snoopypuzzle

[snoopypuzzle]

"I just feel like I should have protected you," Hazel says.

"I don't want you to protect me."

Hazel smiles, oozing uncertaintly. "I want to protect you."

"You're misunderstanding what we are to each-other."

[snoopypuzzle]

I would love to see a fantasy novel where the lore that the reader / protagonist learns at first is not true

[snoopypuzzle]

i love to read a character's stoicism as awkwardness. yeah your posture is great and you're mysteriously surveying the scene but it's because you're stiff af and don't know how to approach anyone, right?

[snoopypuzzle]

the yaoi was there. it didn’t save anyone. but the yaoi was there.

[snoopypuzzle]

Julian is eyeing him carefully and that worsens his roiling rage, the rage he’d thought he’d buried when Valentine died.

“You’re angry.”

“Goddamn it!” He shouts, an open hand clearing his desk of its accoutrements before he can rein in this hot anger and fear, nauseating as they wash over each other. “Yes I’m angry! You…” Cicero breaks off, then gasps and shudders. “You could’ve died. You could’ve died and I told you not to follow me.”

“I was fine.” Julian retorts, and Cicero clenches his fists, head bowed as he stares unseeing at the floor. He feels a desperate oil slicked sort of laugh bubbling up in his throat, and he’s desperate not to release it. Only he, he thinks, could fall in love with another man who would do anything but admit they could ever be wrong. Maybe it was a curse.

“Goddamn it.” He whispers again, and shoves his fists in front of his eyes, not wanting to see anything. He collapses into the chair at his desk, and he aches for a time when he never had to know this pain, never had to put a man so stupidly unafraid in charge of caring for his heart. A wet breath shudders its way out, and Cicero suddenly finds that he’s well on his way to a breakdown.

Bony arms wrap around him from behind, and he tries to pull away, but Julian only tightens his grip until Cicero twists and buries his face in Julian’s too big sweater.

“You can’t. “ He says through sobs. “You can’t. You can’t leave me. Don’t… don’t leave me.”

Cicero feels Julian’s delicate fingers combing through his short curly hair, and he shudders again. “I’m sorry Ceece. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I made you worry.”

Julian coaxes Cicero upwards and onto their bed, and Cicero obliges, still encircled by his lover’s arms. It’s easier with his tears soaking Julian’s misshapen sweater, at least he can’t see Julian’s eyes, sure to be filled with pity and concern.

But when Julian pulls back and tilts Cicero’s head upwards, Cicero can find none of the pity he feared, only something which he refuses to name, refuses to acknowledge first.

Julian cups his stubbled jaw, and rubs his thumb along it almost reverently. Cicero takes another heaving breath, and steels himself to speak.

“Uh,” He starts, averting his eyes from Julian’s warm and unguarded gaze. “my lover. Valentine.” He takes another breath, not realising even saying his dead lover’s name even a year down the line would still feel like a hot lance to his side. “He’s the one. The one who died.” He’s grateful when Julian envelopes him in another solid hug. That’s the most he’s ever said about Valentine without crying. The memories of breaking down while giving a eulogy at his funeral rip Cicero from his nightmares often enough that he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget how it felt to be standing in the freezing cold, discussing a man for whom Cicero’s love wasn’t enough to save him.

Into Cicero’s hair, Julian murmurs and soothes as Cicero continues to shudder and sob these ugly wretched sobs that would humiliate Cicero if he had the emotional bandwidth at this moment to be embarrassed. Tucked into Julian’s arms though, Cicero can feel his grief recede slightly, a tsunami before but now mild flooding.

He pulls away from Julian and wipes his face. Then he looks up at Julian, who is simply smiling softly, patiently, at Cicero in a way that threatens to renew his tears. “Thank you. I haven’t… not since the funeral.” He says quietly, his voice rasping slightly.

