rawrace123

[trentcrimmisgay]

currently in amsterdam. took an evening boat tour. went under the skinny bridge and the boat tour guide said “there’s a legend that if lovers share a kiss on the skinny bridge, the love lasts forever.” ……. i’m not SAYING roy and jamie kissed on the skinny bridge but …….

[necronatural]

how come you're a "Dante was never real and is a construct made by Angela" truther? idk nothing about that theory or why it's supported by dante's (heh) meltdown

It's not just the meltdown, it's the specificity of their rescue of aeng-du and the kind of lore we're getting.

dante is instructed to extract someone for information.

dante comes across aeng-du and identifies her as the person they need based on "gut feeling". they do reason that the basis is of their feeling is because of how the company tends to set them up, so the way my thoughts switch hard on this was a conspiracy theorist brain pretzel. My thinking is that they identified her because she was a book in the library, and it's why Dante specifically should be the one to pick her up.

aeng-du explains 2 things: the library and the location of kim. because limbus company already had information on kim, they wanted her extracted to get a firsthand account of the library.

iori was the one who suggested the distortion-centric fixer company, yet she is presumably the one who sent those people to kill dante, the presumed manager of a division of that very company. what gives? (my previous theory was that they stole a branch from her. <- LOL)

until this point it was kind of self-evident that the branch is giving dante freaky spacetime powers due to direct access to the Light. but we witness dante having a full-on meltdown. One thing that stuck out to me is the mundanity of it. The cast has either an intimate or a superficial understanding of everything Dante is saying. So why is it important? It isn't a crazy word slurry.

It sounds like they're reciting an eroded text.

And finally, the end of the story update, Vergilius mentions offhand that he himself is waiting for the lore drop; he is depending purely on Faust, who seems singularly responsible for the LCB, and what info she's deigning to give.

Overall, the update was about the mechanics of Limbus Company, from Acquisitions to After to Distortions, and what they prioritize; Distortions and information on the Library, which is the cause of distortions.

Conclusion?

Dante is a construct made by Angela. Constructs cannot leave the Library, but they are being artificially sustained by the Light present within the branch. They're a construct of a separate person, and the facsimile deteriorated due to the improper use of ■■■. The rewinding death function is also the core gameplay loop of Ruina; Dante is using that same process on their own crew. They resemble the Outskirts clock monsters intentionally; Faust - who is dropping anvil sized hints about being an ex-lobcorp employee - is a Librarian, and witnessed these monsters personally. Iori doesn't want Dante doing anything too crazy because they aren't real; there are not a wide array of universes where they exist. She would know them exclusively in terms of the purpose they were built for. This significantly thins the avenues of attack, and Vergilius would put a lot of faith in that, even if he's never been told why the fuck Dante is a free radical and is kind of annoyed and confused this is who he's working with.

I don't think this is a theory that explains everything, or even most things; who was Dante made out of (carmen without a doubt funniest possible option), what is ■■■ (may be library/도서관), what is the "aspect" Dante is trying to carve, how this helps the library, all of that is very ????. But isn't the tension delicious when you think about it that way.

[banannabethchase]

4E with danny/zay OR danny/yuta (your choice!)

Above Everything We Think We Know - also on AO3

~

Yuta's used to bitching back and forth with Danny and letting him get the last word, just out of convenience. He never thought there was more to it.

~

Dialogue 4: "Honestly, you could go deeper," and Scenario E: Texted something sensitive to the wrong number. Oh, Vera. I took this and ran with it. Sprinted, even. Title from Castle in the Sky by Kim Petras. Thank you, V @scissormedaddyass, for running the Three Count Exchange! I hope you enjoy this token of my gratitude <3

~

“Would you stop yawning?”

Yuta snaps out of his daze to see Danny Garcia glaring at him from the other side of the table.

“Jesus Christ, welcome back to earth,” Danny says, grinning. He shoves what appears to be a metric fuck ton of leaves into his mouth. “The fuck were you thinking about, counting sheep?”

“Fuck off, Danny,” Yuta replies. “I was up late last night.”

Danny snorts. “Jerking off to videos of your BCC boys kicking your ass?”

“Studying tape of every time I’ve beaten someone for this belt,” Yuta fires back. “I seem to remember you’re on there, right?”

“I’ve beaten you for the belt, too, dumbass,” Danny snaps, rolling his eyes. He shoves more leaves in his face and turns away, effectively nuking the conversation.

Yuta’s not willing to fight Danny on this right now – he always wants to have the last word and will fight God to get it, and Yuta learned a while ago that shutting up is easier.

But god does Danny chew his lettuce loudly.

~

He beats the shit out of his opponent for the Pure title, smiling the whole time, and crashes into Danny as he makes his ways backstage.

“Watch it, dumbass,” Danny snipes, glaring at him. “You hit me with your belt.”

Yuta levels him with his best facsimile of Danny’s trademark pout. “Oh, I’m sorry, did the special shiny belt I have that you don’t hurt you?” He turns it into a frown. “Does it remind you that you don’t have a belt at all?”

Danny reaches out and grabs the belt from Yuta, a move so sudden and brazen that Yuta doesn’t have the wherewithal to stop him. “Fuck,” Danny says. “Maybe I should talk this away from you again. Get your dumb bitchy ass back to normal.”

“I’m bitchy?!” Yuta exclaims. “Take a look in the mirror, princess.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Danny spits back. “Oh, or better, have Mox or Bryan or whatever fuck you so you get this energy out.”

Yuta scoffs. “Don’t be stupid. We make each other even worse.”

“Oh, so the frequent dicking down is what’s got you this sucky,” Danny says. “Whatever. Every day I’m glad I never got stuck with whatever sex dungeon shit you guys do.”

“Love how you’re stealing bits now,” Yuta says. “You tell Hangman you were using that line, or is plagiarism your new thing?”

“Considering you cheated to get your belt, I thought you’d be all about it.” Danny walks away, throwing a smile over his shoulder.

Last word. Again.

Yuta’ll figure out how to beat him at his own game someday.

~

He pauses in the hallway, seeing Danny and Zay talking into a camera. He steps backward, trying to avoid getting in the way of filming, trying not to set Danny off on one of his bitch fests, but then Danny notices him.

“Oh, hey,” he says, looking Yuta up and down. “You looking to get on camera?”

“I’m looking,” Yuta says, frowning at the way he can feel Danny scrutinize every part of him, “to get to my locker room.”

“Nope,” Danny says, grinning. “Gotta be on camera. This is vlog only territory.”

“Would – just let me walk through!” Yuta resists the urge to hit Danny with his belt. Especially with Isiah right there, it feels like a two on one is a bad move right now. “I have to get to the rooms.” He shoots Isiah a look of mild panic, but Zay just smiles at him an shrugs. Yuta can read it in his eyes: it’d be easier if you just did it.

Danny grins. “All you gotta do is say hi to the camera.”

“I don’t want to say hi so you can make fun of me afterwards,” Yuta grumbles. “Whatever. I’ll just go another direction.”

He’s braced for it when Danny yells, “I’ll get you on one of these eventually!”

Yuta rolls his eyes. Last word again.

~

“Can you stop yelling?” Yuta asks, and he’s man enough to admit that it’s more of a whine than words. “It’s a hotel lobby, not a bar.”

“You’d be a lot less annoying if you’d come with us to a bar,” Danny says, flashing white teeth over at Yuta. “What are you even doing?”

“I’m leaving the gym, like a responsible adult,” Yuta retorts. “Where are you two going?”

“Bar. Clubs.” Danny does his stupid little hip thrust while Isiah laughs in the background, eyes locked on the way Danny’s hips move. “Gonna get everybody worked up with these hips.”

“Yeah, you are,” Zay murmurs.

“Oh, god,” Yuta sighs. “I’m leaving. This is hell.”

“You’re a killjoy, Yuta!” Danny yells after him. “Have some fun for once.”

Yuta convinces himself it’s not worth it. Whether he’s talking about the club or firing back at Danny, he’s not sure.

~

He frowns at the photo. The lighting still isn’t at the level he wants it, and all the pumping he’d done before the shot didn’t do as much as he’d hoped.

“Damn it,” he grumbles.

It takes fifteen attempts. None of the angles make his relatively flat ass pop, his abs aren’t doing exactly what he wants them to do. He sighs. “Damn it,” he grumbles.

He shoots a text off to Mox for quality control.

This pic ok? I hate it.

In the back of his mind as he pulls on sweatpants, he muses on the weirdness of his life that he can text one of his childhood heroes a nude for quality control. And how much weirder it is that that person may also show two other wrestling legends the photo for their opinion. And he’s okay with it.

He shakes his head and flops onto his hotel room bed. His life is truly more than he could have expected, in all directions.

When he hears the ring for a FaceTime call, he answers it without thinking.

“You know you have, like, no ass, right?”

Yuta stares at the phone. “What the fuck?”

“That nude you just sent me,” Danny replies. “You have no ass. It’s sad, really.”

Yuta doesn’t know how long it takes him to process what Danny’s said. “What?”

Danny grins. “The full body nude in the mirror? I’d call it tasteful, but you look like a whore.” He shrugs. Yuta hates when he looks this full of himself. “So I guess it’s slutty. Congratulations. You’ve developed a personality.”

Yuta doesn’t answer – he’s too busy staring, horrified, at where he’d sent the photo to Danny instead of Mox. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Danny says. “Wasn’t meant for me, was it?”

“Meant for Mox,” Yuta mutters. He looks at Danny, trying to level him with the best glare he can manage. “Delete it.”

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t meant for you!” Yuta’s shrieking now. God, only fucking Garcia. “Get rid of it?”

“What if I want to look at it?” Danny asks.

“Why,” Yuta asks, trying to keep himself from jumping through the screen and throttling Danny, “would you want to look at it?”

Danny shrugs. “Sorry for being into hot guys or whatever.” He grins. “Can I show Zay? He’s got a thing for your abs.”

Yuta watches himself go from pissed to interested in the little window of his phone. “He does?”

Danny nods. “Zay! Come here!”

“Don’t – leave him out of this!”

“Zay, come look at this.”

“What?” Isiah’s face pops into frame. “Oh, hey, Yuta.” Then he focuses in on the screen. “Oh shit. That’s full dick right there.”

“Oh my god,” Yuta says, dropping his head into his hands. “Please delete it, Danny.”

“I will,” Danny says, “but you should know, it’s a good shot. You can’t do anything about a medical case of pancake ass, but the cum gutters make up for it.”

“Your chest looks wild,” Isiah comments. “Gonna have to give me some of those pec workouts.”

“This is the worst phone call of my life,” Yuta mutters. He should hang up. He should shut the phone down. “It’s really not bad?”

“Pancake ass is completely forgivable when you got your arms like that so I can see your torso,” Zay says. “Also.” He lets out a low whistle. “Packing some serious heat, Yuta. Damn.”

“Shut up,” Yuta says, rolling his eyes.

“It’s probably warm in the hotel room,” Danny muses. “I’ve seen him in colder locker rooms and his dick is way less impressive.”

“Why are we talking about my dick?!”

“Because you sent me a nude and I’m going to look,” Danny says. He looks directly at the camera and Yuta has to fight himself not to look away. Danny breaks the digital eye contact first and looks up at Isiah, with an interesting little smile on his lips. “Hey, Zay?” He flutters his eyelashes. Kind of. Kind of like…

Yuta’s brain can’t finish the sentence.

“I’m way ahead of you, baby,” Isiah says.

Yuta blinks. He’s a few steps behind. He knows he is.

“Earth to Yuta,” Isiah says. “You having a crisis or something?”

“No?” Yuta says. “What? Are you two together?”

Danny snorts. “Jesus. Yeah. Duh? Have you seen Zay’s vlog?”

Yuta has. Specifically to see Danny, which is something he will absolutely not admit. “Yeah, but I thought – I figured that was for views or something.”

