to draw the scene, paint it in acrylics, snap a photo. He wants to die in this moment, the only points of contact Steve’s hand in his hair and Eddie’s mouth on his dick.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, rolling his hips gently up and onto Eddie’s tongue. Eddie nods, lets his mouth trail up the shaft, unerringly toward Steve’s fly. “Take what you want, Loverboy”

He noses beneath Steve’s loose t-shirt, breathing already shaky as he breathes him in. He smells like skin, and their laundry detergent, and a little bit like sweat. Eddie wants to devour him.

Eddie bites into the soft skin of Steve’s stomach until he gasps, then lathes the spot with his tongue. His view’s obscured by the hem of Steve’s shirt, so he follows the sounds his angel makes moving down, down, down, sucking and licking and biting until his tongue is licking beneath the waistband of his jeans, straining to get lower.

“Eddie, please,” Steve breathes as he presses Eddie’s head down again, like he can’t help himself.

Eddie laughs, hot breath hitting Steve’s damp skin as he squirms on the bed. He pulls back to look up at Steve, pushing against the restraining grip in his hair until his hands gentle in Eddie’s curls.

Eddie’s barely touched him, and Steve looks wrecked; his bottom lip’s bitten raw, his eyes are black with lust, and he’s panting like there’s a Demogorgon on his heels.

Eddie smooths his hands up and down Steve’s thighs like he’s soothing a spooked horse as Steve shudders above him. “Please what?” Eddie asks, watching with reverence as Steve’s frustration battles with his mounting need.

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobs, throat clicking around words that don’t quite make it out of his mouth. Eddie licks his lips, ready to wait him out no matter how much his jaw aches with need, or how hard his own dick is confined in his jeans.

“Please suck my dick,” Steve breathes, fingers clenching into the mussed sheets at the edge of their bed. 

“Of course, Angel,” Eddie says, smiling up at him.

Unable to help himself, he crowds closer, wedging himself firmly between Steve’s parted knees, begging for a kiss.

Steve doesn’t disappoint. He leans down, arms coming around Eddie to pull him closer still as their lips connect. Eddie sucks Steve’s bottom lip into his mouth and bites down until Steve shudders, mouth gasping open.

Eddie swipes his tongue in, just barely delving into the warmth of Steve’s mouth. He shuffles closer, trying to meld their bodies together as Steve retaliates, licking into Eddie’s mouth with singular focus.

Eddie can’t help himself. He sucks down, hard on Steve’s tongue, reaching around to grasp his ass, forcing him to grind against Eddie’s stomach. He does again, and again, and again, following Eddie’s guiding hands like he was born for it.

His goal had been to make Steve desperate, but the feel of his angel, hot and wanting against him has Eddie disconnecting their mouths with a gasp.

He barely hears Steve’s whine as he untangles his arms from their embrace and shuffles back just enough to fumble with Steve’s belt. He’d been planning to go for suave, sure hands unbuckling Steve’s belt and maybe pulling down his underwear using his teeth as Steve begs above him.

But they’ve barely started, and Eddie’s hands are shaking with need. The sound of Steve’s belt clacking against itself is loud as it echoes through the room, silent aside from their breathless panting.

Eddie pulls the zipper down and stuffs his hand into Steve’s underwear. It’s a tight squeeze, and his wrist ends up at an awkward angle as he grasps Steve’s dick, but he’s thrown his head back on a sigh. Eddie looks up at Steve to find the light of the dwindling sun filtering in through the curtain, painting his closed eyelashes in golden light.

“Angel,” Eddie says, soft and reverent.

Steve sighs, eyes cracking open to slits, black with  lust as he gazes down at Eddie. Eddie moves his hand up and down, slow against the dry skin beneath his palm. Steve fists the sheets again. Eddie watches the play of tendons and muscles, clenching and unclenching beneath the skin of his forearms.

Eddie wants to break him.

He loosens his fist, trailing just his fingertips against the warm skin of Steve’s dick as best as he can in the tight confines of his underwear. Steve whines, loud and wanton and needy. Eddie wants to record the sound and play it on loop until the tape disintegrates. He wants to record a song with it, be buried listening to it. He wants to make Steve make that noise again.

Eddie trails his hand down, wrist aching as he rubs Steve’s balls one after another. Steve sighs, thrusting forward on the bed, begging without words for Eddie to touch him firmly, just where he wants.

He doesn’t.

Eddie trails his fingers back up, as light as he can, barely a tickle against Steve’s skin, until Steve’s mouth’s puckered up and his eyebrows are furrowed against his mounting frustration. He thrusts forward again, but Eddie moves with him, still barely touching. Steve whines again, and Eddie shudders, harder than he’s ever been.

“Eddie, please,” Steve moans, eyes dropping closed as his hips unwillingly jerk forward.

That’s all it takes. Eddie pulls his hand free, chafing the back of his hand against the open fly of Steve’s jeans. He doesn’t care, barely even notices as he yanks Steve’s pants and underwear down, Steve raising his ass to help. Eddie trails his fingers down Steve’s flexing thighs, taut calves as he pushes them down, picking each of Steve’s feet up gently as he pulls them off entirely, tossing them somewhere behind him.

Steve’s bare from the waist down. That’s not enough for Eddie, so he reaches out, pushing Steve’s shirt up until he gets with the program and pulls it off entirely.

Steve Harrington sits on the bed that they share, haloed in the golden light of the setting sun, beautiful in all his naked glory. Eddie trails his eyes over arms, pectorals, the gentle softness of his stomach like he’s never seen them before.

In a way, he hasn’t. Not like this, with Steve gazing back with that same wanting fire in his eyes.

“You’re gorgeous,” Eddie says, running his palms up Steve’s bare thighs.

Steve’s eyes close, and he whispers something that sounds a lot like please, wriggling his hips in search of the slightest friction.

Eddie’s eyes drop to Steve’s ruddy, erect dick before he’s got his mouth on it, sinking down like a drowning man.

He chokes, immediate and all-consuming until Steve threads his fingers through Eddie’s mussed curls and pulls him up and off.

His eyes are watering as Steve uses his grip on Eddie’s hair to pull his head up and meet his gaze. “Slow, Baby,” Steve says, pupils blown all to shit.

Eddie nods, frantic, still, to get his mouth on Steve. He’d barely had a taste.

When Steve loosens his hold, Eddie looks back down at his dick, taking stock of the terrain like an explorer on new land. It’s shorter than Eddie’s but girthier and flushed such a deep red at the tip that Eddie thinks it must hurt.

Eddie licks the head. Steve groans, so Eddie does it again, memorizing his taste. It’s musky and warm with just a hint of salt from the precome already leaking from his tip.

He licks down the side, sucking along the shaft, mapping the textures with his tongue. Steve’s hips are making abortive little thrusts.

Eddie licks back up, and puts his mouth on Steve again, just the tip this time, Steve’s command of slow, Baby ringing through his head as he sucks.

But Steve’s still squirming, and he sinks down a little farther, tongue swirling around all the skin he can reach.

He’s never felt closer to god than in this moment, with his own personal angel bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, cock hard and wanting in Eddie’s mouth. He’s always heard you're supposed to pray on your knees, and the carpet digging into his skin can be his penance.

Eddie stays there for an endless moment, sucking on Steve’s dick, lost in the sensations playing against his tongue. But then Steve grips his hair by the root and every nerve ending Eddie has lights up. He moans, hips twitching as his own dick gets somehow even harder in the confines of his jeans.

Steve curses, vehement and filthy, as he says, “fuck, Eddie your mouth,” and uses his grip on Eddie’s hair to push him down a little farther.

The head of Steve’s cock hits the back of Eddie’s tongue, and he gags around it for a second until Steve pulls him back until it’s just the tip in his mouth again. Eddie whines, and it must feel good because Steve grips his hair even harder and pushes Eddie’s head back down again.

Eddie’s jaw strains around the girth of Steve’s cock, he’s starting to get light-headed as he tries to breathe through only his nose, and he’s one wrong thrust away from gagging again.

He’s never been more turned on in his life.

Steve resists for a second as Eddie tries to lean away, hand clenching almost painfully in his hair before he shakes it free and clenches it back into the sheets instead like he needs something to hold onto.

Eddie’s resistant too, sucking from root to head until it drops from his mouth with a suctioning pop. Eddie looks at it, rapturous. It’s obscenely wet with his spit, and it’s bobbing as Steve flexes his hips like he’s still seeking out the warmth of Eddie’s wanting mouth.

“Please, please, please,” Steve chants, like he’s the one worshiping here, and that won’t do.

“Look at me,” Eddie demands, waiting for Steve’s dark eyes to meet his before he holds up his palm and spits into it, letting the glob of saliva pool in the cup of his palm.

Steve shudders, eyes fluttering closed for a second before he pries them back open to meet Eddie’s gaze once more. Eddie reaches his wet hand out to wrap around the base of Steve’s dick, squeezing hard as he pumps him up and down, once, twice, thrice, Steve writhes above him.

“Keep looking at me,” Eddie commands, and Steve does, eyelashes barely fluttering as Eddie leans forward to sink his mouth back onto Steve’s cock, never stopping the movement of his hand.

It takes a minute for his mouth and hand to move in tandem, all beneath his angel’s wonton gaze. His mouth’s dropped open, and his thighs are twitching like he wants to thrust and take.

Eddie twines his free hand with one of Steve’s, pausing his ministrations as he unclenches Steve’s fingers from the tangled sheets to fist it in the hair at the base of his skull before dropping his hand back to clench against his own thigh.

Steve groans and uses his tight grip on Eddie’s curls to bring Eddie’s head down on his cock again, thrusting his hips up off the bed at the same time. Eddie’s downward slide is stopped when his lips connect with his own hand, still fisted around Steve’s cock.

“Sorry,” Steve says, stilling his hips and pulling Eddie’s head back up before loosening his grip on Eddie’s curls. 

Desperate to not lose this connection, Eddie reaches back behind his own head to clench down around Steve’s hand, hard, forcing his fingers to fist back into Eddie’s hair. Steve’s mouth’s dropped open and he’s panting but he’s still not doing anything. Eddie reaches behind Steve to pull at his ass, forcing him to grind forward into Eddie’s wanting mouth.

He moans, watching in real time as all of Steve’s restraint snaps.

He pulls Eddie back by his hair, then thrusts into his mouth again, pulling Eddie’s head down with the movement until his mouth’s nestled against his own hand again. Eddie gives a few half-hearted jerks of his wrist around the base of Steve’s cock, but then Steve thrusts again, and again, and again, and he loses the plot entirely.

It's all Eddie can do to keep his teeth back and keep sucking as Steve picks up momentum, their shitty mattress squeaking at every roll of his hips.

Desperate and aching, Eddie’s own hips start moving, trying desperately to get any friction at all against his aching cock. He whines around Steve’s dick, hips flexing uselessly against air.

“That’s it, baby,” Steve says, and then Steve’s leg is pressed up against Eddie’s groin. “Take what you need.”

He does, movements stilted as he writhes against Steve’s leg as his angel fucks up into his mouth. It almost hurts as he rubs his dick against the inside of his jeans, friction rubbing him raw. He feels like a dog in heat, lost to the salty skin on his tongue, and the feel of Steve’s leg against his dick. Nothing’s ever felt better.