“Thank you for telling me about him. And Cicero…” It’s Julian’s turn to hunt for the right words. “I can’t promise that I’ll never be foolhardy in my desire to help you.” At that Cicero’s grip on Julian’s sweater tightens, but Julian puts his own hand over one of Cicero’s, and continues, “But I’ll try to be safe. And I’ll let you know. I’ll always let you know.”

Cicero is trembling again, he thinks distantly, and crying big silent tears, but he can’t care about any of that when he’s pushing Julian down onto his once single bed and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

[snoopypuzzle]

fanfiction is so awesome. some of the most brilliant writers youve ever met are writing the most crazy porn youve ever seen. does that not move you

[snoopypuzzle]

Do not go gentle into that good knight. He likes to be fucked much harder than that.

[snoopypuzzle]

hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god

[snoopypuzzle]

the saint of heartbreak・judas iscariot x lucifer bibleslash

[snoopypuzzle]

CRIMSON - What would it take for them to kill someone they know?

the knowledge that them being alive would cause more suffering for them. cicero wouldn’t kill someone he loves even if they were exposed as an unrepentant serial killer. he’s too selfish.

which could mean nothing.

[snoopypuzzle]

i didn’t touch boulder point for two weeks and i forgot that i was writing in past tense…

[snoopypuzzle]

gentle parenting my brain by reminding it that it is 2am and i am not going to be happy tomorrow morning if i keep writing

[snoopypuzzle]

OC ASK GAME - Red

CRIMSON - What would it take for them to kill someone they know?

SCARLET - How do they grieve?

WINE - How do they act when drunk?

CHERRY - Why did you create them?

STRAWBERRY - What part of them is most like you? Was this intentional?

RASPBERRY - Are they a virgin?

WATERMELON - What is their greatest reason to get out of bed?

APPLE - Messy or clean?

POMEGRANITE - Which myth would they relate to most?

JAM - Can they cook?

CANDY - Do they have a sweet tooth?

BLOOD - What would they do if they saw a stranger's corpse?

GORE - If they were asked to fight in a war, would they fight or run away?

RUBY - What do they consider most precious/valuable?

GARNET - If they had to kill someone, what method would they choose?

BLUSH - Who flusters them most?

LIPSTICK - What is their love language?

KISS - Who did they last kiss?

ROSE - What gift would they most wish to receive from a lover?

POPPY - Do they believe in a god?

[snoopypuzzle]

Cicero can’t sleep. Despite his best efforts, he can hear Julian’s every breath. The man appears to snore, something that would irritate Cicero if he wasn’t aware that he was a guest in the park and had also just survived a fire. And if Julian wasn’t making those distressingly cute snuffling noises every so often. He sits up in his bed, and looks out of the window directly across from him. Though the window is positioned badly, with half of its view obscured by thick trees that cast moonlit shadows across the room’s floorboards, the moon is still clearly visible, as are the darkened silhouettes of the mountains in the distance.

His attention is redirected as Julian makes another snuffling noise, and he stifles a heavy sigh. He really doesn’t know how he’s going to make it with someone else in his space. He feels newly aware of how far he’s gone to avoid concerned loved ones who don’t know how to deal with this new Cicero. At least Livia doesn’t ask nosy, prying questions. But she’s not here, and that was his decision too.

His grief wasn’t so apparent when he interviewed for this job, it sits just below his clothes, like an ill-fitting shirt. But in the privacy of his own room he knows that it itches and claws until he removes his shirt, and then everyone can see what was not evident before.

So really, he can’t have Julian here at all. But he can’t force him out. He was going to. While he was dragging the sleeping bag out of the dusty closet that he doesn’t use to hang his clothes, he was simultaneously mustering up the courage to suggest that maybe Julian needed to go to the hospital after all.

But Julian had looked so grateful when he gave him the sleeping bag, that he simply cleared his throat and averted his eyes and muttered that it was fine, really there was no reason to thank him. So now he’s wide awake, and his alarm clock ticks closer to 5am and he silently curses his sense of duty.