Danny snorts. “I do a lot of shit for views, but sexually frustrating Zay is all for me.” He grins.

Yuta licks his lips before he can stop himself. “Cool.” That’s his choice of word to respond. Cool. He’s going to go throw himself into the hotel pool and hope to turn into a fish. Fish don’t have to deal with awkward situations.

“You’re still here, aren’t you,” Danny says. His eyes flicker up to Zay, who nods. “You should come to our room.”

The words slowly sink in and settle. “Are you hitting on me?”

Danny shrugs and leans back in the chair. He’s shirtless. Yuta hadn’t realized he was shirtless.

He notices, also, Zay is too.

“You sent me a nude,” Danny says. “I figured if anything that would be considered the first move.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Yuta says, but there’s less insistence in his voice. “Fuck it. Are you two seriously hitting on me, or is this a joke?”

“It’s serious,” Zay says, popping his head into the screen. “I’ve seen how you and Danny wrestle. Tell me you haven’t thought about fucking him.”

Yuta rolls his eyes. “I think about fucking everybody I wrestle, practically.” It’s apparently a weird thing to say based on Zay’s eyebrows. “What? You don’t?”

“I do,” Danny jumps in. “But most of those people don’t, you know. Send me pictures of their dick and cum gutters on a random Saturday night, so.” His eyes go just the tiniest bit soft. “Are you, like, on the way over here or…?” The suggestion, then anticipation, hang in the air.

“Goddamnit,” Yuta says, sighing. “What’s your room number? This is a terrible idea.”

“Love how you’re already regretting it,” Danny says with an eye roll. But a text pops through to Yuta with the room number in it.

With a glance toward where his intended pajamas rest on the hotel chair, he sighs. “Yeah. Uh. I’ll see you two in a few, okay?”

“See you soon, big boy.”

Yuta really is regretting it now that he’s seen Danny try to wink.

After dressing in what he hopes are appropriate booty call clothes, Yuta checks himself in the mirror before he leaves. His hair’s a mess, still wet from the shower. It was a good idea, at the time – a dripping wet shot, muscles still pumped from the matches. Now it feels like a lot.

He rubs his hand through his hair and walks toward the door, trying to force himself to reconsider this. It’s a bad idea. A really bad idea. Zay vlogs everything and Danny doesn’t know how to shut up.

Then again, he realizes as he slides on his shoes, he hadn’t known Zay and Danny were actually together until they told him.

Maybe they can be discrete.

He looks up and down the hallway as he gets to the elevator. He’s not sure who else is on his floor other than Bryan, who yelled at him for taking the elevator earlier that day, and he doesn’t want to be caught. Luckily, the coast is clear.

He presses the button for Danny and Zay’s floor and begins thinking up excuses for if someone he knows spots him. He’s going to the gym. He’s getting a drink from the hotel bar. It’s none of your business, Trent, go fuck yourself.

He thinks he’s got plenty in his arsenal as the doors open, but he’s in front of the room without interference before he knows it.

He knocks. He waits. He freaks out a little.

And then the door opens.

“Hey,” Zay says, effortlessly cool. Yuta may be willing to admit he’s had a crush for quite some time. But not to anyone but himself, and not until this moment.

Yuta steps in and sees Danny stretched out on the bed. It feels almost too real now, like everything up until this second was a game and now he’s all in.

He swallows. Danny looks up.

“Oh, you showed up!” Danny looks genuinely excited. He throws his phone somewhere among the pillows in the king sized bed and sits up. “Alright. Show us the goods.”

“Fuck,” Yuta says, barking out a laugh before he can stop himself, “no romance about it?”

Danny shrugs. He shuffles down the bed, legs splayed, arms behind his head. Yuta’s eyes lock on the grin. “Do I need romance to get you over here?”

Yuta stares at him. And stares. “Hold on,” he says, “before we go into this, I thought you hated me.”

Danny shakes his head. “Nah. You’re just easy to rile up, is all. And you look hot when you’re angry.”

Yuta rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ. You’re awful.”

“Yeah, but you love it.”

This is usually, Yuta realizes, where Danny would walk away with the last word. It’s usually where he himself gives up and walks away because he knows the argument will go on for hours if he doesn’t.

But Danny’s in front of him, grinning up at him from the mussed sheets of the bed.

He startles a little when he feels a hand rest on his waist. Zay pulls back.

“Sorry,” Zay says, and Yuta hadn’t known his voice could get that gentle. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Yuta says, willing himself to relax. “Yeah, just – didn’t expect to be here tonight, you know?”

Danny’s still smiling. It’s unfair, how comfortable he looks. How at peace in his body as he looks up at Yuta. “That’s okay, if you’re nervous,” Danny says. “We can take care of you.”

Zay snorts.

“Don’t be a bitch,” Danny grumbles.

“I’m – look, it’s just funny with you saying you’ll take care of somebody when you’re already all spread out in front of us.” Zay walks around Yuta, trailing his fingers along Yuta’s waist, and he sits on the bed. “You wanna take care of Danny, Yuta?”

This – it’s not uncharted territory, exactly. He and Mox and Claudio and Bryan have done…similar things in different permutations of each other, but he’s not usually the leader there. Usually, he gets a little more guidance.

He’s not used to having the reins. He kind of likes it.

“Depends,” Yuta says, his voice barely a murmur. “What do you want, Danny?”

Danny sits up, and there’s that insufferable, pretty little pout. “What do you think?”

“I mean,” Yuta says, “I figured, since you invited me over, you’d have an idea.”

Danny shrugs.

Frustration flares the anxiety building in Yuta’s chest, a catalyst for something a little unkind. “Jesus – you usually never shut up, and now you’re making me talk?”

“I don’t – what is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Yuta asks. He notices Danny’s – he’s crawling toward him, sort of, on the bed. “You hit on me and tell me to come over and you don’t even know what you want from me?”

Danny groans. “You are terrible at picking up vibes.” He leans in and, before Yuta can process it, Danny’s kissing him. He yanks him down and falls to the bed, bracing himself with an arm, and then Danny’s in his lap and his hands are in Yuta’s hair and they’re kissing.

It’s almost automatic. Yuta’s hands go to Danny’s ass and haul him in closer, well aware of Zay’s eyes on them, and decides to do what he does best: perform.

Danny’s easy to get moaning, hands on his hips, grabbing his ass, licking into his mouth. Eventually, he turns his head, panting against Yuta’s neck. “Zay,” he manages, “Zay, Yuta’s really good at kissing.”

Yuta glances over to see Zay grinning. “I can see that.”

“I hate it,” Danny whines. He turns back to Yuta. “Why the fuck do you have to be good at everything?”

Yuta levels Danny with what Bryan calls his little shit smile. “Don’t you like it, though?”

Danny groans and leans in, crushing his mouth to Yuta’s, knocking the two of them over. Danny’s maddening with how quickly he goes after Yuta’s clothes.

“Easy, baby,” Zay chuckles. “Let me have a chance, damn.”

Yuta manages to pull his mouth away from Danny’s, but he just locks his mouth on Yuta’s neck instead of leaning back. “Is he always like this?”

Zay shrugs. “Kind of.” He leans in and kisses Yuta, and it’s so different from Danny that it’s almost whiplash. There’s a lot going on all at once – Yuta’s brain is turning to mush before long – and at some point they’re all naked and Zay’s hand is on his dick and Yuta’s mouth is on Danny’s dick.

“God, why are you good at this, too?” Danny whimpers, slowly stroking Zay. It’s almost lazy. Yuta’s kind of disappointed because he himself is going all out. He swirls his tongue around Danny’s dick and Danny’s hips twitch. “Zay, I hate him.”

Yuta pulls off with a pop. “It’s weird you insult me this much,” Yuta says. “Especially since I’m pretty sure you’re about to beg me to fuck you.”

“I wasn’t!” Danny says. Yuta glances at Zay, who is clearly fighting a laugh as he stares at Danny. “Shut up, Zay, you’re making this worse.”

Yuta gets to watch as Zay works Danny open. He’s respectful of all of them – keeps his hand off of his dick other than the occasional stroke while Zay fucks Danny into oblivion with his fingers.

“Usually,” Isiah says casually, “I don’t take this much time, because Danny’s a glutton for punishment, but I figure since you’re a new dick I should be a little more careful with him.” He leans down and kisses Danny’s spine, so gently it makes Yuta’s heart hurt a little bit. “Right, baby? We’re gonna be sweet to you tonight.”

Danny nods and turns his face, beaming at Yuta. “You’re not as big as Zay,” he says, and the tone makes it feel less like an insult, “but I think you’re thicker, right?”

“I think so too, baby,” Zay says. “Gotta take care of you.”

“Can I?” Yuta asks. He presses his lips together, unsure of how to ask. “Are you sure I – you want me to?”

“Hell yeah,” Danny says. “We practically hate fuck in the ring every time we wrestle. I can only guess this is gonna be fucking amazing.”

Yuta watches Zay gently pull his fingers from Danny, stroking one pad of the finger over his hole to see Danny push backward against him. “You ready?”

Yuta nods as he rolls on the condom. “I’m ready. Do you want me to…?” He looks down at Zay’s dick.

Zay grins. “Well, I got some ideas for what we can do, but not right now.” He nods to Danny. “He wants your dick, doesn’t he.”

Danny nods. “Get to it, Yuta.”

“I can’t believe you’re being such a bitch when I’m about to fuck you,” Yuta grumbles. But he lines himself up and waits. “Are you sure –”

“Will you stop acting like I haven’t been planning this for months?” Danny interrupts. He spreads his legs and lays down on his stomach, ass in the air. “Fuck me.”

Yuta’s entire brain blanks when he slides into Danny. He’d be lying if he said he’s never had this idea in his head before, if he said that he didn’t imagine the way Danny’s body would feel under him when they weren’t wrestling. He glances over to Zay who nods.

“Give it to him,” he says, voice low. “He wants it. I swear.” His eyes flicker to Danny.

“We’ve talked about it,” Danny says, rolling his hips to take more of Yuta inside of him. “A lot. It – it gets me off every time.”

“I can’t believe you decided to insult me all this time instead of asking me to fuck you,” Yuta says through gritted teeth. “You’re impossible.”

He moves, slowly, carefully, until Danny’s pulling his hips back and meeting Yuta’s thrusts, encouraging him to speed up. It’s too fucking good.

“Shit,” Zay says. Yuta spares a second to glance next to him, where Zay is standing next to the bed, naked with his hand on his dick. He strokes slowly, eyes locked on Danny’s face. “You look so good, Danny. Never gotten to see you from this angle before.”

Danny grins over at him. “Can I – can I…” He trails off and drops his head to look down at Zay’s dick, then slowly drags his gaze back up to Zay’s face.

Yuta pulls out of Danny for the quickest of moments to let Danny adjust on his hands and knees, and then Danny shifts his hips back so Yuta can sink into his heat again.

“There you go, baby,” Zay murmurs. Yuta stills as he watches as Zay slowly feeds Danny his dick. He wishes he could get a good look at Danny’s face. He thinks it would be incredible. “That okay?”

Danny nods and, to Yuta’s amused horror, starts speaking around Zay’s cock. He laughs in spite of himself with a hand on Danny’s hip.

“What?” Zay asks, pulling back.

“I said, ‘honestly, you could go deeper’,” Danny says.

“And you thought it made sense to talk with my dick in your mouth?” Zay asks. He meets Yuta’s bewildered look with one of his own.

Danny shrugs. “I’m getting a fantasy fulfilled. Let me live.”

“I – whatever.”

“Good to know he’s like that with everybody,” Yuta says, circling his hips.

“Goes for you, too.”

“What does?” Yuta asks.

“You can go deeper,” Danny says. He throws a look over his shoulder that kind of makes Yuta want to strangle him. “Gimme all of what I saw in that sext, Yoots.”

“It wasn’t a sext,” Yuta says, but he does push all the way into Danny’s willing body. Danny sighs as he opens up for him, shifting his hips to adjust again, and it’s a lot. “It – it was an accidental text or whatever.”