But then Steve’s thrusts grow rougher, something desperate in the way he grinds Eddie’s head down, and he mutters, “shit, shit, baby, I’m gonna—” right before he spills, hot and salty into Eddie’s mouth.

It’s almost overwhelming, a musty tang on Eddie’s tongue that should gross him out. But Steve Harrington’s just come in his mouth, cock twitching futilely as it softens, so he swallows it down like it’s the elixir of life itself.

Steve’s hips still, and his hand gentles in Eddie’s hair, smoothing it down as he gasps for breath. Eddie, still more wild animal than man, sucks on his mouthful of softening cock as he thrusts his own dick more firmly against Steve’s leg.

“That’s it, baby,” Steve says, pushing his leg against Eddie’s groin, meeting him thrust for thrust as Eddie teeters ever closer to his own orgasm. “Come for me.”

Eddie shudders, on the precipice from Steve’s words, but that’s not what does him in, even as his dick leaks freely into his jeans, begging for release.

He continues grinding, desperate as he looks up to meet Steve’s eyes, and finds Steve looking back, like he’d never stopped after Eddie’d ordered him to watch. That’s what sends him tumbling over the edge, groaning around Steve’s soft dick as he spills into his jeans.

It takes a long time for Eddie to resurface, head still buried in Steve’s groin, dick in his mouth, leg still between his own knees. He gives one tiny suck that has Steve shivering before releasing him, kissing the head before leaning back far enough to meet his angel’s eyes.

“Well?” Eddie asks, surprised at the gruffness of his own voice. “How did I do?”

Steve smiles down at him as he replies, “no way that was your first time.” Steve’s fingers have softened in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp as they both catch their breath.

Eddie grins back, reaching to force Steve’s hand back into a fist in his curls. “That was all you,” he says, tickled as a blush blooms across Steve’s cheeks. “Besides, it’s easy to fall on my knees for you, Angel.” That’s what finally, after all this time, gets Steve to look away, blush turning splotchy and red and spreading down his neck. “You’re worth worshiping.”

“Shut up,” Steve mutters, shoving Eddie away.

Eddie just laughs, knees protesting the change in position as he stands long enough to shuffle onto the bed beside Steve, who follows him willingly down, legs dangling awkwardly off the end.

His spunk’s drying uncomfortably in his jeans, he’s got carpet burn on both of his knees, but Steve Harrington’s lying naked and sated next to him, face pressed into the juncture of Eddie’s armpit like that’s not the grossest thing in the world.

He’ll die down there, on his knees, if Steve lets him, worshiping at the pedestal of his angel. But that’s a lot to shove on Steve after such a rigorous workout so all he says is, “Want to go again?”

Thanks to @queenie-ofthe-void for editing, and especially wrangling the pronouns and names into something worth reading. <3

[triptychgrip]

New one-shot: Viktor realizing he’s not hard to love

In my latest one-shot, I detail 3 instances taking place during canon in which Yuuri fights his anxiety in order to provide Viktor with reassurance (alternatively: Viktor realizes with Yuuri’s help that he’s not hard to love, in spite of what his past has made him believe.)

I hope you’ll check it out, and if you enjoy, I’d love to hear what you think!

Below the cut is an excerpt that I hope piques your interest in this or my other Yuri!!! on Ice fanfic

—

“Don’t get me wrong, Lev was supportive after my surgery, at first,” Viktor rushed to qualify, smiling when Makka tilted her head, as if in disbelief that he was cutting his ex any slack, whatsoever. “But people tend to lose patience when a bum knee repeatedly prevents you from being able to go out on dates to fancy restaurants with stiff, uncomfortable chairs, dance and go clubbing, have s– ”

Viktor caught himself before the word “sex” could fully form, and then flinched, his brain cells apparently having decided to resume firing at normal speeds.

Shit.

What was he doing?! Hadn’t Yuuri made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested in hearing about his exes?

“Ah–, sorry, Yuuri,” he awkwardly remarked, his shoulders hunching of their own accord. “I forgot you wouldn’t want to hear about any of this. Let’s just keep watching, I really like this episode so far.”

He felt smaller than he’d felt in a very long time, and completely lopsided, not only physically but emotionally, as well. Like a phantom limb, his arm stretched out for his laptop, but quickly met with a wall of resistance.

Yuuri had grabbed onto his hand.

Viktor’s breath stuttered in his lungs, his brain failing to compute the reality of the sight before him: his student, gazing at him with something both soft as well as firm in his eyes, his warm fingers clenching around Viktor’s own…

Steady. Unyielding.

Yuuri had grabbed onto his hand. And he wasn’t letting go.

“You can tell me,” Yuuri stated, his voice sounding a bit croaky.

It was also absurdly loud, given the quiet of the room, punctuated only by Makka’s soft breaths and a lone, whirring fan.

“Like…if it would help, I mean?” Yuuri went on, his pitch creeping higher so what was probably intended as a statement came out as a question. “That sounds really difficult, so if it would help for you to talk about it…I don’t mind. The only things I know about your recovery came directly from social media.”

And now he was blushing in a way that was a bit absurd, as if mad at himself for not knowing the grim, unsanitized reality of those bleak months Viktor had endured back in 2011. Prior to that, he hadn’t experienced such a severe depressive spiral since cutting his parents off, mere months into his Senior debut season.

Read more here!

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Stories for the Salt

(Genre: Spooky campfire story urban fantasy, wlw background romance)

Summary: A daughter is visiting her mother to help pack up her house and move her out of the mountains. Instead, she encounters a bedraggled hiker that appeared from the woods.

PART 1

Casper had heard two things since she arrived at her mom’s house: "Don’t touch that." And "Fresh air is good for you." Emphasis on the good like Casper had yet to fully grasp the concept. Casper, however, was discovering a limit for how many times you could stand on top of a mountain and contemplate the meaning of life. Then again, maybe that's what is “wrong with city people.” City people were the third topic Casper was hearing all about since her arrival. 

She sat on the counter, collecting plates from the top shelf of the cupboard, valiantly ignoring the eyes boring into the back of her head. Their cat, Cassie, was unhappily somewhere else and no help whatsoever--sibling solidarity a lost cause.

Her mom cleared her throat. “I love you so much, honey bee. And I am so proud of you.”

Casper groaned at the ceiling. Where was that cat?

“But,” her mom punctuated the word like an airsoft gun release. “I have decided to cancel the movers.” “The movers aren’t canceled, mom.” Casper had checked this morning.

Her mom sat at the dining room table with one foot elevated. Pillows and ice packs cushioned the sides of a gauze-strangled ankle. Casper’s mother crossed her thin arms over her chest. One set of crutches leaned against the table next to her and her other foot was shoved into a muddy boot.

Casper desperately wanted to pack the woman’s hiking boots first, but forced herself to finish with the delicates. She wrapped a plate without looking up, her mom’s eyes weighing her down like cement.

“I’m sure the movers haven’t started up the mountain yet,” she enunciated each word. “Three more weeks, honey bee. The doctor said only three more weeks–that will go by in a blink of an eye.” 

Casper groaned again. Is this what dad had felt like?

She plastered on a smile. “The doctor said some distractions might help too. You know, there’s this great little Greek restaurant that opened up near me. I know how you like Greek food.”

Her mom snorted. “Better than Angelo’s? Have you met my neighbor Angelo? He’s from Greece originally and his wife is from Belgium. Lovely woman and you wouldn’t even notice the false eye. They invite me over some nights in the summer, it’s a summer home and they check in on me now and again . . .”

Ah, Casper noted her mom was returning to her other favorite topic: daughter, there are neighbors. Stop worrying. Casper also wished she could stop worrying. 

She finished wrapping the last of the plates and faced her mom.

“Do Angelo or Martine have medical degrees? Mom, we’ve talked about this. This whole mountain is nearly empty. There isn’t a hospital for forty minutes. People die alone out in the woods like this.”

“Only if they’re dumb. Do I look dumb to you?” Her mom barked, utilizing one of her well-worn Mom Jokes: “Okay, don’t answer that. The point is, I’ve been getting along out here for longer than most ‘solo travelers’ have been alive.” “And even well-equipped and intelligent people make mistakes. When alone. In the woods.” She gestured to her mom’s ankle swollen up to a grapefruit.

“I could just as easily take a fall in the city.” She waved Capser off. “What are we supposed to be so scared of?”

“Bad Cell service.”

“Gloria got taken for all she was worth by a phone scammer just last year. They’re targeting old bags like me, safer to be away from all that.”

“No wi-fi!”

Her mom nodded sagely. “Safer.”

Casper rolled her eyes and started listing, “a fall off the mountain. Stalked by mountain lions. Gas leak. Contaminated water–”

“Honeybee, you must think I’m dumb.”

“Bears!” She threw her hands up. “Eaten by bears!”

Her mom tightened her arms over her chest and made a guttural noise in the back of her throat. “Better than being taken out by serial killers in the city. Or eaten by them! I’d rather be eaten by bears. At least you know what they are thinking. Bear spray works a lot better than pepper spray anyway. Do you know, most attackers use the stuff back on the woman?” Her mom clicked her tongue. “Bears don’t have thumbs.”

Casper collapsed back against the cabinet. She grumbled under her breath like she was a surly teen again, “Not yet they don’t.”

“You know something about bears I don’t, missy?” Her mom raised one eyebrow. She took a deep breath. Casper was in for it. The gusto entered her tone. “You know, last year I saw a mother and two cubs. Right by the Hand Bone's trail. And I said to myself, Isla, you're only going to see this once in a lifetime. Once! You better stay right there. I didn't move a single muscle.

I wouldn’t take the bear spray out for the life of me either. She knew–that momma knew–I had my own two cubs of my own and nothing less.” The chair creaked as her mom sat up straight in it, getting into her primary story-mode. “And you know what?”

Her mom gestured. One of the ice packs dropped to the floor. Casper jumped down from the counter. She grumbled, “You saw them again the next week.”

“Once in a lifetime I told myself, only once, but what do you know, that exact mother and her cubs were crossing Jay Road the next week. I was in my car this time, much safer, but I must’ve stayed parked there for thirty minutes.”

Casper gentled her voice. “You have lived a magical life out here, mom.” And now it’s come to an end.

“No where else like it!”

Casper picked up the ice pack and tucked it against the bandages. Her mom’s ankle was still the size of a small melon and she winced when Casper adjusted the position. 

Mugs and cups next. Shoes and winter coats and sweaters after that.

“It might do you some good to spend some time out here . . .” Her mom commented, probably noting the sheer number of wallowing noises Casper had been making.

Casper tilted her head all the way back and stared at the ceiling. She gathered her strength. “There’s a huge community garden right next door to me. You’ll love it. . .” Her mom gave her plaintive look and Casper mirrored it. “I don’t want to be the bad guy. You know I’d move up here if I could– or get Joey to.”

Her mom patted Casper on the sniffed and sniffed. “Would you?”

“The movers are coming in the morning.” Casper finished lamely. Her mom took her hand back. 