“Are you alright?” Comes the bleary voice, and Cicero starts. He had failed to notice that Julian’s unabashed snoring had stopped from where he was, deep in his musing.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Cicero says, his voice feeling too loud for the still night. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Julian replies, but he yawns and rubs his eyes, and Cicero feels a bit bad. “I don’t sleep well at night.”

Cicero nods, but what he really wants to do is ask how he managed to sleep through the campfire gobbling up whatever lay in its path. “Oh. I usually do.” He says automatically, picking at a stray thread in his bedsheets.

He can feel Julian’s eyes on him. “Am I disrupting that?”

Cicero’s eyes swivel up to meet Julian’s, cursing his clumsy tongue. “No. No. I just…” he searches for a suitable lie. He settles on a half-truth: “Been a rough few days.”

Julian nods, seemingly accepting this response. He sits up, then pulls his knees in and hugs them. He huffs. “I don’t even know how I slept through that fire. Seems a bit improbable really.”

Cicero bites his lip. He had hoped answering Julian’s initial questions would send him back to sleep, but the man clearly wants to talk. “Do you usually camp alone?”

He hears rather than sees Julian cough, then snort. “No, your real question is if I’ve ever been camping.” Cicero opens his mouth to protest but Julian continues, “No, I… haven’t. I didn’t think it was a big deal to leave the campfire burning for a bit while I lay down, but obviously that wasn’t a good idea. I didn’t realise how tiring camping was. I just thought…” He trails off, and the silhouette of his head is pointed down, his messy blond hair glinting slightly with the force of the moon’s beam. Cicero swallows. He doesn’t want to pry, but maybe he’s supposed to. This conversation is territory he used to have a map for, but that map is long gone.

Apparently the silence drags on for longer than is socially acceptable, because Julian runs a hand through his shoulder length hair and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter anyhow. Just embarrassing.” He yawns again, then flops back onto his pillow. He turns to face Cicero. “I’m going to take advantage of this opportunity and get some more sleep. I hope you can too.”

Cicero grunts, and in less than five minutes, Julian is out like a light.

[snoopypuzzle]

i need more ask games because i’m a bit bored of the ones i have gathered at the moment but i’m lazy.

also i wrote today, i’ll post it. i’ve been very focused on my nonfiction and poetry that i actually want to publish and not my delightfully self indulgent stories and i forgot how fun they are to write.

[snoopypuzzle]

i haven't posted anything substantial in a while, so have this . animal death warning also

It happens too quickly for Ramsey to wonder exactly how, but, later, when his insomnia keeps him glancing above the surface of sleep he'll wonder if it was the rain or the radio or the violent shivering of the grasses by the roadside that had kept any one of them from noticing it.

Creed is too impatient to slow his truck to a crawl even in the heaviest downpour, even when the tailgate of Maurice's junker disappears into the gloom and its taillights are dampened to dull blooms in the scant feet between both vehicles. If Maurice slows to examine a turn-off or a pothole Creed will lean on the horn like his life depends on keeping up a consistent forty miles-per-hour. The same principle applies to Ramsey, bringing up the rear in another truck long past its prime; experience tells him that if he should stop to get his bearings wind nor rain will keep Creed from climbing down out of his cab and stalking back the way he'd come to knock some gumption into him. It just so happens that Ramsey is more exhausted than he is afraid of peeling out into a ditch at the moment, and he knows that dying in a wreck would still be easier than arguing with the old man.

The ceaseless hollow metal clatter of the rain on the truck's tin roof is grating on his nerves, itching the backs of his eyes and making the muscles in his hands jump over the steering wheel. Every bump in the road adds to that edgy feeling, because surely this is going to be the one that sends him skidding into oblivion. On the dashboard, the radio struggles through a slow rendition of Ain't No Mountain High Enough as it's intercut by jolts of static; he can't summon the will to pry his hand from the wheel to turn it off, so Ramsey makes himself content with the geriatric warble: No matter how far-- worry, baby-- have to worry.