Something about the moment resonates. The three of them lose the ability to speak.

“Fuck,” Yuta says, after a day or an hour or a minute. He’s struggling enough to keep it together as it is, but when he locks eyes with Zay he can feel his resolve failing. “Fuck, Danny, how close are you?”

Danny reaches up a hand to flip him off.

“Oh. Right. Dick in your mouth.”

“He’s close,” Zay says. “I can tell – he’s not taking me as deep anymore but he’s going wild on your dick.” He nods. “Grab his. He’ll like it.”

“You want to come?” Yuta asks. “You can.”

Danny makes a muffled sound through a mouthful of Zay’s cock, and Yuta has to force some of the control Bryan and Mox have taught him to not lose it right there. He leans forward, shifting the angle in a way that gets Danny moaning around Zay, and wraps a hand around his cock. Danny turns his head and gasps.

“Please,” he whines, “I wanna come.”

“You can,” Zay says. He strokes his cock wildly. “Come, baby. All over him. I wanna see how pretty you look with Yuta’s dick in your ass.” Zay meets Yuta’s eyes as he continues. “Rough. Fast. It’s how he likes it.”

Yuta does so, never breaking eye contact, and he feels as Danny comes. But what really gets him is watching Zay come all over Danny’s face.

That’s it. No amount of training or BCC bullshit could have stopped Yuta from shoving himself so deep inside Danny he’ll get locked there forever and coming his sanity away.

“Jesus,” Zay mutters.

Yuta shakes his head and comes back. Zay is running a thumb across Danny’s face. “Does he look good covered in come?”

“He sure does,” Zay chuckles.

Yuta pulls out, as slowly and carefully as possible, and releases what apparently had been an iron grip on Danny’s hips by the way Danny falls onto the bed. He rolls over. “Goddamn,” Yuta says. “You wait right here, baby.” On impulse, he leans down and kisses Danny’s cheek, getting a little bit of Zay’s come on his lips. He licks it off and turns to Zay.

“You can’t just do shit like that.” Zay leans over Danny and yanks him in for an aggressive kiss, one Yuta would expect from Claudio or Mox but not from Zay.

“Fuck, okay,” Yuta says when he pulls back. He blinks himself back into focus. “Damn. Hold on. Let me get something to help clean up Danny.”

He ties off and throws away the condom as he runs the water warm. He wipes himself up first, then brings two more towels back.

“Here,” he says, gently wiping down Danny’s face. “You feeling okay?” He grabs the other towel and mops up his belly.

“You’re so much nicer after you’ve gotten laid,” Danny mumbles. It’s a marvel he manages to be this bitchy covered in come and fucked out, but Yuta shouldn’t be surprised.

“Wish I could say the same for you,” Yuta laughs. He taps at Danny’s hip and Danny turns over. Yuta feels Zay’s eyes on him as he cleans up the last of the lube and some stray come that dripped down from Danny’s cock. “You’re still as much of a bitch as ever.”

“He really is,” Zay says. He steps backward and stumbles.

“You good?” Yuta asks. He tosses the towels to the side and gets comfortable sitting up against the headboard.

Zay nods. “Yeah, just tripped over your phone.” He picks it up. “Show me that nude of yours again.”

“You saw all of me naked in person!” Yuta laughs, but he unlocks it anyway.

“Yeah we did,” Danny says, grinning. He grabs the phone from Yuta’s hands. “Yeah. You look good here.”

“Weren’t you gonna text the picture to Mox in the first place?” Zay asks. His eyes are soft and content as ever as he pulls on a pair of sweats from the floor. “Send it, Danny.”

“No!” Yuta dives over Danny, pinning him to the bed again as he grabs his phone back from Danny’s hands. He blushes. He’s not sure why. He was inside Danny, like, five minutes ago. “Give it back.”

“I’m just saying,” Zay says. He drapes himself over Danny and Yuta like it’s nothing. Like this is how they always are. “What’s stopping you now?”

Yuta sighs. “I was planning to send it to him to see if it was a good enough nude,” he admits.

“Good enough for what?”

“For – for being a nude, what else?” Yuta asks. He shoves Zay off of him, but then Danny’s on top of him and he’s lost that battle again.

Danny sighs. “I think Zay was hoping that nude was an accidentally on purpose situation.” He grins. Yuta pokes at a bruise he’d left on Danny’s collarbone, but it backfires when Danny closes his eyes and moans, every so slightly. “Since you’ve been flirting with me for years.”

“I have not,” Yuta says. He shifts so Danny’s got his face toward Yuta’s, but still on his chest. “What? I haven’t been flirting with you.”

“So every time we’ve yelled at each other,” Danny says, frowning, “that wasn’t flirting?”

“I – it wasn’t supposed to be.” Yuta thinks back. In the moment, he’d thought each moment was combat, was Danny trying to prove how much better he was. But now… “Holy shit, you’ve been flirting with me like a fucking dick the whole time.”

“I thought you were flirting back!” Danny says. “I thought that was, like, your vibe with the BCC.” He scoots up, and Yuta’s entire chest feels tight as Danny snuggles into his side.

“I figured that was you being bitter about not being BCC or something,” Yuta says, and he trails his fingertips up and down Danny’s back. His chest tightens again when Danny sighs against his skin. “I always thought you’d be more obvious about it if you were flirting.”

“I constantly brought up sex,” Danny mutters. “I felt like that was obvious enough.”

“That is a fair point.” Yuta looks over at Zay who smiles and nods. Yuta tilts Danny’s chin up and kisses him, soft. It’s different from before. It feels right.

“Maybe now he’ll stop talking about you so much,” Zay says. “He never shuts up about you, dude. Yuta this, Yuta that.” He reaches down and pinches lightly at the skin on Danny’s arm. Danny bats him away.

“Do not,” Danny mumbles. He rolls over Yuta until he’s draped across both of them.

“You definitely do, baby, but it’s cute.” Zay leans up and kisses Danny, and Yuta doesn’t feel jealous.

“Can we do this again next week?” Danny asks. “Or, like, any week we’re all at the same place. Whatever.” He’s wiggled in between Yuta and Zay, looking immensely cozy.

“Zay?” Yuta asks. “Does he add ‘whatever’ whenever he’s asking for something he really wants?”

Zay laughs, eyes crinkling and smile skipping a heartbeat in Yuta’s chest. “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

“Shut up,” Danny whines. “This is bullying. You two are bullying me.”

Yuta decides to let Danny have the last word this time. But he makes sure the words are well and truly done with a kiss to Danny’s lips.  

~

Mini Playlist: Selfie - Chainsmokers 3 - Britney Spears FUCK - Snow Wife Castle in the Sky - Kim Petras

[lesewut]

It is the time of the Reformation. For years, the philologist, theologian and humanist Erasmus of Rotterdam has been working on a Greek-Latin edition of the New Testament. In 1516, before Luther posted his theses, Erasmus published the edition, which Luther used for his German translation.

Erasmus of Rotterdam enjoys a high reputation in the scholarly world, Luther also admired him and wanted to have such a learned man as Erasmus on his side and they also shared certain criticisms, such as the papacy, their skepticism of scholastic theology, the doctrine of the sacraments, the cult of ceremonies and relics. Both are against the sale of indulgences, because "you just can not buy heaven." It is said that Erasmus laid the eggs that Luther hatched.

But Erasmus tries to remain relatively neutral, he is of the opinion that Luther's "storming and pushing" is counterproductive and that one can only improve the world with patience and restraint, he takes Jesus as an example. Erasmus does not see himself as a people's tribune, but as a representative and defender of science and repeatedly emphasizes that he would have placed himself in the service of science. Through his attitude, he wants to help the bonae litterae to bloom again. He criticizes the general contempt for schools and education and calls for more meaningful studies. But Erasmus of Rotterdam is not alien to life and also knows that most things cannot be changed so quickly because they are so stuck. Real change takes time and consistency, it needs good arguments that are well thought out and not brusquely fed by a feeling. A healthier approach to science is needed, because this tragedy arose from the fear of science and the stupidity of the monks. Because what you don't understand, you want to suppress and destroy, so that the Church "can undisturbed rule with their barbarism".

This Erasmus-Attitude can also be found in his famous work "In Praise of Folly". This satirical writing began when Rotterdam wrote a letter of dedication in 1498 to More, who was twenty years old at that time. The Latin title "Stultitiae Laus" or "Moriae Encomium" is a play on words, because the Greek word moría means "folly".

The writing style is compared to Lucian, a supreme irony alien to any didactics, averse to any moralization. It is said that Erasmus wanted to distract himself from the power struggles in the church with this writing and to motivate himself by dealing with a humorous topic. Half seriously, half jokingly, a philosophy of life is praised and Horace's saying "dulce est decipere in loco" is used as the principle of the world view.

It is not surprising, that this work is one of the most important of the Renaissance era and supported the Protestant Reformation to a large extent.

This edition is a facsimile of the Leipzig edition from 1781 and was published in 1918. Numerous engravings by Holbein adorn the book and depict the eulogy of the goddess of foolishness.

"If no one wants to introduce me," says the goddess of folly, almost snippy, "then I have to eulogize myself!"

And the goddess tells about her origin. About her father Pluto “who mixed all things holy and unholy together.” And her mother Methe, the fairest and liveliest of the nymphs. Her milk nurse is said to be the daughter of Bacchus and the carefree Apedia, who herself is descended from Pan. She even explains why the goddess of foolishness had to be a woman by saying that women would find all their pleasure in foolishness. The pair of opposites wisdom and foolishness runs through the entire text, sometimes to represent the "real wisdom" in foolishness and sometimes to represent the "most foolish foolishness" in wisdom.

“For if by chance some woman wishes to be thought of as wise, she does nothing but show herself twice a fool.”

Without her is no life and no love, because basically everything is based on the fact that man is foolish and that foolishness is something all too human. Folly favors love, which is itself more or less the result of projections and desires. And from whom else could one get the beginning of one's life and love than from the Goddess of Folly herself? This also explains the phenomenon why more intelligent people or people who consider themselves wiser than others, have fewer children: Because nature arranges it in such a way that these dry souls, who break their eyes with the night lamp, are also less fertile.

"Jupiter has mingled in a pound of passion scarcely an ounce of reason."

For whoever renounces passion, who is constantly at war with physical things, not only enjoys life more, he almost disappears from it. The goddess of foolishness explains this to us with the Latin word “de vita”, which means “away from life” as well as “avoid”. So every renunciation is not only hostile to life, one departs alive from life, since one fights stiffly against what could bring one refreshment. That is why the philosophers, especially the Stoics, are described as arch-fools, they are "more foolish than fools", in truth their wisdom is only folly and they disfigure themselves with the "paint of virtue". The deity of folly demands:

"Away with wisdom if you want to enjoy life!"

And points out that the heart of the wise is with sadness, and with their wisdom they only make themselves hated and suspect.

“But who are they that for no other reason but that they were weary of life have hastened their own fate? Were they not the next neighbors to wisdom? among whom, to say nothing of Diogenes, Xenocrates, Cato, Cassius, Brutus, that wise man Chiron, being offered immortality, chose rather to die than be troubled with the same thing always.”

But she was also the begetter of wisdom and faith, for out of her tottering and ridiculous play the philosophers emerged "in whose place are now those who were used to be called monks."

The clergy are scathingly criticized by the goddess, and the vaunted "Christian bliss" is portrayed as a kind of delusion. There are even "no fools more stupid than those in whom the flames of Christian piety burn brightly." The symbol of the lamb was not chosen in vain, the animal was not famous even in Aristotle's time. The tree of knowledge should be interpreted as proof that knowledge works like poison in our spirit and that the consumption of the forbidden fruit was not forbidden for nothing. The goddess of foolishness emphasizes that God's foolishness is better than human wisdom, and numerous passages from the Bible are interwoven to make it even clearer that man really does not and will not possess wisdom.