“You both think you know so much more about what’s good for me,” the sour-ness leached through her mother’s words–like they had been a lot lately. Less poetry readings like from Casper’s childhood or bird identification out in the yard.

“And what happens if you get in trouble and I can’t get up here in time?” Casper said quietly, heart squeezing. We could read poetry in Denver, she wanted to say. I could find you birds in the rafters.

But Casper wasn't 9 anymore.

Her mother snorted. “You mean if you can't get up here in time to wrap my plates or hand me two ibuprofen . . . The city? Really? You don’t have to go back either. There’s nowhere like this in the world, honeybee.” Her eyebrows arched. “You might even meet someone.” 

Casper pushed to her feet. “It’s getting dark. I’ll get the cat in.”

“There are plenty of people out here! I’ve been asking around for. Hen, my neighbor with the chickens of all things, has a granddaughter like that." Her eyes sparkled, she laughed. "Gay I mean. Oh, I used to have trouble in polite company, but age cures all foolishness. Gay, lesbian, is your daughter a homosexual? My neighbors, the Dutch woman and the Greek, looked like they’d seen a ghoul when I asked, but they admitted it’s easier to be plane once you’ve started–”

“Love you mom!” Casper called over her shoulder. “Super proud of you. Going to text the movers now.”

She heard her mom groan in the background. 

---------------->

PART 2

When Casper was younger, age seemed to stretch out into infinity. When you are ten there is no such thing as twenty-five and when you’re twenty-five thirty feels like an entirely different planet. You never really expect when your mom gets old enough to hurt and you have to help her to the toilet in the middle of the night. Thirty-two snuck up on Casper.

She ran a hand through her hair, squinting out over the mountains. The peaks were covered in scraggly pine trees and washed-out summer skies. More than a mile high and the air was thin and chilled in her lungs. The sun dipped behind the far mountains and the gorge lit up in oranges and pinks. Dipping and rising, the mountains rolled like ocean waves. Clouds like tides nestled between the teeth of the land, glowing a sun-dipped rose color.

Has anyone else ever felt so miserable staring at something so beautiful? Casper sighed.

Maybe her 16-year-old self had been right. There is something wrong with you. Casper chuckled at the thought. At least she never had to be 16 again.

One or two houses dotted the mountain, but mostly there was nothing but sky and trees clinging to the side of slopes. Pockets of real estate had managed to establish summer homes and outdoorsy Airbnbs, but they were far between. Jay Road wasn’t even called Jay Town after all these years. The neighbors her mom prattled on about lived a mile apart each and some of the cabins didn’t even have running water, just outhouses and wood stoves. Which was fine. It was all fine.

But she was Casper’s mom. Brilliant and impractical. Affectionate and painfully honest. Chatty and yet obsessed with being alone. She was her mom and Casper had to do something about the distance to the hospital. Had to do something about the number of accidents piling up. Had to do something about the isolation.

Casper had unfortunately inherited her dad’s careful nature instead the ability to jump off cliffs into waterfalls or hitchhike across countrysides.

A fire lit in Casper’s belly. Her brother said he’d be back when he could. Australia didn’t have great cell service. Rescheduling flights was complicated. Mom would be fine, she was tough. It was only a few more months.

Casper started walking in the opposite direction of the gorge. She had always been proud to be called “mature for her age” and puffed up when her brother was scolded, told to act “more like your sister.” But it turned out nine-year-old maturity wasn’t something you got dividends on. Figured.

Casper trudged down their long driveway. Gravel skidded with each step and Casper called loudly, “Cassie!” The sound of her voice echoed from somewhere. “Here kitty, kitty!”

For all her mom’s monologuing about the virtue of living by herself, it had not escaped Casper’s notice that she named her cat Cassie. Granted, the cat’s full name was Cassiopeia and her last two cats were Orion and Ursa Major.

“Cassiopeia!” Casper was already going hoarse from yelling. She walked all the way to the road. It was all gravel and dirt and potholes, and the only details of humanity were janky mailboxes lined up in a row. Their wooden posts decaying and metal sagging inward.

A hush settled over the twilight and Casper found herself wandering aimlessly. Tiny stars popped out. She wound all the way toward the cowpaths through the woods–makeshift trails that were more like dusty grooves through the pine needles. They were called Desire Paths for those with a romantic bent.

“Cassiopeia! Cas! Here kitty.”

The pine trees had a malnourished look, thin and brittle, spread far apart from one another like estranged cousins. There wasn’t enough air or water this high up for green grass or big shrubbery and she could see her house through the trunks.

Casper kicked a stray pinecone and gave herself a little lecture: Breathe in the summer pine air. Listen to the birds. Feel the crunch of needles under your boots. Be present.

It was no use, of course, whatever she was supposed to feel out here, Casper didn’t feel it. Plus, there were mugs to wrap and dinner to cook and mom’s impossible house to finish packing up.

A soft meow cane from up ahead.

“There you are!” she called. A small black cat trotted through the trees. Casper knelt down and Cassiopeioa purred loud enough to wake the dead. The cat had a narrow elfin face and impossibly thick whiskers like an old man’s wiry beard. She was a small thing, but could generate a truly astounding loud rumble– a tiny motor trying to terraform the dusty landscape.

“Don’t tell the others,” Casper whispered. “But I always knew you were the smartest.”

Her mom trained all of her cats to come in by dark, but Cassiopioa was the only one that came when you called by name. Her rumble vibrated through Casper’s palm and there was a temptation to just . . . stay there. She could squat in the woods until her heart stopped squeezing and the world stopped spinning.

She scratched the cat behind her ears. “Sorry, bud. The cat carrier won’t be any fun but I promise it’ll be short.” Casper shook her head “Well. Let’s get today over with.” She stood. “Come on, sweetie.”

The cat trotted at Casper’s heel. She was a slow walker and would stop to sniff the ground or pretend she wasn’t following you around at all. Casper wasn’t in a hurry, though.

Twilight left ribbons of pink and purple through the sky and Casper forced herself to think about art and love and buying more plants for her apartment. She tried to listen to the music of nature or whatever it was. Casper stopped. Her skin prickled, the forest was quiet. Birdless. The cat let out a low growl and Casper jerked around.

A hiker stood behind her. The woman was pale and bedraggled and staring straight ahead. One of the hiker’s hands was outstretched behind Casper’s neck, fingers hooker, poised behind her collar.

Casper let out a muffled sound and jumped back, the cat scrambling out of the way behind her.

The hiker’s lips were cracked to the point of bleeding, the skin around her mouth chapped and red all the way to her cheek bones. Her eyes were bloodshot. A red windbreaker clung to her in damp splotches. An enormous pack hung off her shoulders, depleted and torn in parts. She was breathing hard.

The woman’s knees buckled inward. She fell to her knees.

The hiker rasped, “help me.”

---------------->

PART 3

Casper staggered, sweat beading on her brow. The hiker was limp against her side—head lulled onto Casper’s shoulder and eyes half-lidded and empty. Holding most of her weight, Casper was lucky the woman was light as a large pile of sticks.

Gravel crunched under Casper’s shoes and her mother’s robin-egg-blue house drew near. The cat was lashing her tail back and forth at the back door, waiting, ears pressed to her skull.

Casper side-eyed the hiker, dragging her to the door. She wet her lips. “How long have you been out here?” she asked in soft tones, gentled into a nursery-rhyme rhythm. “Do you know where you are?”

The woman’s eyes remained half-open and unseeing. Her lips were parted and cracked to bleeding. Casper winced.

“I’ll get you some water the moment we get in,” she hissed, and the woman closed her eyes.

They crossed the lawn and the hiker managed to prop herself up as Casper ran to get the door open. The cat darted into the house the moment the door was cracked, and Casper called through the hallways.

“Mom!” Casper was suddenly glad she had her mother. “Can you get the first aid kit?”

“What’s that?” Thumping sounds answered and soft “ow.”

Brine filled her nose. Casper swung around and the woman was standing behind her, eyes bloodshot and wide. “Um,” Casper flattened herself to the wall, mind racing. “Do you want to wait outside actually?”

The woman swallowed several times and pointed to her mouth.

“Right, right, right.”

Her mom rounded the corner, crutches clattering against the hardwood floor, expression pinched.

“Who is that?”

“Mom! Stay with, uh, her. I’ll be right back.”

They got the hiker into the house despite Casper’s worry flaring like a rash. She supposed there was no point in talking about the importance of having neighbors if she refused to be neighborly. Her mom shot off questions and then petered off when the woman coughed into her fist, whole chest shaking.

“Where did she come from?” Her voice shook and Casper paused. Isla, of all things, was not known for being fearful.

“I don’t know. I picked her up in the woods.”

The hiker leaned against the doorframe, eyes fluttering shut and muttering strings of hoarse words. Casper darted to the kitchen. The nearest hospital was a long way away. She filled up an enormous glass of water, remembering to add some electrolytes.

“Good lord is that woman alright?” her mother muttered. She stood in the hallway, eyeing the stranger.

Casper glanced between them, her mom’s crutches, the woman’s ragged form. The timing couldn’t be worse. It was just Casper.

“Mom, I may need to borrow the car–”

“Who is that?” Her mom repeated, staring.

“She’s not well. I don’t think ambulances come up this way–”

“They don’t. Casper! Who is this?”

Casper strode into the living room, mimicking how she imagined the ER doctors held themselves upright. Grabbing the couch cushions from the unwrapped furniture, she lined them up on the floor. She tuned-out her mom’s questions and guided the woman across the room.

“Here, ma’am, please lie down.” The woman stammered something back and Casper held her breath. The hiker smelled overwhelmingly of stale sweat. Casper ignored how her own shirt was damp from holding her up and eased her down on the makeshift mat.

The woman pointed at her mouth again and Casper held up the glass, tipping her chin up. “Just a small sip.”

Water dribbled out of the side of hiker’s mouth, running down her cheek. She closed her eyes in the next second and collapsed back. Casper exhaled. Well. Shit.

An image flashed in her mind’s eyes. The woman, standing behind her, hand outstretched, fingers hooked near Casper’s neck and a shine in her eyes. Casper shook her head as to dislodge the thought. She worked in a hospital, even if it was just administration. She knew better than to expect shock to look the same on everyone.

Her mother cleared her throat. “So. Where in the woods?”

“Nearby. She was looking for help.”

Casper stood, knees cracked and back straining. Food would probably help. More water.

“She must’ve gotten lost from one of the trails.” Casper silently urged her mom to not mention solo hikers being “dumb.” She glanced between them. “Or from that big gorge one.”

Her mom pursed her lips, brow furrowing. She looked coolly over Casper’s shoulder. “Dear, which trail were you on? Do you remember?” Casper whipped around and the woman’s eyes were open wide. “What happened to your gear?”

The hiker shook her head, shaking. Casper knelt without thinking and handed over the water. “Here. A little more.”

The woman grabbed the glass in both hands. She tilted her head back and drank like a racehorse, glugging and noisy. Water spilled down her front and Casper politely looked away, some sense of propriety surfacing.

Casper willed her brain to work. Twilight was descending and the roads were awful to drive on at night—she’d have to do something quick.