Creed's truck comes to a full stop in front of him so suddenly that Ramsey barely notices the change in time to pump his own brakes. There are only inches between the bumpers, and in the intervening seconds Ramsey waits for the horn with bated breath. No river wide enough to--

The horn never comes. Ramsey jerks the door handle and kicks it wide open, and rain starts to pour into the cab by the sheet. He's soaked in seconds, the downpour cold through his clothes, and he pulls his cap low over his eyes– for all of the good that it does him –as he leverages himself to the ground.

--day I set you free--

He slams the door shut behind himself when he goes, and the sounds of the idling engine and the sputtering radio disappear.

Ramsey follows alongside the flank of Creed's truck as quickly as he dares. Without his headlights he can't see a damned thing, and the embankment on the road's either side is shallow but earthy; he's liable to break a leg if he slips, and he'll never hear the end of it-- if he isn't swallowed up by the billowing switchgrass and drowned in a puddle.

"Creed!" Ramsey calls out, and he loses his own voice in the rain. His father's driver-side door is shut and the cab is dark; he isn't inside. He carries on, his feet wet in his shoes and his damp hat turning his scalp to ice. The same frost settles over his back and the rain trails miserably down his bare arms. While he crosses the gap between Creed's truck and Maurice's van he extends one cold hand and his fingertips catch briefly on a patch of rust marring Maurice's back hatch. "Creed!"

"Ramsey!"

Now he can see the shadow of a man in the headlights in front of him, seeming to loom over the hood of the van. Ramsey feels just a bit of the tension in his body fade as he realizes that Creed isn't holding a gun; that there isn't any immediate danger.

Ramsey rounds the van at the same time that Maurice appears on its passenger side holding a large flashlight, which cuts through the gloom more decisively than the headlights and finally illuminates Creed's critical frown.

Ramsey shakes his head and water flies from the bill of his cap. He shouts to be heard above the rain:

"What's wrong with the van?"

Creed's brow pops. He doesn't acknowledge Ramsey otherwise.

Maurice swings the beam of his flashlight from the wild, rolling fields to the hood of his van.

In a deep vee of crumpled metal that stretches from the roof to the hood, amidst a torrent of water and a spider’s web of cracked glass, is a hefty whitetail buck. Its limbs and neck are bent, splayed away from its shuddering exposed belly, and it shivers from end to end with the last vestiges of life.

The windshield pries itself apart from the roof as they watch, sinking into the cab and bringing the water with it, gravity pulling the body of the buck down while it struggles.

"Shit," Maurice rakes his free hand through his hair.

Ramsey casts his eyes on the bumper and finds it intact.

Creed's elbow jostles Ramsey out of his thoughts, and as he moves to take the buck by the horns Ramsey does the same. It's a labor, and even under all of this rain Ramsey can feel sweat breaking out along his back while they pull the beast from the van. The windshield fails entirely when the buck starts to thrash, and the damage to the shell of the van is extensive, but finally it slips from the hood and onto the road, where its body falls out of sight.

The van is pushed onto the roadside into that sea of switchgrass, and Maurice climbs into Creed's passenger seat before they all carry on at just the same speed as before. Ramsey focuses steadfastly on his driving as the collision disappears in his rearview, but later he'll think: deer don't collide with trucks from above. In that field, and maybe a breath from his own nose, there had been something capable of throwing one.

[snoopypuzzle]

it's actually so funny how challenging it is to write bona fide graphic, horny smut. like people don't give smut writers enough credit. you are constantly running out of words to describe the same 2-4 body parts and same 4-6 motions. you are constantly attempting to do interesting and dynamic things in the prose with this extremely limited set of words. you are looking at your prose for the nastier bits and wondering if it actually sounds hot or if it just sounds goofy. you are then toning down your prose and then wondering if it now sounds tasteful or if it's just boring. you do ctrl+F for the word "cock" and there are 37 instances of it in the doc but you hate the 1-2 acceptable synonyms so there's nothing much you can do about it