It is amazing how directly and critically Erasmus expresses his criticism here, his attitude is also clear in the Pope's criticism:

"As if there were more pernicious enemies of the church than ungodly popes, who by their silence let Christ be destroyed, bind him by selfish laws, profane him by forced interpretation, kill by a poisoned life. The Christian Church is begotten, strengthened and expanded by blood. Now, as if there were no Christ to protect his own in his own way, his cause is being pursued through the Shear. There is something so inhuman about war that it should be left to the wild beasts.”

With the most diverse human appearances in this world, the goddess shows how we often think we are wise and actually are fools. How we actually unlearn life, laughter and dally, both sources of youth and freshness, and become shy and unable to act. Foolishness favors friendships, it inspires writers and poets, money and fortune fly to fools and the owl of Minerva would prefer the fool one more. Without folly there is no art, no heroes and love can never mature.

"The wise man stays like the sun, the fool changes like the moon."

Through the moon we understand human nature, through the sun we understand God. So we shouldn't deceive ourselves and think we're clever, but enjoy life through silliness and not lose ourselves in high spheres that ultimately make us unhappy and sad because we, as human beings, are too limited to fully understand them .

Fools have a special privilege "to speak things that do not annoy one out of their mouths." Why is the fool the king's closest adviser? Why does his clothing resemble that of the king, down to the scepter and jester cap?

“A remarkable thing happens in the experience of my fools: from them not only true things, but even sharp reproaches, will be listened to; so that a statement which, if it came from a wise man's mouth, might be a capital offense, coming from a fool gives rise to incredible delight. Veracity, you know, has a certain authentic power of giving pleasure, if nothing offensive goes with it; but this the gods have granted only to fools.”

Likewise, people should not complain of their lot, the Scythian, who wishes to be a citizen of the blessed Land of Cockaigne, would have to come to terms with their meager existence. Children shouldn't grow up too fast "that's suspicious and unpopular". It is far more important to laugh "from which everything draws life" than learn "that Pythagorean Quaternio." The old folks are transformed by the Goddess of Folly, who leads the old to the spring of Lethe so that they can drink the drink of oblivion. The high age is compared to childhood, except that "second childhood is preferable to first childhood". The older a person is, the closer he is to childhood. Unwise dalliance brings amusement and foolish babble, relieves the mind of grief, makes us human, as Dostojevky wonderfully summarizes:

„Talking nonsense is the sole privilege mankind possesses over the other organisms. It’s by talking nonsense that one gets the truth! I talk nonsense, therefore I’m human.”

The archetype of the folly (and trickster) is also playing a big part in Jungian therapy for healing. As long as we lock ourselves from this juvenile spirit of joy, we can not touch our "Fisherking's wound" and get more depressive and unhappy. In Medieval and Rennaissance times, particularly in European courts, the concept of a fool was to serve the King as a truth-teller. The fact that the fool stood outside society, was certainly of great importance, as it allowed him to express concerns or offer advices without restrictive convention and politeness. During my researches, (inquiries into folly since may, has become a work for life), I've found a very interesting statement of Foucault in his work "Madness and Society", where he describes, that in the epoch of rationalism, craziness or madness (which can be considered as a characteristic of the fool) is not a illness, but a social construct, which was invented by psychiatry, to exclude or control deviant or undesirable people. Foucault claims that in the Age of Reason madness lost its original meaning as an expression of existence or resistance and was instead treated as an object of science and power. In the near future I will present further literary examples on the subject of foolishness. Among them I'm planning "The Idiot" by Dostoyevsky (Focus: why is the idiot "more human" than the others?) , "Don Quixote" (Focus: Living in a dream or dying of reality? Why I think that this book is one of the saddest + the danger of literature by feeding inadequate ideas, which lead to hunger for life and longing for phantastic adventures) and the legend of "Parsifal" (Main Topic: The fool represents the restoration of spiritual and physical harmony and the renewal of the kingdom, the symbol behind the wound of the Fisherking). Also, an extensive Jung contribution will explain the psychological meaning behind the archetype and I try to extract more examples from religion that illustrate the connection between madness and holiness. I want to end with a joke by Nasreddin Hoca (~ 13th century), who is the oldest and most famous satirist of Turkey. His stories often has a subtle humour and a pedagogic nature, turning unbelievable explanations ad absurdum.

„At dinner time, Nasreddin finds no meat on the table. He asks his wife, "What happened to the meat?" His wife replies, "The cat ate it." Nasreddin breezes into the kitchen, puts the cat on the scales, and discovers the cat to be weighing three pounds. Nasreddin quizzically questions the result, "If the meat I brought home weighed three pounds, then, where is the cat? And, if this happens to be the cat, then what happened to the meat?"

[ceilingfan5]

7 (How do you choose which POV to write from?), 19 )What is the most-used tag on your ao3?), 23 (Best writing advice for other writers?), 24 (Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?), 42 (What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?), 52 (Do you respond to comments, why or why not?), 53 (How do you spend your time when it comes to fanfiction? Are you primarily a fic reader, writer, or a perfect 50/50 split of both?), and 54 (What’s your favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?)

i wanna ask more but we'll be here all day sldkfsdf

thank u !! -ise

first of all ise let it be said that you are doing incredible work by pasting the questions so i dont have to. tumblrs text editor leaves lots to be desired.

7 (How do you choose which POV to write from?)

okay mostly it is vibes and funsies. sometimes an au just hands you a guy. i love switching povs when i do long taakitz fics bc i love both these idiots so much and i love how same and different their internal narration can be, and also i fucking live for the dramatic irony the regular pov switch allows. ("taako looks at him some type of way kravitz can't possibly begin to understand" sort of thing) but also like. sometimes a given scenario screams a certain guy? it's what's fun. mostly.

19 )What is the most-used tag on your ao3?)

if we are talking taz fics only. kissing (12) guess i need to write more fics with tentacles (4)

23 (Best writing advice for other writers?)

you have to roll around in it and you have to find the joy it is imperative

24 (Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?)

fuck any perception of writing as #content or anything focused on numbers. also fuck pretentious assholes who don't appreciate fanfic. also fuck the idea that fanfic is a stepping stone to "real writing"

42 (What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?)

mine & hell yeah

but uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh jesus christ the last fic i read on ao3 was noodyl's blupjeans week fic I PhDo which was loads of fun. man i haven't read much lately. stares at my folded hands

52 (Do you respond to comments, why or why not?)

almost never and not bc im mean or Above It or whatever, unelss i am directly responding to a question/item of note mostly i don't know what to say and i become a shaking shaving foam facsimile of a small and unwell dog trying to say anything besides Thank You For Your Attention. you??? like????? the words?????????? good job you are A+ liker and i will carry your soul up the ladder to heaven in my teeth

53 (How do you spend your time when it comes to fanfiction? Are you primarily a fic reader, writer, or a perfect 50/50 split of both?)

it's........................up there. i mostly write em. and i reread my own fics bc they were written for me and have all the tropes i like. and finding new fics frustrates me. i want to be handed them already selected and trustworthy like deific kibble

noodyl's stuff rules tho

54 (What’s your favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?)

the part where you get so possessed your eyes go white and the power flows right through you

or the fucking around and throwing spaghetti stage. or the comments

it's a good hobby actually

[love-fireflysong]

OH DEAR HI I'm the anon from before HII!!

Thank you so much for reading my message, it literally made my day!!

First of all NOO THE SUITCASE?? I hope you get it back soon, that sucks 😭

For the Outlast AU, girl I read the newest chapter the second it came out, and oh boy was I screeching LMAO

I was actually kinda worried since it had been a while since the last fic and I was worried you had paused writing, but then it was THERE, and it was ASHLEY POV AGAIN AUGH (Ash is my favorite UD character LMAO)

So thoughts, where do I even begin???? I'm gonna add some of my favorite lines that I just love a lot LOL

''All because it was actually his voice. It wasn't an electronic facsimile screaming and sobbing desperately through a bluetooth earbud, and it certainly wasn't her own voice weaving his actual words through the folds of her brain during the private late night conversations the three of them hadn't been able to enjoy for almost three weeks now. It was him''

Girl I am crying already O[-[

It's so heartbreaking reading about their separation and now that it's so close for them I just wanna SCREAM

''All of which she knew because Ashley had been the one to turn that once alive inmate into a bloody, mangled corpse herself. All for the crime of them simply being the last thing that stood between her and the door that kept her from Chris and Josh.

''Ash can murder a little bit, as a treat /J

GO GIRL GO GET YOUR BOYS.

''Has her name always sounded like this? Like it had been created solely to be spoken in his voice, said like it was something holy—like she was holy?''

God I keep coming back to this line, it's just. Perfection. It's so darn good.

''Forcing himself to push off of the wall and continue his hurried stumble down the stairs, steadfastly ignoring the bright, sticky handprints that he had left in his wake. (Though really, Ashley can't help but think, what is one more mark of blood in a place that is already saturated in it.)

''I just really like this line, it's chilling!

"Okay, I gotta get this off my chest, but whoever the hell it was that suggested the couple's retreat to the insane asylum is officially being kicked out of the polycule."

SJSHSJK what would we do without our Chrissy 😭 Always gotta lighten the mood!

Also just the entire last paragraph... girl my heart is on the floor, it is in pieces, I am crying

Their reunion was just so heartwarming and with every second it took for them to see each other, I just kept waiting for the rug to be swept out from my under feet and for the angst to kick in, but NOT THIS TIME!! THEY'RE TOGETHER!!

God the way they just look at each other, taking in how much (or how little) they've changed O[-[

I don't know if half of this makes sense, I'm just rambling LMAOO

Seriously though, you deserve only the highest praise, I genuinely loved this fic, and I am eagerly waiting to inhale the next parts!!!!!

There's so much more I want to share, buy AUGH WORDS

Also writing Chrissy like that reminded me of a dream I had once I first discovered the Fandom. I think it was a text post that was like ''If Chris kissed Ashley, could he say he Chrissed her?'' and I got so mad about it I woke up LMAOOO

AAAAAHHHHHHH IM SO GLAD THAT YOU ENJOYED IT!!!!!!

(I will say though that the fact that this is another Ashley POV addition is just chance, once I actually stop working on these """"snippets"""" the plan is that the viewpoints will switch between the three of them so I hope that this doesn't deter you any on future stories for this universe askdaksldsaj)

You would not believe how much fun I had writing literally any of the parts where they were all basically close enough to touch but still so far apart that anything could happen to prevent the reunions. Pining in a completely different sense of the word there: a nice fun, obsessive, desperate pining where they're willing to do whatever and kill whoever it takes as long as they're back together. They can ALL do some murder, as a treat <3 They deserve that much I think lmao

And man, that whole name scene? From the very beginning I knew that Chris was gonna (unintentionally) distract her with her name until she couldn't take it anymore and finally interrupt him. But that whole 'holy' line? Yeah that one came out of left field for even me alskdjlaksjd Vividly remembering writing that bit and going 'oh shit, that's fucking good I am so good at this shit'... before immediately tearing out my hair for the next and calling myself a fraud probably not even thirty seconds later SDFKLJSDFJ

And that whole 'kicked out of the polycule' line? That was the one single line I had had planned out since I started writing this one like two years ago. And yet, the line had originally been a JOSH line. Delivered flatly and sarcastically and all. But when I finally got to writing that last scene in question, I started second guessing myself and wondered if it was a Chris line instead. In the end, the only reason I went with the Chris-delivery though was simply because I liked how bittersweet it would be if the line was met with not a short and tired snort, but the first time any of them had a chance for some genuine full-bodied laughter before the tears finally came on once the reality hit.

(Also, if do end up doing something with the whole "If Chris kissed Ashley, could he say he Chrissed her?" dream line than you have only yourself to blame. Gonna make you rage quit in the beginning of a fic if your not careful ;P)

[mormonophile]

Different editions of The BoM...how different are they?