“Mom, let’s go talk in the other room.” She stood, whispering, “is the truck filled up?”

“The truck?” Her mom frowned. “This young lady should get to decide whether she wants to be forced off the mountain.”

Casper rubbed her temple. “What?”

“She survived this long. Some people don’t like quitting halfway through.”

Casper narrowed her eyes to slits. She couldn’t be serious.

“No!” The hiker spit-up water down her front. “I can’t go back. Look, it’s dark.”

They studied her. The woman’s entire front was wet, straight black hair plastered to her cheeks and chest heaving.

“Easy now,” her mom put out a hand. “We won’t force you. I understand these parts. We can take you wherever your party is or down the road to the sheriff–”

The woman shook her head vigorously. Her pupils seemed to pulse, and she spoke in rapid gulps, “Not back. Not down that way. They’ll come from there.”

“Okay.” Casper put her hands up like calming a spooked animal. “We don’t have to go anywhere just yet. You can rest here, you’ll be safe.”

“No!” The hiker gnashed her teeth and the alertness returned to her gaze. She glanced around, faltering upright and falling back down again. “Where are we?”

“You’re near Hand Bone’s peak. Off the main road,” her mother said slowly.

“Do you know how you got here?” Casper added at the same moment. This might be a worse case than she thought.

“How late is it?” the woman’s chest started rising and falling rapidly. “How big is the moon . . .?”

Casper and her mom shared a look. Her mom recovered first.

“Want some more water, dear?”

The woman pressed her palms to the floor and lifted herself up in a painful lurch. Casper put a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re not well,” she murmured. The woman’s shoulder was chilled and shaking under her touch. “Can I get some more water? A blanket?” Casper ran through her mental list: blanket, first aid kit, maybe some bread, a call down the mountain.

Then packing the house. Somehow.

Her mother gasped and Casper wanted to shout, “what now?!” The woman had wrenched the sleeve of her jacket up. Her arm was covered in purpling bruises.

“Casper!”

“I’m on it.” Casper fumbled for the first aid kit her mom dragged out. The hiker went very still.

“It’s quiet,” she said, eyes roving over the room and body taut. Casper remembered the hand behind her collar. “Where is your cat?”

Shock looks different on everyone.

Casper held herself motionless, mirroring the young woman. “What’s your name?”

The hiker’s eyes narrowed. She growled, “Who are you? Whose house is this?”

“Easy now,” her mom repeated. “It’s mine. You’re not feeling very well right now. Would you like some aspirin? We’re going to call someone to help you feel better.”

The woman's forehead was slick with sweat. She itched at her arm and Casper forced down bile. The odd bruises covered her forearm like an abstract painting, purples and yellows molting together.

Casper tore her eyes away and took deep even breaths. The moon was enormous through the window, a perfect yellow disc through the trees.

The hiker’s breath came in rapid bursts and Casper forced herself to grab her shoulder again and ease back down.

“My name is Casper Lake. Do you know what year it is?” Casper asked clumsily. “Do you know your name?”

“My name is Maya,” she said through gritted teeth, lips bleeding sluggishly. “And I am trying to get out of here.”

“We’ll try and help y—”

Maya jerked forward to her hands and knees all at once. Casper put a hand on her back and then recoiled, falling to the floor and paling. Clear water poured from the woman’s open mouth as she puked an endless stream on the floor.

---------------->

[di-42]

Good Omens is just I show I watch. No obsession here. Nope.

Edit: August 2024. I still love Good Omens, I do. I have come to think of the fandom as a virtual home. I cherish the other fans and I can't imagine my life now without the richness and the joy that fanart, fanfiction and fanwork bring to it.

But let me be clear: I believe the victims. I condemn, with no question whatsoever, the horrible actions of one of the co-author of the book and lead writer of the series.

My fictions:

And I Did. Rated E but plot driven.

They haven't talked for almost 2 years. The end of the world is approaching. They are on opposite sides. And they both know neither of them was ever going to make a different choice to the one they made.

This is a story about faith. This is a story about love. This is a story about loss. This is a story about being apart and about being reunited. This is a story about fighting. This is a story about choices.

Where do we choose to place our faith? Will a god we have faith in come and save us? Will a friend? A loved one?

When do we start doubting our faith? How long before we snap, before we raise our head? How far can we go before we crumble under the weight of our own misplaced faith? Under the weight of our choices?

What does it take to make us feel betrayed, abandoned, left behind? What does it take for us to turn our back on what in which we had faith?

Who are we loyal to, and who is loyal to us? Who do we trust, and who trusts us?

What are we ready to risk in the name of faith? What are we ready to lose in the name of loyalty?

When are we going to take our lives into our own hands? What are we going to fight for?

This is a story about unbreakable faith. This is, after all, a work of fiction.

OR:

Yet another Good Omens post season 2 fiction.

Second Chances And Second Choices

The second coming has failed and Aziraphale is hoping this is the beginning of his life with Crowley. But Crowley seems to be of a different opinion. That is, until old enemies turn up at Aziraphale's door.

Once the world is safe again, what happens next? Can Crowley and Aziraphale reconnect?

Rated teen and up.

Only Ever Meant For Someone Else

Human AU.

Every year, the night before Christmas, taxi driver Aziraphale drives passengers to and from the hospital for charity. On the Christmas morning of 2023 he was ready to go home and rest with a cup of tea, a mince pie, and a book after a long night.

Guess who?

“No, you may not!” Barked the other. Then he started pacing up and down the pavement, rambling to himself. “Anathema’s going to kill me. She’s actually going to kill me! She had to go into labour on fucking Christmas day, just my luck!”

Oh, dear.

“In-into labour?”

The stranger stopped pacing and, yet again, looked at Aziraphale sternly. He joined together the tips of his right thumb and forefinger, and punctuated his next words with a gracious movement of his hand.

“Yeah. It means she’s about to give birth.”

“Does it, now.”

One shot, rated teen.

I Prefer The Fluffy Ones Series:

In Vino Ludus

It's the year 2030. Crowley comes to the bookshop drunk, and Aziraphale can finally put all those years of eye-rolling practice to good use.

An as of yet canon divergent fluffy night in the life of an angel and a demon.

One shot, rated E.

Angel! Angel! They're At It Again!

It's the year 2030. The world never ended. Aziraphale and Crowley are living happily and safely together as a married couple. Everything would be well, if it wasn't that lately Aziraphale has been a bit busy. A bit distracted. Now, Crowley can't have that, can he? He seeks the advice of his girlfriends, who unwittingly give him an idea on how to liven up his marriage.

A fluffy and hopefully funny way to the South Downs cottage.

One shot, rated M.

An Angel And A Demon Go To A Halloween Party

And they are horny!

A silly, smutty little piece set in our favourite Ineffables' fluffy future.

One shot, rated E.

My poems:

di-42-poems

Ineffable Chords

My recs Fictions I've read and what I like about them:

February's Fabulous Fictions

March's Marvelous Fictions

April's Amazing Fictions

May's Magnificent Fictions

June's Joyful Fictions

August's Awesome Fictions

September's Scrumptious Fictions

October's Oh, wow! Fictions

November's Notable Fictions

December's Delightful Fictions

My metas:

Justice for Aziraphale

On Season 3 and the Apology Dance

Aziraphale is in

Fluffery and Fuckery:

Aziraphale is the villain in Good Omens

You Said Trust Me

Sweet Crowley

Face Value

It's unthinkable

[jessicas-pi]

i present a highlights collection of The Sequel Trilogy But Better (Or Maybe Worse) by my kid sister

here's a few fun facts:

Okay, so, the highlight of the ENTIRE fic is that the Knights of Ren are a squad of. like. really hot beefy women. and Kylo is their bratty kid brother figure. They bully him constantly. One of them is named Izmai and she's, like, the OG Katka / Zhaya character. I'm fairly certain her adopted sister Shyla (also a KoR) was supposed to be Ahsoka Tano's daughter, but Makenna has refused to confirm this, and she never wrote the whole fic so we'll never know.

The stormtrooper who died in the beginning of TFA & left the bloody handprint on Finn's helmet is given a full character here. She was constantly dragging Finn into trouble and her death is a big part of HIS character motivation. And before you think "oh, this might actually be a decent, fleshed-out character," she was also Captain Phasma's secret daughter and Poe's eventual love interest (because she didn't actually die in the beginning).

Kylo/Ben got redeemed halfway through part 3 (there were four parts) and spent the rest of the time getting nonstop roasted by Poe.

It was written in first person in size 12 comic sans. Sometimes the POV jumped halfway through a scene with no warning and you just had to figure it out. And the grammar was either perfect or there was no punctuation whatsoever.

There were actually like three really good plot points that she said I could use in my MandaloREYan AU since she was never going to finish writing this one.

And some of the (in my opinion) funny snippets beneath the cut:

[infinitesimaldna]

The Giving Season

It was the annual gift exchange for the friend group, but something was up. Janus could tell.

And no, it didn't have to do with his feelings towards the other two in the room, that'd be ridiculous.

What was going down this holiday season?

------

Ao3 Link

(Not currently posted but I'll edit it when Ao3 comes back online)

------

Tw: Mention of sex (just Remus being Remus, not graphic whatsoever)

Ships: Intruloceit, background Prinxiety

Word Count: 3,456

Notes: This is my gift in the @sanderssidesgiftxchange for @edupunkn00b! I had a super fun time making it, and I really hope you enjoy <3

Also, all the love to my beta, @quillienvii. They were with me through every step of this journey, and I cannot be more thankful for them

Without further ado, fic under the cut!

The get-together was meant to start 20 minutes ago, which meant everything was going according to plan. 

Currently, the only ones present were Logan, Janus, and Remus. Logan had been there at exactly noon, Janus dragging Remus through the door a few minutes later. The gathering was taking place at Patton’s, so he should be here currently, but he had gone out to pick up Roman after he apparently had been having issues with his car. Since Roman had also intended to pick Virgil up and bring him to the festivities, that meant they were also short one emo until Patton made his way back with the other two in tow. 

Either way, Janus was getting impatient. That also meant if he was starting to feel impatient, Remus was practically jumping from anticipation already. Logan was probably doing fine, he always plotted extra time in their hangouts for the purposes of one or more of them being late. And he was always less uptight around the holidays.

Janus really enjoyed the season for that reason.

That, and how Remus would share the same facts every year without fail. Like right now.

“Did you guys know that in Belgium, Santa has a cannibal manservant slave that eats the bad children for him instead of just giving them coal?”

“Oh good, Remus is already starting the facts. I can cross that one off my bingo card.”  Janus hadn’t actually made a bingo card, but it was certainly an idea for next year.

“Shame. I had his fact about people breaking into noble’s houses while caroling on my own.” Logan’s comment was accompanied by a look sent his way, just a hint of a smile there, one that made his own face attempt to betray him and give a genuine smile back. He was able to work it down to a smirk, and thankfully Logan didn’t seem to notice. 

“If you guys are gonna keep teaming up on me, I’m just gonna go outside and strip in the snow.”

“No! I mean,” Logan took his glasses off, wiping them on the edge of his shirt before replacing them on his nose. “We can desist, Remus. There’s no need for our gathering to end up taking place in a police station holding cell.”

“Well, we gotta find something to do. Everyone else is taking so long, and I don’t know why.”

“If I recall, Roman is late because his car tire was punctured.” Janus punctuated his own addition to the conversation with a sip from his eggnog. “Weren’t you just saying to me yesterday that you punctured his wheel before you left for my place? And that’s why you needed to stay the night, to lay low until he calmed down?”

“I bought him a new pair of wheels for Christmas! It’s not like he didn’t need them, the old ones were losing their traction. I just…”

“Forgot he would need the car to get here for you to give him his gift?” The judgment was palpable in Logan’s voice, and Janus would be lying if he said he didn’t get some enjoyment out of it. How did he manage to fall for both the smartest and dumbest members of their group?

Not that either of the party’s present currently knew of his feelings. No, there was no need for that. His little crushes would pass soon enough, and the group dynamic would go back to normal. One couple in their friend group was already enough, and polyamory was complicated. Both Logan and Remus did tend to want to keep things rather simplistic, in their own ways. It was better if they stayed separate.

“Janie, back me up here!” The nasally call of Remus pulled him out of his thoughts, but he was quick to recover. 

“I wasn’t listening, and I’m sure you’re wrong anyway.” 

Remus huffed, jumping back to curl up on the couch, legs pulled up and arms crossed against his chest. “I get no respect around here.”

“You would be upset if either of us ever claimed to respect you unconditionally.” Logan’s claim seemed to bring Remus right back out of his pretend pouty episode, as he was shooting up from the couch a second later. 

“You’re right there, Nerdy Wolverine! Now come on, surely, we don’t have to wait for the others. We can just, start, you know? I’m sure no one’s thaaaaat interested in what we all got each other, I know Roman just cares about Virgil’s reaction to whatever he got him.”

Janus rolled his eyes, all too happy to let Logan take this one. It was always a team effort in managing their friend.

“I… suppose there’s not too much of an issue with that. So long as everyone here acquiesced and we got confirmation from the other’s before opening anything.”

See, now Janus was puzzled. Logan, willingly going against the schedule, agreeing with Remus in one of his ideas? And not just in some theoretical debate the two commonly had over body decomposition and the like. No, this was just going along with one of Remus’ tamer ideas. What was Logan up to?

“Perfect! I’ll text Robro and let him know.” Remus was typing and practically had the text typed before Logan could even remind him to ask, not tell. Well, this was the chaos Janus had signed up for when he hadn’t fallen for one moron and one genius who was always a little too indulgent. 

It didn’t take long for the three of them to get settled around the living area, their usual spots working well. Logan was on the far right of the couch, Remus leaning against that same arm, and Janus in the armchair closest to Logan’s seat. The other half of the couch and the loveseat were left empty, but the space felt filled enough, especially with the presents located next to each person. Plenty more were still in their place beneath the tree, but these were the only important ones right now.

“Well, I propose Remus starts, as I’m surprised he even managed to go this long without blurting out what he got each of us.” Logan’s suggestion was probably smart. The ratman was already bouncing on his heels, his body rocking back and forth as small giggles emerged from his crooked smile. The fact that his mouth was still shut was astounding. 

“Oh goody!” Within seconds, Janus had a larger wrapped box in his lap, and a quick glance told him Logan had received a similar package, albeit with different wrapping. Logan’s had little test tubes, although there did seem to be some hand-drawn explosions surrounding the chemistry equipment. Janus’ own paper had snakes all over it, but the one right next to the tag had a hat very similar to Janus’ own drawn atop its head. 

He would have to open this carefully to keep from ripping that particular scrap of paper. It definitely wouldn’t be making its way into his secret scrapbook collection that none of the others knew about.

“Open ‘em, open ‘em!” Janus didn’t fight the smile so much this time, if only because his gaze was down towards his gift. And… oh. 

“Remus, what is this?” The paper wasn’t fully removed, but he had peeled the edge enough to get a glimpse and he wasn’t sure about what he saw. At least, he shouldn’t be seeing this, if his previous statement was correct.

“I found your hidden scrapbook supplies! I didn’t look through any of the albums you’ve made, but I figured you could always use more stuff. Plus, it didn’t like you had a pair of crafting scissors in there, and those things are crazy sharp and good for stabbing things. I figured you could use a pair.”

“But how did you—”

“Jan, I’ve stayed the night at your house how many times? Me digging through your cabinets had to be something you expected.” 

Well, it definitely wasn’t out of character, but still. He was known among all of them as being the best with secrets. For Remus to know… 

“I suppose it isn’t the worst thing in the world.” Janus’ words triggered a small stim noise from Remus, the smallest sound before he rounded onto Logan, fully turning around and almost hitting the coffee table in his effort to face the other.

“And Logan? Whatcha think?”

Logan’s gift was smaller from what Janus could see, but that wasn’t much from the way it was carefully cupped in the nerd’s hands. 

“Is this a tie pin?”

“Yup! I figured you could use a new one, your old one was starting to rust a little bit.”

“And it’s shaped like a tiny tie.”

“Uh huh! That way you can be a nerd squared. Double ties!”

It was silent for a minute, Janus holding back his own comments as he examined Logan’s face. His own opinion on the quality of the gift was inconsequential until Logan’s reaction could be judged. And he had always been hard to read. 

The next noise to fill the space was a small chuckle, the volume of which slowly rose as Logan lifted his head. “It is an adequate gift, Remus. Thank you.”

“Aw, no problem! All I ask for in return is that my own gift is a pet squid.”

“You do not have the space at your and Roman’s townhouse to accommodate such an animal.”

“Life finds a way.”

“No, we are not having another discussion on Jurassic Park, at least not while I’m the only one who has to suffer through it.” Janus took a moment to mourn the fact that his eggnog cup was empty, and that the alcohol content was not nearly as high as he would appreciate. 

It was only 12:30 but it was never too early to be drinking if Remus and Logan were discussing their theories again. 

“Well then, I suppose it’s your turn to pass out gifts?” Again, Janus was left off-put by Logan’s contribution. He normally insisted (or at least suggested) they go clockwise when moving around the circle for their gift exchange; here he was suggesting the opposite. Still, Janus would avoid voicing his notice of the suspicious behavior until after the gift exchange, hopefully when Remus was being distracted bothering someone else.

There was little fanfare to the way Janus took the gifts from his side, passing Logan his while throwing Remus’ down towards him, fairly certain he would catch it. They were both decent in size, but nothing so over-the-top as to arouse suspicion. Just normal gifts for normal friends that mean nothing more in hidden messages.

“Janus, this is very kind. I hadn’t even had time to think about purchasing them myself.” In his hand were the discs for the Ace Attorney trilogy. The two of them had a conversation, months ago now, about the games and the fascinating introspective look into the Japanese court system they provided. When Logan had admitted to never actually playing the games himself, simply watching video essays about them online, Janus had been quick to suggest they could go through them together one day. In all seriousness the comment hadn’t been something he intended to come back to, but as the holiday season rolled around, he found himself compelled. It was a fun experience that incorporated learning new information, all of which was right up Logan’s alley. And if he happened to be allowed to watch and use it as an excuse to spend more time around the other, then that was nobody’s business but his own. 

“Oh Jannie, you shouldn’t have!” Remus, coincidentally, had also been given something video game related. His old DDR mat had been torn to all hell—Janus was pretty sure Remus had been stepping on live wires the last time the two had played. So, a new mat.

“I definitely didn’t make it slip-proof either so it would be sturdier and last longer.” 

“Oh, Roman’s gonna kill you for this one.” It was true, Roman hated their DDR sessions. 

“Not my fault he’s not great at the game. He really needs to stop being a sore loser every time he fails a level we can both full combo with ease.”

“To be fair, you both are able to full combo level 15’s on that game.”

“Oh, I actually got my first full combo on a level 16 the other day!” Remus spoke with such an enthused grin, and Janus allowed himself a smile as well. It had taken nearly 30 minutes of trying the same song over and over before Remus had gotten it, with Janus sitting on the sideline for moral support after the first attempt or two. He had been so happy when he succeeded.

“Well, hopefully this helps you even more, I can’t wait to see your brother’s face when you really start showing him up.” Of course, Janus had nothing but good will towards his other friend, but right now the grin on Remus’ face was just a tad more important. He wasn’t around to hear, anyway.

“Oh, he’s gonna be—”

The rest of Remus’ statement was cut off by a loud thud, attracting all of their attention yet only making Logan jump. 

“What in the world was—”

“Ah, it seems it’s my turn to deliver your gifts.” Logan straightened his tie as he readjusted in his seat, and Janus could have sworn he heard him say “although they could’ve just texted” under his breath.

It seemed Janus wouldn’t be waiting to ask about his suspicious behavior, then. “Logan, what are you up to?”

“And what was the thud?” Remus chimed in.

“Please, just indulge me a moment longer.” He was quick to pass Remus and Janus small packages then, identical in their traditional Christmas blue and silver wrapping from what he could tell. “Go ahead, open them.”

Janus cast a glance in Remus’ direction, not entirely surprised to see him shrug and then move to open his gift, spurring himself to do the same. If his theory was right, whatever he and Remus had was the same thing, and he’d rather not have his gift spoiled because he was watching someone else.

He wasn’t as careful with the paper this time, wrapping it a bit recklessly and pulling the box from beneath. It looked like a box one would use to hold a gift card, but pulling off the lid revealed no such thing. Instead, the words “look outside” were neatly written in Logan’s compact handwriting. 

There was a moment of eye contact between Janus and Remus before the latter raced to the window the sound had come from earlier. Janus wasn’t too far behind, if more civilized in his refusal to hop over the couch. 

The curtains were pulled back quickly, and very prominently, there was a message splayed out on the lawn, pressed into the fallen snow and definitely large enough for them both to read.

‘Will you both go out with me?’

“I… apologize for the untraditional nature of my gift, if one can even call it that, but I thought this would be the best way for me to ask.”

The attention was back on Logan before he even finished talking, Janus’ face for once not hiding any of his expression, his jaw open and eyes wide in surprise. He…?

“Both of us?” Remus normally had a nasally tone when he spoke, but this wasn’t that. No, there was a tremor in his voice, the same one Janus was sure he would have if he tried to speak right now. 

“Yes. I’ve come to develop feelings for both of you, and if I recall properly, you have both expressed that you’re okay with polyamory in the past.”

“That wasn’t your answer, though.” Janus felt the words leave his throat, no accusatory tone behind them. Not really any tone behind them. He was just speaking.

“Not at the time. I didn’t believe polyamory was for me, until I started to develop feelings for both of you. I came to realize that in dating only one of you, it would feel incomplete without the other. When it comes to—ugh—feelings, we all know I’m hardly a master on the subject. But I know what I feel for each of you, and I would like to know if this is something you’d be inclined to explore further.”

“And I thought hiding my feelings was the best answer.”

That came from Remus, somehow. Not himself. Huh.

“Have we all been harboring secret feelings for one another and just not said anything this whole time?”

“Well, I was kinda obvious. I did suggest having sex to both of you multiple times.”