So if I'm counting correctly, I have about 56 different copies of The Book of Mormon in my personal library. This includes a few foreign language editions (in Russian and Spanish). Most of them are just different formatting of the commonly available editions published by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Some are individual copies of The Book of Mormon, while others are part of "triple combo" or "quad combo' editions. If you're a non-Mormon, those terms may not mean a lot to you. They're nicknames for publications that combine the BoM with other LDS/Mormon scriptures, such as The Doctrine & Covenants, The Pearl of Great Price, and the King James Bible. Other editions of the 1920, 1981, or 2013 versions of the LDS text are annotated editions edited by various people. That accounts for most of my collection

However...some of the versions in my library are quite different from the usual LDS editions. I thought I'd take some time to address some of the more interesting non-LDS versions of the BoM in my collection. So here we go...forgive me if I come off as a total geek.

Facsimile Editions

Since the BoM, having been originally published in 1830, has long been in the public domain, several publishers have created facsimile editions that try to re-create the BoM in a similar format to how it first appeared. I have three different facsimile editions from different publishers, and I find them quite enjoyable to read sometimes. Joseph Smith originally published the BoM without chapter and verse numbering, in a single column format. So even though the titles of the various books (1 Nephi, 2 Nephi, etc.) are pretty much the same as modern editions, the text in each book is divided into paragraphs that read more like a novel than a Bible. Each of the facsimiles is a bit different the others: one has blue speckling on the sides of the pages, the thickness of each is a bit different, and the quality of the typeface is a bit different in each. (Also, two of the editions retain certain printing errors, such as the misspelling of the word "seen" in the Testimony of the Three Witnesses.)

Royal Skousen's The Earliest Text

There is probably no greater expert in the printing history of the BoM than LDS scholar Royal Skousen. In 2009 he published The Book of Mormon: The Earliest Text, which was an attempt to reconstruct the text of the BoM in its earliest form, before it was actually published. This task was much harder than it may seem at first. The BoM as originally published was based on a handwritten manuscript (in English) with no punctuation or capitalization, only about 28% of which still survives. After the book was first published in 1830, Smith made hundreds of corrections to the original publication, and the Church has made numerous corrections and changes since then. Much more detail is given in the Introduction to the book, written by LDS scholar Grant Hardy. You can read the entire first edition for free online at Book of Mormon Central. Skousen released an updated Second Edition in 2022, with a brand new Introduction by himself, that is well worth reading for its insights into his process.

The Restored Covenant Edition

Several years ago, I stumbled over a leather-bound copy of the BoM at my local used bookstore, entitled The Book of Mormon: Restored Covenant Edition. It was clearly not published by the LDS Church, but it was beautifully laid out The Title Page included this interesting claim:

With text restored to its purity from the Original and Printer's Manuscripts as translated by the gift and power of God through Joseph Smith, Jr. from the original plates preserved by the hand of God to come forth for this time.

I found that intriguing, and added the edition to my collection. I later found out that the edition was published by the Zarahemla Research Foundation, and mostly edited by an RLDS scholar named Shirley Heater. For formatting of the text, this edition may be the most enjoyable one to read. A second edition of this version was recently published, only in softcover.

The Stick of Joseph in the Hands of Ephraim

Perhaps the most unusual version of the BoM in my collection is this publication, entitled The Stick of Joseph in the Hands of Ephraim. Of course, the different title catches the eye immediately, but it gets even more interesting from there. Much like some "Hebrew names" editions of the Bible, that use Hebrew names in the Old and New Testaments (Moshe, Chava, Yeshua, etc.), this edition replaces Nephi with Nefi, Moroni with M'roni, Jacob with Ya'akov, and so forth. No longer is the "translator" called Joseph Smith, Jr., but the much more Hebrew sounding "Yosef Ben Yosef." "The Lord" is replaced by "YHWH," to indicate where the Tetragrammaton (The Name of God) would likely have been found if the text were originally written in Hebrew (which, to my knowledge, no Mormon scholars had ever claimed).

It is an unusual publication, to be sure. However, if you really want to view the BoM as a literary creation of ancient Hebrews, rather than the creation of a 19th century American farmer, the way the text is handled in this edition is pretty evocative. As a non-Mormon, of course, I don't have any strong position on the origins of the book, so I'l let the reader decide whether this approach is valid or not.

So those are some of the more interesting non-LDS versions of The Book of Mormon in my collection. I will address some other versions as the blog continues. It may go without saying that, for most people, it's probably considerably easier just to get a free paperback BoM from LDS missionaries than it is to get a hold of one of the versions described above. But if you become interested in digging deeper into the text, as I have, you might find one of these publications to be useful or interesting. Thanks for checking into the Mormonophile blog!

[alstroemeriadissonance]

Little Dr. Richter

Something SFW and fluffy this time around. I wasn't in the best of moods recently, so wrote this short piece to help cheer myself up, somehow.

Mostly written to deal with my brain goblins, so totally not proofread.

He was not supposed to see it. But he found it, nonetheless, when he sauntered to Rosa’s windowsill, intending to help her with placing the flowers he brought along for his visit into the vase set by the window.

It was sitting there, perched on one of her plush chairs, and with a curious glint in his champagne-gold eyes he took a closer look at the object in question, placing the bouquet of lilies and roses on Rosa’s nearby study table for the meantime.

Dr. Vyn Richter, with an odd smile on his face as he beamed at her, now had it in his arms.

“We match, do we not?” Vyn had an amused lilt in his voice. He was wearing his usual tie-and-waistcoat ensemble, and the thing in his arms was…wearing something very similar.

In his arms, to Rosa’s utter embarrassment and desire for the floor beneath her feet to crack open and swallow her whole, was her stuffed snowy owl plush toy, newly customized and assembled from the nearby Build-A-Friend toy shop. 

“Um. Yeah?” Rosa’s smile was twisted. 

Of course they matched. The clothes on the rather cuddly snowy owl plush in Vyn’s arms—a white button up shirt, brown waistcoat, red necktie, and black-rimmed spectacles—was specifically chosen because it was meant to represent him. 

Vyn had mentioned during one of their casual bookshop meetings that he liked snowy owls, and that the white, fluffy, cuddly-looking murder machines reminded him of more pleasant memories from his homeland. 

So when Rosa noticed that it was possible to customize a snowy owl plush toy in the Build-A-Friend toy shop that she passed by on the way to work—she was also in dire need of something to cheer herself up from a bad week—she immediately slunk into the store to have one made in his likeness, or at least wearing a facsimile of his daily work clothes. 

And bearing his gentle, smiling eyes.

It was one of her very few impulse purchases, and one that she never regretted.

Though the lack of regret may change, now that the man it was modeled after was now grinning as he held it out to her, and Rosa didn’t quite know if the smile was of mirth, or of something she’d rather not think about.

“Rosa, I am rather curious,” he began, the small smile not leaving his face, “Where did you get this handsome doll?” His smile grew wider. “I may want to procure some—not like this particular, special one, mind—for my younger patients who may need a pick-me-up.”

Rosa was about to answer him, when Vyn’s fingers accidentally brushed against the tag hanging by a thin vinyl thread from the hem of the owl’s waistcoat.

Oh. Oh no! 

Her eyes grew wide, and she was of a mind to snatch the toy from his hands; but it was too late, Vyn was already reading the text aloud:

“Build-A-Friend,” he murmured. “Ah, this is along the Central Business District. I may drop by one of these days, when schedule permits.” He then flipped the tag to see more information.

If it were possible for Rosa to throw herself out of the window, at that very moment, there was a more than zero percent chance of her doing so.

“Hi, my name is…” He continued, reading off the four words in print followed by a handwritten scribble. Vyn’s glee was unmistakable this time. “...Vyn.”

Nothing but Rosa keening in embarrassment, could be heard for the next few seconds.

Vyn’s amused smile then softened to one of affection, and he turned the owl plush in his hands so it faced him. “Well, hello there, little me,” he said, addressing the stuffed owl toy. “As you are tasked to be her companion in my stead, I am compelled to vet you before I fully entrust this very important duty into your...” A pause. “Wings.”

What followed after could be Rosa’s wishful imagination: Vyn manipulating the stuffed owl in such a way that it gave a nod, as if in response to the doctor’s statement.

“I will need to arrange the flowers in your vase first,” Vyn said as he carefully handed Little Vyn into Rosa’s arms. “Would you be a dear and bring out teacups for three people?”

===

Vyn cleared his throat. “Mr. Vyn,” he began, “What are your thoughts on Miss Rosa, and why are you interested in taking on this duty of paramount importance?”

All three—the third one being the owl plush—were enjoying the Earl Grey tea that Vyn brought in a thermos along with a plate of his freshly-baked dark chocolate and mint cookies. 

He and Rosa sat opposite each other, while Vyn the Owl perched on the table, with his own cup of tea and a small plate bearing a cookie.

Rosa watched in rapt amusement as Vyn senior carried on a one-sided interview with Vyn junior.

“I see,” Vyn murmured as he raised his own tea cup to his lips, as if the own namesake had indeed given a reply that only he could hear. “How quaint,” he continued after taking a sip. “But you do know that our dear Miss Rosa is a very independent and capable person? Surely you do not intend to invade her privacy as she sleeps?”

Vyn raised an eyebrow, still looking at his owl namesake, as if prompting it to say something in its defense.

Rosa at this point had a lot of questions, but knew better than to interrupt the strange yet curiously heartwarming scene unfolding right in front of her; she took a sip of tea from her cup, instead.

“Mm-hmm,” the doctor nodded. “That is most reassuring.” Then he faced Rosa, and asked her, “Do you have any questions for your owl companion?”

Rosa merely blinked at him, almost taken aback at the sudden request for her input. Yet a brilliant—at least, in her mind—idea struck her. “Please ask Mr. Vyn what he thinks of you.”

And then it was Vyn’s turn to look at her silently, this time with slightly widened eyes. “Ah, that is a most interesting question,” he murmured as soon as he managed to collect himself. “Well then,” he said, once again addressing the erudite owl plush, “Your thoughts, Mr. Vyn?”

This time, it took Vyn longer than usual before he spoke. “I…see,” he murmured, before nibbling on his cookie. “I apologize for disappointing you. I, too, would like to be around Miss Rosa more often. Nonetheless, do know that I am forging on towards my eventual goal of…” He took a sip of tea, as if gathering courage to say the next few words, “Making that happen. Eventually.”

His gold eyes locked onto hers, letting the quietude of the moment allow the meaning of his words to sink in.

“Mr. Vyn does not hold me in such high regard,” Vyn said to Rosa, after some time. “He is quite disappointed at me, to put it mildly. He thinks he should not have to pick up the slack of keeping you company, that it is I who should be immediately by your side if you are feeling burdened, and for you not have to resort to holding a stuffed toy animal for comfort, as effective it may be for such a temporary measure.”

Another lengthy period of silence followed; Vyn’s gaze had never left hers all the while. His fingers sought out her hand across the table. “I am sorry for being so presumptuous, Rosa,” he said, quietly. “But I do regret not being in your presence as often as I would like.” His thumb tenderly caressed the back of her hand. “Am I allowed to seek your companionship?”

Rosa did not say anything, but instead let her fingers intertwine with his.

A soft smile crept onto Vyn’s lips once again, and he let that particular thread drop.

It would be a conversation for another day.

===

Eventually it was finally time for him to leave, having had his fill of Rosa’s presence.

“I trust that you will do your duties to Miss Rosa to the best of your capabilities,” Vyn said, addressing the owl plush that Rosa held tightly in her arms. “I will relieve you of your duties, Mr. Vyn.” A soft, yet knowing smile. “Soon enough.”

“Thanks for dropping by, Dr. Richter,” Rosa said, a soft blush suffusing her cheeks with a rosy tint. “Um. If you need anyone to taste test your cookie recipes, I’m always available!”