“And we took you very seriously in that offer, Remus, truly.”

“As for myself, I only realized my feelings in their entirety a month or so ago,” Logan said. “Then, I started planning this, so I wasn’t hiding my own, per say.”

“Well then Jannie, what’s your excuse?” Remus was leaning against his shoulder when he asked, face inches away from his own. Just the kind of pressure he needed at that moment.

“Some things are better kept in secret until the time is right.”

“And for you that ‘right time’ would’ve been never. Right, Logan, I think it’s clear enough we both return your feelings and wanna go for polyamory. We can work out all the juicy stuff later.” 

“That is acceptable to me. Janus?” 

Both sets of eyes were now on him, Remus looking with a mischievous grin and Logan, a soft and hopeful smile. 

He nodded.

Remus whooped, and Logan breathed a sigh of relief. “You have no idea how hard it was coordinating with the other three to make this happen.”

“Wait, they were in on it?” He was so glad Remus had backed up before he spoke, because that yell was loud.

“Of course, I needed someone to make the sign while I kept you distracted inside. They’re out there right now waiting for me to text them about your answers. Speaking of which…” Logan was quick to pull his phone out, presumably sending the aforementioned text. 

“But how were you planning to get them all here late? It’s Patton’s house, and you couldn’t have known Remus would puncture Roman’s tire.”

“It was for his gift!”

“Yes, well, the original plan was for Roman to just fake having car troubles, requiring Paton to go and pick him up.” As he spoke, Logan adjusted his glasses, the pretty pink that had been coloring his cheeks finally dulling a bit. Shame. “Remus’ pranks just added another level of realism to the whole thing, if annoying Roman in the process. I do find it humorous that he unknowingly contributed to a plan he wasn’t even aware of.”

“I’m right here, you know!”

“Well, we can never be sure what that one will do,” Janus said with a smirk, all too agreeable with continuing the bit.

“You guys are so rude. I deserve cuddles and kisses for this behavior.” The pout on Remus’ face was absolutely adorable.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to hold off on that for now,” Logan said, and Janus noticed he was checking a text on his phone. “It appears our presence is being requested outside as ‘Roman really wants to hit Remus upside the head with a snowball as payback.’”

“Oh, he really thinks he can win a snowball fight? I have a whole harem on my side.”

“Debatable,” Janus chimed in, making his way towards the staircase so he could get to the first floor and into the inevitable snow day they were all about to have.

“The us being a harem thing or you guys being on my side?”

“Both,” answered Logan, and Janus felt he could kiss him right there.

“Hey!”

They made their way outside after only one attempt from Remus to steal Janus’ coat, quickly being enveloped in hugs and congratulations from Patton. Roman and Virgil, it seemed, would be sending their congratulations over later, as they were currently hidden behind a snow wall which Janus was sure had plenty of ammo waiting behind it.

And he never was one to go for the side with a disadvantage now, was he?

Sure, the first acts of his new relationship were now making fun of one of his partners and then abandoning them for the other side in a snowball fight, and he definitely hit Remus right on his mustache with one of them, but honestly, this was who he was. This was the manipulative liar that apparently, both of his crushes had fallen for.

So no, Janus had no problems with his actions. He very much doubted his boyfriends did, either.

[thetypedwriter]

Remarkably Bright Creatures Book Review

Remarkably Bright Creatures Book Review by Shelby Van Pelt

I’ve known forever that I love character-focused stories. 

However, I’ve also realized after reading this book that in order for me to love these kinds of stories, the characters have to be good. 

Unfortunately, Remarkably Bright Creatures, a debut novel from Shelby Van Pelt, doesn’t fulfill this requirement. 

The story has a simple premise and switches off between the two main characters, a young man with a chip on his shoulder by the title of Cameron and an old Swedish woman named Tova.

Other characters have random, interspersed chapters, but the only other character or…animal of note that dominates a few POV’s is a giant Pacific octopus named Marcellus McSquiddles. 

Marcellus is by far the most interesting character in the book and the novel would have been ten times better overall if more—and longer—chapters were told by Marcellus.

Incredibly intelligent and observant, Marcellus figures out the plot of the novel halfway through the book, frustratingly earlier than Tova or Cameron, who are dim-witted beyond belief. 

The plot revolves around Tova’s son, Erik, who disappeared thirty years prior when he

was 18-years-old. Tova never got over this disappearance and it only punctuated her loneliness following the death of her beloved husband.

Since losing both of her family members, Tova lives by herself and is afflicted with loneliness, but stubbornly refuses the emotional comfort of the friends around her, instead opting to live in a retirement home far away that would remove her from Sowell Bay, her home of many years. 

Cameron’s whole character can be boiled down to this: annoying. Because his mother is a drug addict who left him as a child, Cameron’s whole life has been in shambles.

He can’t keep a job, a girlfriend, or save up any money. Instead of blaming himself and his choices, he condemns everyone around him and refuses to take any accountability for his actions or where they have led him. 

Cameron finds himself in Sowell Bay looking for his father with only a cockamie idea of who the man might be and some borrowed money from his aunt in his pocket.

Solely due to the kindness of the people in the community does Cameron manage to not live on the streets and go hungry, but he still decides to bitch about his circumstances to everyone and anyone. 

The “mystery” surrounding Tova’s son Erik only gets deeper with Cameron’s appearance, whose mother knew Erik back in high school and may have had to do something with Erik's “drowning”. 

The plot of this book is paltry and not that interesting. It’s laughably easy to put together as a reader that Cameron, and by extension his mother, are tied to Erik and Tova, and yet Cameron and Tova themselves can’t put two and two together until the end of the novel for...reasons.

And yet a captive octopus has no issues solving the so-called “riddle”.

The majority of the book instead focuses on Tova’s realization that she is growing old and has no one to support her. Meanwhile, Cameron slowly, slowly, mind-numbingly slowly recognizes that he is in control of his own life and the actions he takes. 

Honestly, if the whole book was told from Marcellus’ POV this would be a much better book. 

I love slice-of-life stories that focus on characters and their emotional depths. However, Cameron and Tova did not deliver whatsoever on this front.

Cameron’s inability to recognize his own faults wasn’t fun or entertaining to read about and Tova’s staunch coldness made it hard to sympathize and connect with her. 

The pacing of the book was at a molasses speed with next to nothing happening for most chapters other than infinitesimal character growth that I didn’t find interesting to begin with. 

I had such high hopes for this book after hearing from several people that it was an enjoyable read. So much so that I recommended it for my fiance’s Thanksgiving book club. It was even nominated on Goodreads for 2022’s Nominee for Readers' Favorite Fiction and Nominee for Readers' Favorite Debut Novel.

I…don’t understand how such a nothingburger novel could earn such high favor and acclaim. And as I’ve said over and over again, I adore character-driven stories. I prefer them, in fact. 

They just need to have good characters. 

Recommendation: Read a summary on Goodreads of the “mystery” of Tova’s son and then only read Marcellus’ chapters. They’re the only chapters worth consuming.

Score: 4/10

[lastflowerofyourhouse]

guess who has the uncontrollable urge to post exerpts from their drafts again!

this is from the loveday/cytherea fic entitled Exaltation of the Beloved Lady

-

Loveday wasn’t squeamish. You couldn’t be, if you were best friends with a prodigy animaphiliac. And besides that, she actually had a fascination with medical science. Cytherea had led her in dissections as children, guiding her hands and showing her where to cut, telling her the names of things. She loved to listen as Cytherea explained her research to her, referencing books of anatomy, pointing out what she was talking about. Loveday could hold an intelligent conversation about flesh magic by the age of eight, despite her complete lack of aptitude. Cytherea had told her, laughing, that it was a tragedy that she wasn’t a necromancer. That they’d really lost something when Loveday was born without aptitude. Loveday thought, privately, that Cytherea’s genius more than made up for it. 

And so it wasn’t squeamishness that made her uncomfortable with Cytherea’s studies. It was just that– Well. 

Cytherea hunched over a microscope, blood matted into the hair at her temples. Her hands were shaking, as they usually were, by that point. Her breathing had been getting gradually more aggressive for the past hour or so—she was recovering from a cold, and there was a dry, labored quality to it. She growled low in her throat, finally breaking concentration, and pushed away from the table. Loveday went to her, reached out, but Cytherea pulled away. “I’m alright,” she said. “I’m okay, but I can’t– it won’t–”

“I take it the samples are still dying?”

“It’s not only that they’re still dying, I could work with this if they were only dying, I could think of something else to do to them, but they’re dying at the same rate and showing signs of new growth.”

“Which is bad.”

“Which is absolutely terrible. I’m beginning to think I’d have better luck creating myself a new body wholesale than halting the decay of this one.”

“Rhea, that sounds to me like the scientific breakthrough of the millennium.”

“Oh, it’s fascinating, I could go down in history just for getting this far, but it’s not good enough.” These last three words were punctuated by Cytherea slamming the heel of her palm against the metal table, causing all the objects on it to jump.

“I need a living subject,” she said, speaking more to herself than to Loveday now, “One who’s healthy. If I could only see how cells respond when they’re not dying faster than they can be created, then maybe I’d have some good data to work with. That’s the problem with cadavers, you know, even the freshest ones produce no thalergy whatsoever, and my only ethical live subject is a dying girl. I don’t make for much of a control group, Lovie, let me tell you.”

“I mean,” said Loveday, “There’s always me.”

Cytherea looked up as if she’d forgotten that Loveday could speak. “What about you?”

“I’m healthy, and I’m still growing. I think. That means I’m producing more thalergy than thanergy, doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“Oh. But I’m still viable as a subject, right? I fit the profile.”

She blinked. “What? No, you produce quite a lot of thalergy, actually, you’re as healthy and vital as anyone your age can be. Exactly what one would hope for. I meant ‘no,’ as in, ‘no, I will not be using you for a live subject.’”

“But why not? I would work.” Loveday hated how petulant she sounded, how young. 

“Because it could be dangerous. New cellular growth occurring independent of your normal cycles of growth and decay—do you know what we usually call that?”

Pause. “Oh.”

“Mm. One cancer patient is enough for me, thank you. I will not have you on my conscience like that, Lovie, I refuse.”

[lvrsparadise]

Some of the smut actually isn’t bad but I don’t think most people realize that it’s not realistic whatsoever. You can TELL which writers have never actual had s3x by their misconception of the topic lmao.

(This isn’t directed at you whatsoever btw) but kids, s3x. Is. Nothing. Like. Porn.