Unconsciously she held the owl plush close to her face, snuggling it in a vain attempt to hide her embarrassment. 

Vyn could not help but let out a sigh.

“Dr. Richter?”

The doctor shook his head, mulling whether or not to say what was in his mind at the moment. Eventually he let his selfishness win out in the end, and he admitted, “I could not help but feel a little dismayed, that my namesake is getting to enjoy something I could not.”

“What do you mean?” Rosa asked, genuinely not understanding what he was trying to hint at her.

“The very thing that you are doing with Mr. Vyn at the moment.”

The doctor was now pouting, a sight that Rosa thought she would only see on Marius. 

“Eh?” Rosa merely stared at him, then eventually realized what he meant: She was holding the owl plush close to her face, hugging it.

With a small laugh Rosa gently placed her owl plush by her feet and reached out to Vyn for a hug. There was nothing wrong with a hug—Vyn was her close friend, after all, and after everything he had done for her a hug is one of the least things she could do for him…

As Vyn let himself be enveloped in Rosa’s tight hold, he secretly imprinted the scent of her skin and hair to his memory.

And as he let go of her embrace, he let his lips accidentally brush the side of her cheek, and the corner of her mouth…

Something that even Rosa, despite her cluelessness about such matters, seemed to notice; and whose meaning she understood.

It will be me in her arms, Vyn vowed to himself. Soon enough.

[mokuhchi-manuscripts]

Spring Troupe with an S/O Who Shares the Same Hobby

A/N: I had a ton of fun writing these. Hope y’all enjoy! I’ll eventually write these for the other troupe’s as well :)

CW(s): none

❀ Sakuya Sakuma - Theatre

Sakuya absolutely adores the fact you love theatre, as it’s such a huge passion of his

He’ll definitely ask for your help when rehearsing and memorizing lines or when practicing blocking by himself. He’ll look to you for advice at times as well whenever he’s a bit stuck.

If you’re also in theatre productions, he’ll always offer to help you with the same things and will try to give constructive criticism to you too if you ask for it

He will definitely show up to all of your performances, his theatre schedule permitting, whenever you are in a show. Doesn’t matter if you’re ensemble or the lead, he’s so incredibly proud of you and wants to cheer you on

Whenever you go to his performances he’s so grateful and swears up and down he’s performances are always a little bit better when you’re there.

Be prepared to go on theatre dates; if there’s a performance he wants to see, he’ll be sure to invite you and he hopes you’ll do the same

Sakuya looked over at you, excitement written plainly on his face. You couldn’t help but smile in response. The two of you were waiting in line to see a new theatre performance that was set to premiere that day, and you were both vibrating with excitement. Sakuya squeezed your hand and smiled at you again.

“Excited?”

“Extremely.” The line moved forward and the two of you made your way inside. As soon as you sat down and the lights began to dim, Sakuya squeezed your hand again and placed a soft kiss on the side of your face.

“Thank you for coming with me.” he whispered.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

The fact that he can do something he loves, with someone he loves, means the absolute world to him

❀ Masumi Usui - Music

Masumi has a passion for music and the fact you do too is just another reason he loves you

He’ll definitely share his favorite CDs with you, and even make you playlists! He’ll also create special music CDs for music he recommends or just songs that remind him of you

He starts to carry earbuds on his person so you two can listen to music together no matter where you are, and if he forgets his pair he knows you most likely have your pair on you

Sometimes, when you’re spending time together, the two of you just listen to music and bask in each others presence

He’ll share a lot of alternative rock with you as it’s his favorite genre, but he’ll listen to almost anything

Even if your favorite genre isn’t his favorite, he’ll still listen to and appreciate every song you send to him

‘Hey babe!’ you texted Masumi, ‘this song reminded me of you ♡ it’s called Same Boat by LizzyMcAlpine! It’s not your usual genre but I hope you like it anyways! (Ɔ ˘⌣˘)♥(˘⌣˘ C) ‘

Masumi read the text message in his dorm, smiling to himself. He opened YouTube and typed in the title and quickly clicked a lyric video. You were right, the song was incredibly far from his favorite genre. The song was slow and soft, but somewhat pretty nonetheless.

As the song ended he opened up your text chat again. ‘I am in the same boat ♡ love you so much’ he typed out.

‘Love you too, Masumi!’ He couldn’t help but smile at his phone once more, absolutely enamored with you.

Masumi just adores the fact he share his hobby with you, and you can understand where he’s coming from when it comes to his love for music

❀ Tsuzuru Minagi - Writing

Tsuzuru finds it incredibly helpful that you also like to write, no matter if it’s script writing, poetry, non-fiction, or stories

If you do more creative writing he’ll definitely bounce ideas off of you and have you peer review some of his work to make sure it makes sense -especially since he writes a lot of his work while practically dead-. If you write more nonfiction, he may ask for help with research whenever he’s writing a historical play or anything of that such.

If you ask him to, he’ll peer edit and review your work as well. He may not always do the best job, especially if he just finished a script

Remind him to sleep and rest! You especially understand what it’s like to overwork yourself so your reminders almost mean more to him. He’ll also remind you to rest, which is quite hypocritical but he does it because he cares about you.

You were working on the final draft of your writing project when you received a phone call. The name on the screen read, ‘Tsuzuru’. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of your boyfriend's name.

You answered the phone. “Hey Tsuzuru!’

“Hey! I know you’ve been working on that project lately so I just wanted to remind you to go to sleep. The project will still be there in the morning and you’ll be able to work on it better after you rest.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Tsuzuru, you’re working on a script right now, right?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll listen to your words only if you heed your own advice. You can finish the script in the morning and you’ll do better after you rest. ‘Kay?”

Tsuzuru laughed then. “Okay, I’ll try.”

“Then I’ll try as well. Love you!”

“Love you too.”

He also always hypes up your writing! He adores it so much and thinks you’re incredibly talented

❀ Itaru Chigasaki - Video Games

One of the reasons Itaru originally decided to pursue a relationship with you was because of your love for video games

He loves to recommend you games, and he’ll play any and all of the games you recommend him

You can bet you’ll have video game dates. Whether this means you backseat gaming as he uses the controller or vice versa or even playing multiplayer depends on the day.

“You have to go down!”

“No, the extra bonus isn’t here, it’s further down.”

“No no, trust me, Itaru, it’s here I’ve played this game like a bajillion times.”

“And I’ve played it a bajillion and one times.” you rolled your eyes at your boyfriend, although he couldn’t see it. He was lying on his back on the couch, and you cuddled on top of him with his arms around you as he held the controller.

“Please just at least look?” you asked.

“Fine.” You watched the playable character move out of the screen as the game faded to black. Once the game faded back in, you could see the bonus chest in the hidden room. “See! I told you!” you yelled, laughing the entire time.

“I can’t believe you proved me wrong.” he laughed too, although there was a hint of frustration in his voice. You craned your neck to kiss Itaru on the jaw.

“It’s okay, it was more of a lucky guess. Also I played this game before coming over so I could see where the hidden items were.”

Itaru will go with you to gaming stores, and will definitely use you as an excuse for being there in case he runs into a coworker. But it’s alright, as he’ll give you an apology kiss afterwards.

If you ever need help beating a game, he’ll always be there to help and give advice. And if you play gacha, he may help donate to the cause of you pulling your best boy or girl

❀ Citron - Learning New Words

Citron loves to learn new words, and if you do as well, then he’d love to learn new words with you!

He’ll definitely just flip through a dictionary with you, learning how to pronounce new words and learning their definitions

The two of you were lying on the floor of Citron’s dorm on your bellies next to each other. Between you was a dictionary.

“Letter?” you asked.

“F.”

“Alright.” You found the ‘F’ section in the dictionary and flipped to a random page, closing your eyes and pointing to a random spot.

“Fas-mill?” Citron sounded confused.

You looked at the pronunciation key. “I think it’s fac-SIH-muh-lee.”

“Oh! That makes sense. Facsimile. What does the word mean?”

“It says it means ‘an exact copy or reproduction, as of a document’. So I guess, like, whenever the director makes a copy of Tsuzuru’s scripts for you guys to memorize it’s a facsimile.”

“Oh! That makes a lot of sense. Thank you!” Citron gave you a kiss on the cheek after he finished speaking.

Sometimes your dates just consist of flipping through a dictionary and learning new words. The two of you have a lot of fun, even if others may find it odd

Sometimes he’ll tell you stories from his homeland using the new words you learned even if he doesn’t always use them correctly

❀ Chikage Utsuki - Spicy Food

Chikage is so happy someone else finally loves spicy food close to as much as he does

He may ask you for help when writing his reviews, as getting a second opinion can definitely help him at times

He’ll take you to his favorite spicy food restaurants for dates and will ask if he can order for you as he’s eaten at these restaurants so many times, he practically has their menus memorized. Because of this, he has an idea of what is good and what isn’t and you’re most likely to like

Chikage had asked if he could order your meal for you and you and you had agreed, trusting him to get you something you’d like.

A plate was soon placed in front of you and you promptly decided it looked absolutely delicious. You took a bite.

“So? How is it?”

“It’s amazing, oh my god.” you responded, your mouth still somewhat full of food.

“It’s rude to talk with your mouth full.”

“Sorry,” you replied, but your mouth still had food in it. Chikage shook his head.

“Well, I’m glad you like it. I figured you would.”

Sometimes he’ll sneak extra spice into your food- whether it’s as a ‘prank’ or not is really anyone’s guess

Sometimes, as a date, the two of you will order spicy food from a bunch of restaurants and try them all, critiquing them as if you’re professional food reviewers although you could argue Chikage kind of is

· · ─────── · ☆ · ─────── · ·

Masterlists || FaQ || Requesting Rules/Remarks

[bettsfic]

february pinned: the real & the ideal

in this month’s edition of my lowkey writing-related newsletter, in addition to my writing-related post roundup and consultation availability, i have short story recommendations for you and an essay on the nature of reality in fiction! 

if you want to receive my lowkey writing-related newsletter directly, you can subscribe here.

in other news, i finished two fics this month:

digging for orchids (hualian, 43k, explicit, fake marriage au)

let ruin end here (hualian, 8k, mature, neighbors au)

full newsletter below the cut, or you can read it here.

oof,

what a month. january is already a rough time. throwing in a pandemic, a coup, and an economic revolution spearheaded by reddit just seems unfair. as for me personally, the spring semester came at me fast and even though it’s only week 2, i am already buried in grading. which i realize is my fault, considering i’m the one who assigned homework.

so after hearing your feedback, i thought i’d make this newsletter even more writing-related by writing more about writing. this month i’ll start off by talking about the nature of reality in fiction in a segment i call “been thinkin a lot about.” more on that below.

new resource

i’ve compiled a folder of PDFs of the short stories i teach most often, which is to say, the stories i like enough to re-read every semester. most of them are literary fiction but a few veer into fantasy, sci fi, and horror.

i know before the MFA, i didn’t really know what a short story was. like i knew, abstractly, the concept of a short story (it is as it sounds), but i could only list a couple i’d ever read as an adult, and i hadn’t read anything that had been published in the last decade. i remember wondering why i was even being asked to care about short stories. who writes short stories? who reads them? apparently, a lot of people. short storyists are a lot like fanwriters in that they make no money and when you talk about your writing in public, people give you that “why would anyone waste their time with that?” look.

so here’s why i was asked to care about short stories: a good short story gives you the entirety of a world in a very condensed space. moreover, it can sometimes leave you as satisfied as a novel in a fraction of the reading time. all the stories i’ve compiled here are ones that stuck with me, that i find myself recommending over and over to writers who want a good example of developing character, or weird narration, or establishing stakes.

if you’re a writer considering publication or an MFA in creative writing, i highly recommend familiarizing yourself with short stories, if for no other reason than to get the feel for them so you can write some of your own. if you can get a few short story publications under your belt, it’ll be easier to open doors when you’re ready to query agents for a novel. also, short stories make a great writing sample for grad programs, workshops, fellowships, residencies, and grant funding.