Thanks for your time I love your fics sm 🩷🩷

actually because like there are some writers that i absolutely love bc their writing looks like something i would read in an erotic novel and i love it.

sometimes when i click on a fic (ikik shh) and i start reading, i genuinely feel queasy bc it's so unrealistic, so badly written, FREAKY ASS KINKS (WTF), and just horrible dialogue and punctuation, or grammar (yeah yeah, i'm one of those). but other times, i have to go SEARCHING for an actual REALISTIC, PROPER TERMINIZATION (???), and like grammar.

i follow a few smut writers bc their writing is so good and realistic (although i don't know bc i'm a teen and have never done the deed, duh.)

and again, like you said, this is not in any way shape or form directed at anybody, but some writing just is sickening, like it genuinely makes me feel like i'm going to get arrested for looking at words on a fucking screen. others, i'm good with bc i know what kind of writing styles i like, theres not many i don't, but as soon as i spot something that crosses MY personal line of 'this just went from good to what the fuck', i'm clicking off. simple as that.

and if anyone's going "oh! uhm actually ☝🤓🤓you said this and did that! blah, blah, blah!!☝🤓" genuinely learn about humans because people can fucking change. yk? like, yes, i didn't like smut a month or so ago, but that's because i wanted to.... how to put this in words without sounding like a bitch.....

i care about what people think of me, a lot, so i was being what would be a push over or whatever it is. and i wanted to be like, "oh yeah! no this, this is bad!!" for like my own personal need as to show people i "didn't" like it.

i like smut (in general), but at the time, smut abt the triplets made me so sick to my stomach, so i went against it. but then i warmed up to it after reading so many good fics.

people can change. please respect and learn that. i don't really care if you come after me or "cancel" me after this, i couldn't give a rats ass! go tell your mother or something. cry about it. seriously, cry about it.

but that's just me. people all have their own opinions and are not objected to others, you can feel what you want about this.

I don't know how to write smut, so i would never actually write that stuff, just read it.

smut is one thing, deep fakes and p)rn is another. please learn the difference.

[doonarose]

Fic dump. Rated M (I think, correct me?). Really dumb fluffy thing that entered my brain two hours ago because of all the tomfoolery/hanky panky/monkey business discourse on my dash. And then I wrote it and that's my last two hours.

*****

Crowley reckoned that saving the world (again) had been rather a good thing. Getting Aziraphale back from heaven having finally seen the light (insofar as discovering various shades of grey, seeing reason and subsequently pushing the Metatron into a lake, at least) had been very good indeed. And coming to realize that Aziraphale actually, really, very much did want to kiss him had been wonderful, if a little awkward and also quite over-whelming.

Things had progressed from there and that was all rather glorious. Long, languorous afternoons in bed together, exploring comfort and pleasure and intimacy they could scarcely believe they’d managed to go without for over six millennia. And then that gave way to several frantic, frenetic shags around the bookshop, invariably punctuated by laughter and embarrassingly vulnerable and high-pitched sounds.

Crowley quite enjoyed seducing Aziraphale, but he didn’t want to be pushy about it and so after pouncing on him mid-breakfast – resulting in spilt tea and the discovery of twin ticklish spots behind Aziraphale’s knees – Crowley decided to wait him out for the next round.

He didn’t have to wait long because the very next evening, Aziraphale was overly fidgety. He opened and closed three different books without ever reading a page and then stood up quite loudly to ask, “Shall we retire upstairs for some tomfoolery?”

Crowley’s face shifted automatically into a sneer which then tumbled into a grimace as his shoulders tightened with concern that Aziraphale would take his revulsion that wrong way. Crowley was very quick to say, “Don’t call it that.”

Aziraphale seemed entirely unaffected, supremely confident in Crowley’s acquiescence, and was already on his way up the stairs. “I think it’s a rather lovely euphemism.”

Crowley was already trailing him obediently. “’s not. No room for you, me and Tom in the bed, certainly nothing foolish.”

Aziraphale was pushing open the bedroom door and shrugging his jacket off, his eyes bright as he rather deliberately tried to annoy Crowley. “You know it’s meant to be derived from a Tom who was, indeed, either very foolish, or made others do foolish things.”

“See, nothing to do with sex.”

Aziraphale pulled a face and looked ready to argue. Crowley shut him up the very best way he could think of.

*****

Nina held on to their takeaway cups for a beat too long and fixed Crowley with a cocked head and a raised eyebrow. “You two have been very holed up over there since you got back from wherever it was you went,” she remarked without handing over the beverages.

Crowley seethed silently and pulled his top lip back to bare some teeth. Aziraphale waited for a question.

“Lots of times I’ve walked past and it looks like you’re in, but the shop is closed. I mean, much more than it used to be.”

She handed over Aziraphale’s medium tea but, without any good reason, held onto Crowley’s four shots of espresso in a cup (he was cutting back).

“Not getting into any sort of trouble we should know about?” she finally asked.

Crowley still wasn’t sure how much she remembered of demons and angels, but clearly enough to have her a little worried. Or perhaps she was just being nosey.

Aziraphale smiled beatifically. “Oh, certainly not, my dear, nothing for you to worry about.” He did one of his bursting-with-excitement whole-body shimmies and Crowley’s embarrassment for him and for how ludicrously affectionate it made him feel turned the tips of his ears bright red. “Just spending some quality time together,” Aziraphale continued without any pretence whatsoever. Crowley discovered new depths to the embarrassment he could feel and to how deep underground he suddenly wanted to burrow. Nina hadn’t even so much as glanced at Aziraphale, instead she just stared down Crowley’s ever-growing grimace and red ears.

Aziraphale wasn’t done. “Discovering all sorts of shenanigans we can get up to,” he said, leaving absolutely no allusions as to what he euphemistically meant.

Nina grinned and Crowley bit out, “Don’t,” which may have been aimed at either or both of them. Beside him Aziraphale bounced on his feet and across the counter, Nina looked like she was thinking of a follow-up question. “Don’t,” he said again, warningly and reached for his coffee with urgently grabbing fingers.

Nina relented and handed it over so Crowley could take Aziraphale by the elbow and start pushing him towards the door. “Don’t tell people we’re discovering shenanigans,” he growled into Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale just wriggled like he was enjoying himself. This only made Crowley smile which he really didn’t want to be doing now. They had to side-step a gaggle of schoolgirls pouring through the door.

“Well, I couldn’t very well tell her we were… you know,” Aziraphale kept his voice low and Crowley bit back another smile to see the rose in his cheeks.

“Could tell them nothing,” Crowley explained, holding the door open and gently guiding Aziraphale through it. Of course, they were met by Maggie, on her way in, smiling, as always.

Behind them, Nina called out, loud enough for half the street to hear and in such a tone that probably half the street would immediately know exactly what type of shenanigans Crowley and Aziraphale were up to. “Good for you boys, about time.”

Maggie’s eyebrows shot up in understanding, a couple of the schoolgirls giggled, and Crowley just continued to push Aziraphale out the door as he gave up the fight and called back over his shoulder, “It is and we’re not!”

*****

“Were you up for a little monkey business tonight, dear?”

Crowley covered his entire face with both hands and leaned both elbows heavily on the table. Aziraphale had to be deliberately doing this, otherwise there was no hope for them. The sex the day before had been rather good, it was a shame it would be their last time, but Crowley really couldn’t go on with things like this.

Peeking out from between his fingers, through the dark shades he only ever wore in public, Aziraphale’s tight-lipped smile and squared shoulders confirmed he was teasing. Crowley dragged his hands down his cheeks, pulling at the skin and trying to rub some of the heat out of them. “Why must you vex me on purpose, angel?”

“I thought you might like to engage in a little amorous congress?”

“That one’s not even a euphemism, just sounds awful.”

“How about bumping uglies?”

Crowley reeled at that, casting himself right back in his seat and released a guffaw that drew a couple of glances from fellow dinners.

Aziraphale beamed at him.

Leaning back in close and contemplating a little demonic intervention to at least keep wandering eyes and ears away, Crowley hissed, “Just call it sex, angel.”

Aziraphale pretended to think on that, pressing another mouthful clearly worthy of its own moan of appreciation into his mouth. It would have been lucky if the terrible euphemisms balanced out the obscene noises he made when he ate, but unfortunately, at no point had Aziraphale’s language actually put Crowley off even a little bit, and, to date, there wasn’t a single shared meal that Crowley could recall that hadn’t turned him on quite a lot.

“It isn’t just sex though, is it?” Aziraphale eventually decided.

Crowley arched an eyebrow and resisted the urge to reach forward and run his fingers over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. They didn’t do that, not in public, not yet. “’s not?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “What we’re really doing, my dear, is making love.”

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled and he took another bite and Crowley groaned and leaned back in his chair once more. “Good fucking grief,” was all he could say (mostly because – and he’d never, ever, admit this to anyone – he entirely agreed, and hearing Aziraphale say it was actually kind of thrilling).

“But back to the point, were we intending on making whoopee this evening?”

“Angel, if you discorporate me with your dreadful language, there won’t be any whoopee for quite a while.” Aziraphale ignored him and just took another mouthful of his meal. Reluctantly, begrudgingly, Crowley answered: “But yes,” and then he bent right forward at the hips, across the table, as close as he could get, voice dropped low and rough and secret, as he tried something new and daring, and in his own way, rather vulnerable. “Yes, I would rather like to fuck you tonight. Ideally until you’ve lost the ability to speak.”

Even if Aziraphale couldn’t quite bring himself to say any such thing, Crowley was increasingly aware that he rather liked to hear it. In private at least. And at that moment, at their usual table at the Ritz, in the privacy of their heads bowed together, Crowley saw straight away that it was making the angel’s breath catch and his pulse speed up.

A small victory, then.

Aziraphale took another slow mouthful and Crowley slipped back into his seat to watch with his chin perched on his hand, his elbow on the table.

“Very good, then,” Aziraphale said, still satisfyingly breathless. He laid his knife and fork down on the plate. “I was enquiring as I thought, with that being the case, we could perhaps get dessert to go?”

“Sounds perfect, angel.”

“Since you’ve so gallantly promised to butter my crumpet.”

Aziraphale wriggled with his enjoyment at the way Crowley’s face crumpled.

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Crowley griped and then simply followed up with, “I despise you.”

“You don’t,” Aziraphale replied, singsong and knowing.

*****

Crowley was in a ridiculously good mood. But he wasn’t thinking about it too much, lest he scare it off. It probably had a lot to do with Aziraphale, and it was probably rather unbecoming on his moody, sharp, dark frame.

Just the other day, Aziraphale had prodded him into bringing all his plants into the bookshop to find permanent spots for them; then he had taken him shopping to buy quite a few more. The day after that, Aziraphale had not only allowed Crowley to wedge a rather large flatscreen TV up against the wall in the spare bedroom, but had then snuggled up between his legs on the single bed and managed to watch all of Pride and Prejudice with only a handful of interjections about deviations from the book (Crowley had no idea if it would be a mistake to press the 1995 mini-series on him next).

And then Aziraphale had spent two hours this morning bent over his desk next to a mysterious man with a thick accent, ooohing and ahhhing at a simply sublime set of books they were on offer for purchase. He’d made a big show of asking Crowley if he thought the price was fair and Crowley had followed the prepared script and helped him haggle another ten percent off the first editions he’d selected. Why that particular interaction made Crowley extraordinarily happy was not something he was ready to contemplate.

All of this was to say that it wasn’t his fault what happened when he got bored of the book he’d been trying to read (Aziraphale had insisted he at least try reading novels) and slinked up the stairs to search out Aziraphale.