if you want to check out more short stories but have no idea where to start, the 2020 best american short stories just dropped in november, or if you want a cheaper one, used copies of 2019 and earlier are available on thriftbooks. if you want an overview of the history of the (american) short story, there’s also the best american short stories of the century. fair warning, though, while it’s more diverse than expected, it’s still a bit heavy on dead-white-dude writing.

content warning: the stories in the above-linked folder may depict instances of sexual assault, suicide, and/or abuse. i have not labeled them individually with warnings but i hope to soon, as well as provide a catalog with summaries.

i’m also still working on my essay and novel recs. more to come on that hopefully next month.

writing-related posts

how i quit my banking job to do a creative writing MFA

how i learned to read faster/stop subvocalizing

how to write when you have no time or energy to write

my experience writing fic in small/dead fandoms (aka fics that will probably not get any traffic)

how to describe facial expressions

how to ask for help from your professors

how to navigate tenses during flashbacks

how to separate yourself from your work

how (and why you might want to) write a shitty first draft

why you should consider making the climax the inciting incident

for a complete list of my writing-related posts, check out this masterdoc (which i still need to update it with the past few months’ posts).

stuff i’m into rn

i’m about halfway through the rhetoric of fiction by wayne c. booth which has more or less become my narrative bible. it’s a little dated (1961) but it tackles banal writing adages that are somehow still believed, like “show don’t tell” and whatnot, and breaks them down with amazing insight, clarity, and research. it’s a bit of a dense text so i’m only reading a few pages a day, i think the first time i’ve ever let myself read something so intentionally slowly. now i’m kind of obsessed with doing things slowly. reading slowly, writing slowly, cooking slowly. i even drive slowly, because it’s so rare to go anywhere at all, and i want to enjoy it. also, it’s very snowy where i am. also also, the battery died in my car this month and i really have to make it a point to drive more often.

february availability

i have 2 openings for initial writing consultations in february! if you’re interested, please fill out this google form.

you can learn more about my services on my carrd.

been thinkin a lot about

compulsory reality in fiction. many of us have probably received feedback along the lines of, or thought to ourselves as we read, “that’s not realistic.” many of us believe, consciously or not, that fiction that is more “realistic” is inherently better than fiction that is less “realistic.” for some of us, real means a saturation of details, the clear depiction of the surfaces of things. reality is found in the rendering thereof; if you can “see” it, it’s real. for others of us, it might be the development of complex characters and their growth across a narrative. and for yet others, reality is subtlety, or misery, or the idea of “slice of life,” a term i don’t think means anything, because aren’t all stories a slice of a character’s life? what would a story that’s not a slice of life look like? you’d either have to take away the “slice” part and render a whole life, which is impossible, or you’d have to take away the “life” part and create a dead story, which may be possible, but why would you want to? even if you wrote a story about a rock, the rock would be brought to life by virtue of being written about.

anyway. i think the word “real” is a shitty word for the same reason “slice of life” is a shitty phrase: everything is real and therefore nothing cannot be real. slices of life are all we know because we are alive and cannot truly perceive not being alive; reality is also all we know, and any depictions beyond reality are thus made real because they have been depicted.

so the “goal” for fiction to be “realistic” seems to me to be a false one. all fiction is real because it exists and no fiction can be truly real because it’s only a facsimile of reality. not to get all “this is not a pipe” but writing is just making squiggles, and we as a community of English-knowers agree that certain squiggles correspond to certain sounds, and certain sounds together make words which conjure meanings. and words put together into sentences into paragraphs conjure even more complicated meanings. and when those paragraphs are woven into narrative we create yet more and more complicated meaning.

every time you write anything — a text message, an email, a tweet, a fanfic — you are taking the infinite abstraction of your own cognition, narrowing it into a single concept, and representing that concept with patterns in the form of sounds represented by letters and given meaning with words, so that the infinite abstraction of your own conscience can be fractionally witnessed by the infinite abstraction of someone else’s. and even though we can’t definitively prove for ourselves that any other thing possesses a consciousness, writing shows us the shape of someone else’s mind, and tells us we are not alone.

and yet we still expect writing to be “real.”

have you ever read a story where a character sneezed? like just, a description of a sneeze for the sake of it, with no purpose or function in the plot? if not, is it because our characters aren’t real enough to sneeze, or because the sneeze isn’t relevant to their plight? what would a written sneeze look like, and why would somebody want to write it? moreover, why would somebody want to read it? that leads me to wonder, do we depict reality in the service of narrative, or narrative in the service of reality? in other words, do we write to portray reality (sans sneezing), or do we depict reality to constrain our writing, the way one might request bumpers when bowling so as not to fall in the gutters?

i’ve never read an artful rendition of a character pissing or shitting, either, even when those things are related to a character’s plight and circumstance — stories involving long road trips, living in the woods, being kidnapped. the only exception i can think of is when those things are eroticized (we do not kinkshame here in this lkwrnl), the same way it’s rare to find detailed sex writing that isn’t for the purpose of reader arousal. are there just some things about the nature of being human that are too intimate, too complex, or too boring to write?

once i wrote a murder that takes place in a small fictional midwestern town in the 90s (for the ~aesthetic), and it went uninvestigated by said town’s police force. early readers repeatedly commented along the lines of, “that’s not realistic.” and i thought, no, if anything, the incompetence of police is too realistic for the heightened reality i’m trying to render. have you ever heard of a cop solving a murder that didn’t come with an obvious suspect or immediately found evidence? i haven’t. that doesn’t mean those cases don’t exist, but i definitely think they’re less likely than mass media has us believe, and the average small-town police force has far less motivation (and possibly training) to solve crimes than we think.

i started working on the above-mentioned novel in 2016, and my goal was to depict a reality that hovers above the surface of plausibility. in this novel, which is based on macbeth, a preteen girl, mercy, becomes jealous of the love her best friend elisa shows to her father. mercy decides to get her older and very unstable brother to kill him. naturally the deed goes awry, but it does occur, and the cleanup is far messier than anticipated.

is it plausible for a 12 year old girl to plot and execute the murder of her best friend’s father? no. is that what this book is about? yes. a book about a 12 year old girl who has a perfectly healthy relationship with her best friend and who has no feelings toward her bff’s father one way or another is probably far more “realistic,” but that’s not the book i’d want to read and certainly not the one i want to write. my goal of a heightened reality is what henry james calls the intensity of illusion, the thing that allows a reader, through the witness of one’s distilled cognition into language, to exit physical, knowable reality, and enter a new and unknown reality. and isn’t climbing to that higher place, that intensity of illusion, the purpose of fiction? if it’s not, what is?

the best feedback i got on the aforementioned murder scene was from one of my professors, who, of the perfect calm of all children involved, said, “they just shot a guy. at least one of them would be freaking out.”

he was totally right, but it opened up a lot of questions for me. by what standard did he reach that conclusion? was it something in the chapter itself, was it his personal understanding of the work of narrative, or was it the logical conclusion of the slim plausibility of the scenario? moreover, where did i come up with the idea that all of my preteen characters would commit a murder and proceed to be very chill about it? if an implausible scenario begs the expectation of emotional distress, would it be more compelling to buy into that expectation or deviate from it? is it even my obligation to be compelling when i can never have a cogent grasp of the personal tastes of my audience?

that brings me to what appears to be reality’s opposite: idealism, the state those of us who write fanfic are often trying to achieve. we’re working in an entire genre of ideals, of happily ever afters, of hurt that is always followed by comfort, of glossily rendered sex during which everyone orgasms and no one has to pee afterward. we fix broken texts and continue incomplete ones. sometimes, we want to make existing things better, deeper, more complicated. but all the time, we want to make a text more than what it is.

some see this process, this drive for the ideal, as antithetical to realism, and i think that’s part of the reason fanfiction and other idealistic genres (romance, etc.) get a bad name — the assumption that more real (which for some means more miserable) is better, and therefore its opposite, the ideal, is worse. for them, i have this quote from vladimir nabokov:

For me a work of fiction exists only insofar as it affords me what I shall bluntly call aesthetic bliss, that is a sense of being somehow, somewhere, connected with other states of being where art (curiosity, tenderness, kindness, ecstasy) is the norm.

the ideal, aesthetic bliss, the intensity of illusion. these are all phrases that boil down to the same thing: you the writer get to define the constraints of your own reality. you get to choose if your world even complies with the known laws of physics. and if it doesn’t, you get to choose which ones to break, and why to break them. you get to choose if your stories take place in a real house in a real town on a real day. if you wrote a story that takes place on september 11, 2001, would the events of that story be shaped by the events of that actual day, or are you writing a better world where 9/11 doesn’t happen? consider the consequences of both: why might you want to write reality? why might you want to write ideality? how do these things shape your identity and goals as a writer?

no matter where a work falls on the real-ideal spectrum, you have to accept that prose itself will only ever be a verisimilitude of reality and therefore an interpretation of it, one that might be interpreted differently by a reader. in writing and everything else, you can never have complete control over what others perceive. it’s like giving someone cash as a gift. they might buy themselves something nice with it, or they might spend it on groceries. the point is, eventually we all have to let go of our realities.

[snarwor]

moon and old stars - chapter 2

Wooooo Chapter 2~ Enjoy some Din/Boba blowjobbery. AO3 link at the bottom so you can stay notified of updates. Link to Chapter 1 here

--------------------------------------------------------------

Slave I wasn’t outfitted with the sonic shower the Razor Crest had. Fett kept a rather complicated-looking water shower on board, which had Din staring at it for several minutes in furrowed-brow confusion before he caught his expression in the mirror.

He hadn’t ever seen his face that red in his life. His eyes were puffy and bright, and his mouth stained a dark red with how hard he’d been trying to keep his sobs in, and if not in, silent. The right side of his face was creased, and matched the weave of Fett’s trousers. Kriff. His eyes flashed down to the floor again and he got into the shower.

As soon as the water hit his back, he had to bite down on his fist to keep from moaning at the perfect water pressure and heat. Fett may have bummed it on Tattooine for years, but he certainly didn’t bum it on Slave I. Din could count on one hand the number of times he’d taken a water shower, and three of those times were freezing cold and pathetic. He wanted nothing more than to stay in this shower forever, but the galaxy was waiting out there, as was the kid.

A frown came over his face, and he felt the initial joy of the shower pass from him. He washed his hair with too-rough hands, letting the uneven locks fall into his eyes as he tried to get a grip on reality again. He’d just asked for a reprieve from all this, and he hadn’t even gotten off.

It was strange to think about, actually. He had gone in expecting nothing, then expecting sex, and now...his body had never felt like this before. He was all at once jittery and fatigued, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

Well. It’s not like he couldn’t take care of himself. He had been doing just that for decades, now. Before he could think twice on it, he wrapped his hand around his prick and gave a slow tug. He couldn’t help his mind drifting back to the moments before. Kriff, his knees were still a little red from how long he’d been kneeling. That sense of powerlessness, the submission that came from the act, Din had never thought he would be the kind of man to do that willingly.

He’d practically begged Fett to do it.

The thought of actually begging the stoic man for anything made his dick twitch in his hand, and he gave a small gasp. The fantasy unfolded itself like a many-paged text. Sensations, phantom now, of the heat beneath his cheek and the hand atop his head, came back to him in a flurry of feeling, each one more powerful than the last. Within a minute, he was tugging at himself in earnest, keeping his breathing steady even as his mind spiraled out of control.

“You were very good for me.”

The praise, flooding his chest now, was the tipping point, and he felt the skin on his lip give way to his teeth, the taste of blood spilling across his tongue as he spilled in his hand, silent and controlled.

He blinked his eyes again, and things were clear once more.

Kriff.

—

Dressed and securely strapped in his beskar, Din was only a little jittery. He retreated to eat by himself, instead of with the others. That’s twice in a day he’s had to take his helmet off, prompted by little more than his body’s needs.