He found him sitting in the center of the four-poster bed in their bedroom (that was still unofficial, that it was theirs, but it was), his back against the pillows fluffed up on the headboard, ankles crossed with only thick woollen socks covering his feet. His waistcoat was all the way undone, as was his bowtie and top buttons. His shirt sleeves were folded back to the elbows and his wire-framed reading glasses were perched on his nose as his brow creased with concentration. Intermittently, he scribbled into a notebook propped open against his thigh and turned the pages of a stapled photocopy of some ancient text back and forth with his other hand.

Like this, especially before he even noticed Crowley lurking in the doorway, Aziraphale was devastatingly handsome. And rather likely to be Crowley’s undoing, he thought, still very happily.

He moved into the room and Aziraphale glanced up, casting him a smile as he continued to scribble.

Crowley rounded the bed and considered his options, although really there was just one: slip onto the mattress, beneath the sheets, and have his way with this perfect, delicious, delectable angel, precisely as lazy Tuesday afternoons and high thread count bedding were designed for. And if Aziraphale wanted to make him wait, to keep working, or even just to tease him, then he would wait. What else was there to do?

“Are you wearing sock garters again”? Crowley asked, trying very hard to sound unimpressed when really he was the opposite and already delighted at the thought of the extra touches and movements required to unclip and slide them down Aziraphale’s warm calves. The fact that Aziraphale must be the only man left on the planet that bothered with them was also infuriatingly endearing, in much the same way most of his endearing qualities infuriated Crowley.

“I am,” Aziraphale responded without looking up. “I’m afraid these socks require them and these are my most comfortable lounging socks.”

“Nobody has lounging socks, angel.”

Crowley knelt onto the mattress beside Aziraphale’s feet and Aziraphale finally looked up at him. “Did you want to take them off?” he asked, holding far too much control and expectation in his voice. Crowley rather liked that, too.

“If you want me to?” Crowley slipped one hand up Aziraphale’s right trouser-leg, over the warm scratchy wool to the skin between it and the smooth elastic material of the garter itself. He stroked his fingers back and forth.

“Are you trying to tempt me away from my work?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, I mean, ‘s my job, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale lips quirked up. “Trying to entice me into a little afternoon delight”?

Crowley didn’t entirely hate that one, or perhaps Aziraphale really had started to wear him down. And he was so very, very happy that afternoon, for whatever reason, deliriously so, which was the only explanation for why he next said: “A little hanky panky never hurt anyone.”

Aziraphale snorted and Crowley felt the euphemism trip dirtily off his tongue as though it was a proper blaspheme and as though blasphemy was a real thing. He tried to swallow it back down and spit it out at the same time, like it tasted truly awful and should never have been uttered, but it was all too late.  He opened his mouth with a flinch, rolling his tongue and pulling a disgusted face that just made Aziraphale laugh.

“Shut up,” he said without venom and very quickly stripped Aziraphale’s right calf of sock and garter, scratching his nails through the hair across his shin as he did.

“Say it again and I’ll let you take my trousers off,” Aziraphale teased.

“Didn’t say anything,” Crowley grumbled, slipping his hands up the left trouser leg.

“What don’t you just ask me for a roll in the hay?”

Crowley said nothing but stripped the second sock and garter off, taking a moment to give Aziraphale’s naked foot a good, tight squeeze. Foot-rubs were a thing they did now, although Crowley was still making his mind up whether he preferred to give or to receive.

“Knocking boots?” Aziraphale tried. “The horizontal tango? A rendezvous beneath the sheets? What about making sweet, sweet music?” He was failing to keep the laughter out of his voice.

And Crowley was turning red in the face of it, he moved to crawl up the bed and put a stop to what should really be quite an off-putting monologue but Aziraphale stopped him with a foot against his chest.

Which in itself should certainly not have done what it did to Crowley’s stomach.

“Hanky panky,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Fuck,” Crowley breathed out. “Just fucking call it fucking, angel, you’ll find it freeing.”

Aziraphale did not look convinced but he also didn’t look like he didn’t quite enjoy Crowley’s dirty mouth. He’d admitted as much a couple of times by now, only ever in the dark, and only ever in between blissful, euphoric little moans.

Aziraphale let his foot drop back to the bed, moving his leg up and wide, inviting Crowley in. He seemed to search for a middle ground, “Fancy a shag?” he tried.

“What about a screw?” Crowley wasted no more time and crawled up the bed, slotting into place over and against him easily.

“You really are ridiculous,” Aziraphale told him.

“You are.”

#####

The war of the euphemisms waged for months. Aziraphale cheated by ordering in an entire book dedicated to the topic and once Crowley discovered this, there were moments in which he genuinely wondered when it would truly start to annoy him. Except it never did. There were many more moments where it served as a gateway to dalliances – to fucking, to, satan help him, making love – and, importantly, to talking about it. They got tremendously good at it, rather fast, as they very much deserved.  

And in the end, Crowley had to admit, it was all worth it: the red-tipped ears and the giggles of Nina and Maggie, the way his whole body recoiled every time he heard Aziraphale’s latest bad euphemism, and his tongue tasted like cabbage every time he was tricked or enticed into uttering one of his own. And it was especially worth it for the moment when Aziraphale seemed to finally tire of the game, or perhaps, there was just something in the air.

Aziraphale sidled right up behind him, never one to be quiet about such things, and rested his hands on Crowley’s hips from behind. He hooked his chin over Crowley’s shoulder and Crowley learned back into the embrace automatically, entirely ready for whatever romantic, archaic, trivial thing Aziraphale felt the need to tell him.

Instead, Aziraphale whispered, hot breathed into his ear, “Darling, would you like to come upstairs and fuck me?” and that broke Crowley for quite a long while.

[maxwell-grant]

SF6 Comic Issues #3 thoughts

A bit late with this one since I had no time whatsoever the past few weeks, and I think they’ve wrapped it up now? I’ll have to get to issue #4 separately but it sure feels like it, also holy shit what an ending if so. 

Frankly the way things have been going for him I wouldn’t be surprised if Ken actually was just attacked by a random pack of vultures, or that JP would have trained vultures to sicc on him. Also nice bird symbolism with these and his cane in Issue #2 as hints towards him being the real figure behind Amnesia, I guess it wasn’t that surprising but we BETTER get that plague doctor mask as an option for him in-game

“Ken Masters, my friend” lmao

A lot of beats I appreciate here like how, in JP’s speech about how their top priority is to defend the citizens of Nayshall and how they are at risk even if the information isn’t true, and how his line about countries having an excuse to intervene is punctuated by focusing on the American paramilitary hearing it (and in the next issue these guys will generally make things worse, with Luke having to yell at them to stand down so they don’t execute Ken within broad daylight with millions watching). Might be reading too much into it but I can’t see this, when American interventionism is relevant to the plot and the next issue will feature a character criticizing it, as a coincidence.

I’m grateful that Luke is stepping in to play the part of “brash idiot cop representing De Law chasing the actual hero while usually being either useless or making things worse”, a massive burden lifted from Chun-Li’s shoulders that she’s always been too good for, but he isn’t. And I particularly love that beat where JP catches Luke having a conscience crisis while moping about his origin story, and gently but firmly knocks him back into the narrative he needs him to play his part in

A little dissappointed that Amnesia was never real but, I knew JP’s mask-off moment was going to be sick. And since this a prequel comic and Ken’s situation has notably not improved much in-game, we knew JP was going to get away with everything. But oh my god this is so good, I’m gonna have to make at least one post on JP and the picture the comic presents of him specifically, he’s so fucking good. 

Just how much he’s getting away with is one thing, but that mask off moment being punctuated with not only JP turning into a Metal Gear villain smugly monologuing about his philosophical terrorist plans that lie somewhere between batshit and poignant, but there’s the reveal that he’s placed cellphones modified into exploding triggers for drone bombs across the entire city and strapped Mel to a chair with one of those bombs beneath it, forcing Ken to decide to either let his son die or press the button to detonate all of those bombs on innocents within the city (and thus actually have blood in his hands). 

And he says this to Ken while loudly tapping his cane rhythmically to the ticking of the bomb hanging over Mel’s head as if, what, the guy wasn’t psychologically crumbling fast enough for his liking. And he leaves merrily whistling to himself, completely secure. 

Next issue begins with a news report stating that multiple bombs were detonated and several buildings were levelled and several civilians injured (with no casualities only because Luke figured it out early and issued a warning), no “the bombs were decoys” fake-out so, yeah, Ken actually did just press a button to kill people there and in the next issue we see how badly this and the whole situation have driven him into despair. 

And it seems like a wholly sadistic and pointless cruelty JP’s inflicting on him, but oh no it isn’t, as we’ll see in the next issue. All of JP’s talk about stories and narratives and fictions that people crave at the expense of reality come to a head in, what else, a fight, the only fight in the comic as of yet. Maybe as cynically as this series has ever approached the premise of getting two guys to duke it out for people’s entertainment as a form of storytelling. 

A premise that you wouldn’t remotely be able to tell with Ryu or Sakura or Chun-Li and so on, because this is professional street fighting stripped to it’s coldest capitalist reality, a cruel and exploitative distraction run by number-crunching profiteers playing along chumps with their reasons for butchering each other publicly. 

Y’know somehow Street Fighter was less dark when druglord dictators and eugenicist cult leaders were in charge of these tournaments.

[headlesssamurai]

White liberal vibes

You know, the other day, I was having a conversation with an old friend after her husband and I had gone out for a range day.

We were prepping food on their deck. I was grilling the meats because I don't care for professional sports, and thus I could stand to miss many major moments of whatever sportsball game was being watched inside, whilst simultaneously putting my modest background in sous chef employment to use for the first time in ages.

She and I discussed books we'd been reading recently, as their kids ran around swatting each other with toy lightsabers, and as a happenstance we wandered onto the subject of widespread illiteracy in the modern generation. This, of course, was accompanied by the requisite list of personal pet peeves with regards to poorly composed written communication (and a bafflingly coincident overreliance on such in digital format), the infectious rot played by social media in this trend, and the oft-confused distinction between reading a book yourself (like, you know, with your eyes) and listening to someone else read it for you.

One of the pet peeves mentioned by my friend was this unusual habit for a great swath of folks on the internet to write incomplete thoughts without context or punctuation, and expect others to understand whatever this unstructured nonsense is intended to convey. I recall chuckling at the time, as I've noticed this type of thing happening as far back as the MySpace days, and more recently across YouTube and Tumblr. My friend and I exchanged jokes, laughed, she sipped her beer, I sipped my bourbon, and around that time the potatoes were about done. So we went inside to eat.

I only mention this because it seems such strange luck you'd send me three words out of context like this in a puzzling display of the exact thing I was so recently laughing with my friend about.

I was a bit confused about how to respond at first, so I'll just say - whatever your intent - all three of those words are so utterly overused in today's world I'd regard them as having almost no remaining functional meaning whatsoever. I'll also recommend you do a bit of cursory research into where the term "liberal" originated, and a commensurate amount of research into just how many distinct ethnic groups the United States' federal government sweep under the umbrella label of "white" to get a sense of how hilariously reductive that term happens to be in a society that claims to care so much for so-called diversity. It's as stupidly, ridiculously oversimplified as the terms "Black", "Asian", and "Middle-Eastern".

All that said, hope you have a lovely night. Drink lots of water.

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