He also felt all of their eyes on him, like they knew what he’d done. Din ate as fast as he could and returned, comfortable back behind the helmet once more. The four-man crew geared the ship up for travel, and he did what he could. He could hardly look at Fett as it was.

Fett wasn’t having any of that.

Within the first three minutes that they had reached lightspeed, Din was being dragged by the back of his helmet back to the berthing he was avoiding thinking of. He made a surprised noise. Fennec and Cara didn’t look surprised. When the door sssnicked shut behind them, he was tossed back onto the bed with a bounce. Unarmed, and in close quarters, Din’s heartrate started ratcheting up. Fett stood before the hatch, arms crossed.

“Was that necessary?” Din shouted.

“If you are going to continue acting like a shamed, shy child, then I shall treat you like it.”

Din gawked from beneath the helmet. He wished he had a telemetry scanner for what the kriff to do in this situation. There was no such thing. “I was not acting—”

“You are practically shouting your shame. What was it I told you about being in here.”

“You are not of a Creed you can disappoint while in here. The only truth is that you are mine.”

He made a soft noise and tried to sit up, but quick as a flash, Fett had his hand pressed against the middle of Din’s armor, looming over him. The weight itself stilled Din’s struggling movements. He was still breathing hard, and his chin hurt a little from the helmet’s chafing as he was dragged.

“Will you tell me why you feel shame?”

“We’re Mandalorians. You should know why.” His voice almost didn’t pick up on the vocoder, it was so soft.

“You needed something, I provided. There is no shame in needing help. Mandalorians often work together.”

“In the old times, perhaps. Not when there’s so little of us that the hunted Jedi outnumber us.”

Fett’s face took a considering twist to it. “Then think not of yourself as a Mandalorian. Not in here, and not with me. What we do in here should not be colored any different in your mind when you are somewhere else to think of it.”

“What?” Not as a Mandalorian? Was he insane?

“I know you heard me the first time.”

“We shouldn’t have ever done this,” Din said, shifting a little on the bed. It’d been so long since he’d had something soft beneath him, and the hard body above him played nicely against that comfort.

“Why?”

“It’s—”

“Shameful?” Fett said, quirking an eyebrow upward. Din knew the objection was weak. “Plenty of Mandalorians have indulged and continue to indulge in their fantasies and the very human needs of their bodies. In fact, you did in the ‘fresher a few hours ago. Yet you’re ashamed of wanting this, wanting me.”

Din could not say a single thing. It was like Fett had taken the words out of his mind. He swallowed roughly. “What am I supposed to do?” he said, at long last.

“In here, as I say. Would you like it to continue past the door?”

Din shook his head. “N-not with the others around.” A tension eased in his chest that he hadn’t noticed was there. He had acknowledged that what had happened, had happened, and had helped gain him some clarity, even if just for a few hours. Kriff, he’s going to need to be on his game for when they got to Gideon’s cruiser.

Fett only nodded. “We will be in hyperspace for awhile yet. They will alert us if something needs my attention. For now, you need my attention.”

He spoke with weight and truth behind his words, and Din’s face burned at the feeling.

“Do you wish to stay? You know my rules and the conditions for if you say yes.”

Din thought it over in his head. He would not be met with shame nor judgment from Fett, not in here. It was a good deal, and no one need know.

So he nodded.

And took off his helmet.

Fett helped set the rest of the armor aside, until he was back to the clothes he was wearing when he’d kneeled before. Din remained reclined on the bed, unsure of what to do next. He looked to Fett for guidance, and was given it.

“Have you ever sucked cock?” Fett asked. At Din’s sputtered mess of a response, that eyebrow quirked up again. He didn’t follow it up with any other questions regarding Din’s experience (or lack thereof). “Would you like to learn?”

The way he phrased it. Din’s mouth watered at the thought, and his eyes flicked to the fly on Fett’s trousers. He nodded again, mute with desire.

Fett simply climbed onto his bed, leaning against the far bulkhead, and took himself out. Din almost hid from the sight, but was urged forward by a hand on his head, guiding, leading, protecting.

Teaching.

Eyes wide, Din let himself be led between Fett’s legs, and he rested up on his elbows to put himself above the task at hand.

“Use just your tongue, for now.” Fett’s hand pressed down a little, leaving Din with the option to follow orders or deflect his path to the side if he’d changed his mind. His tongue, pink and a little nervous, poked out past his lips to lick at the skin just under the fat head.

He tasted of skin and slightly of sweat, but it was obvious Fett bathed often, and had the means to do so. He licked again, bolder now, and the difference in texture from the underside of Fett’s cockhead and the rest of his length made Din’s mind buzz in excitement.

“There you go. Jate, jate.” Stars, he was speaking Mando’a. Din’s entire soul stood up at attention.

“Oh, kriff,” he whimpered, his lips catching against Fett’s prick in a facsimile of a kiss. His eager body followed the notion, pressing a kiss to the underside of the head and pressing his tongue experimentally along the thick vein. He could feel Fett’s pulse through this.

“You want to be good for me, ad’ika?” Din’s head swirled with want. He must have gone cross-eyed. He nodded, the slightly-damp head smearing over his cheek a little. Curious, Din leaned down and licked against the slit, and pulled back a little at the taste. He went in again, taking another lick, following with his lips. He hadn’t even kissed the man, and he was kissing at his prick like a priest at an altar. “That’s it. Go ahead and suck on just the tip for me. Keep using your tongue. Don’t wanna use your teeth for this.”

It seemed like common sense, but Din almost jolted at the thought that he would try and do anything like that to him. Brown eyes flicked up to Fett’s, and he nodded his understanding. Din pressed another sloppy kiss to the head, bobbing in a rhythm that soothed him dizzyingly fast. Another whimper left the back of his throat, and the hand on his head scritched at his scalp with care. He’d been rough with himself in the ‘fresher, earlier. This gentleness was nothing he’d ever felt before.

“Go on, go a little deeper. Not too much. Just a little—good, so good for me.”

Din was eager to please him, all the troubles and worries which had plagued him now far, far away. The soft, deep voice spurred him on faster and deeper. The hand in his hair pulled a little, not in scolding, but reminding him to ease up.

“Not a race, little one.”

Din shivered, and he practically gasped around Fett’s cock.

“No one’s ever treated you like this before, have they? What a shame. You look so beautiful like this, just for me, just mine.”

“Yours,” Din gasped, a little slurred with the dick in his mouth.

“Go ahead and put your hand where mine is. Just to keep it steady.” Din brought his shaking hand up to where Fett’s scarred one was wrapped in a loose hold around the base. He never considered his hands to be slender or graceful, but Fett’s description of him, little one, was certainly true when comparing the two of them. Din held onto him, and had to scoot up a little more, his unoccupied hand planting itself in the sheets beside Fett’s hip before pulling back. Fett arranged him how he wanted, all his limbs curled in the circle of his bowed legs. A sense of calm and safety came over him, and he shivered again, feeling himself harden in his trousers.

“I—” Din looked up, a question in his eyes. “Am I doing it right?”

“You’re doing so well for me, little one. I promise. Just keep doing what feels good. You have good instincts. Show them off for me.”

Din set to work.

He knew it’d be a stretch if he took any more in his mouth, and felt comfortable just suckling at the tip, getting that strange taste right from the source. Almost on its own, his hand started to stroke at the base, just little squeezes and pulls which in turn pulled a low, pleased noise out of Fett.

Without pulling off, Din looked up at him. The hand on his head was now petting him, a gentle affection that matched the open-mouthed expression on Fett’s face. He licked at the underside of Fett’s cock, just letting his tongue catch on the edge of the crown as he went. His tongue was going to be tired from this, he knew. It was worth it to see the expression change from awe to tight and twisted in pleasure.

Then Din pushed himself down deeper. His lips stretched, but the punched-out noise Fett made had him doing it again and again, bobbing his head eagerly, wanting more, taking more until he gagged, sputtering a little. He sat back, eyes flicking back up to see if he’d done something wrong. Fett let out a shuddering breath. “Happens,” Fett said between pants. “You’re still doing very good for me, ad’ika. Go on, try again.”

“Yes, d—” Din froze up all over, and swallowed nervously, mute once more.

“That happens too. Call me what you like, I promise I won’t mind. Say it for me. Try it out loud.”

“It was just an—”

“I don’t think I was asking.” Fett’s fingers twisted in his hair, curled wildly from not getting to dry just right.

“Yes...daddy.” Now Din felt that same punch to the gut, pleasure and some white-hot, twisting, bladed contentment pulsing through his veins. He pressed his face into the patch of bare skin showing at the top of Fett’s thigh, and the hand on his head moved to the back of his neck.

A soft squeeze. “Very good, my boy.”

Tears sprung to Din’s eyes again, and he looked up. He must have been a pitiful sight, but in Fett’s eyes, his submission and humility were beautiful, almost incandescent and radiant on its own.

Din’s cheeks were a ruddy red, and his lips slightly swollen from so much work with his mouth.

“That’s my good boy,” Fett said again. “You wanna keep going for Daddy?”

“Yes, please,” Din rasped, almost bowing his head, before a finger lifted his face by the chin.

“You’ve been very good for me. Why don’t you come up here and get your reward?”

Part 3 here

Read on AO3.

[deathonyourtongue]

Resurrection | 5

Summary: A ragtag team of Spec-Ops operators are brought out of retirement for all the wrong reasons. When the dust settles, only the best will be left standing. Pairing: Pablo Schreiber x OFC, Henry Cavill x OFC (listen, she gets with the whole team, okay? Don’t lie, you would too.) Word Count: 2K Warnings: Waterboarding. Dream sequence involving death and gore.  A/N: I’m reposting this for a few reasons. Mainly ‘cause I’m done having my fics in two places, wanted to re-work the cover, and most importantly wanted those of you who weren’t following me back when these chapters were originally posted to be able to take it in from scratch. I’ve also cleaned up a lot of the text as far as grammar, etc. goes, so it’s more polished.  ***ALSO: All the Portuguese translations are found in the links (read the address bar or the error that comes up when you click the link)*** Like what I do? Buy me a coffee (or a commission)!

C H A R A C T E R  C H A R T

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Gone are the suits and ties, and my heels are replaced by combat boots. 

The safehouse we use for interrogations is across town from the one we stay at, and it shows. Far from the posh of Knightsbridge, Dagenham is home to the largest diesel engine manufacturing site in the world. Soot and oil coat everything and at night, the area is a ghost town; perfect for our needs. 

On paper, all the governments in the room condem torture, but work in the business of terror long enough, and you know that’s all just to save face and keep the top brass’ hands clean. We’re not animals about it of course, but if Miguel wobbles a little in his seat, it’s only because we let Max drive and London roads are so winding.

“You know...We don’t technically have to take the bag off his head.” Flip murmurs, breaking the silence we’ve all been in since getting Miguel settled into his new surroundings. 

“You’re absolutely certain he’s never seen you, darling?” Max asks me, his face set in concentration. The rest of the team look up for my answer and I nod. 

“Positive. Besides, bag or no bag, if he knew me, he’d have recognized my call sign by now,” I remind them, relief shooting around the room as all the men recall that Miguel was privy to any conversation we had in the car, call signs included. 

“Alright. Who’s going in with you?” Rick asks, finally moving from his position against the wall and taking a seat next to Flip who looks all too eager to get a crack at our soon-to-be informant. Knowing he’ll be a liability if he reads the tone wrong, I look around, my gaze resting on Max as I smirk. 

“Beef. I owe him for nearly taking his head off earlier,” I answer, both Dom and Rick nodding their understanding. Flip looks somewhat crestfallen, but I know he understands. He, of all of us, is too close to the situation, and though I know there’ll be a time to turn him loose, this isn’t it. 

Max and I both stand from our seats, checking our handguns as we move towards the blast door that separates us from Miguel. Taking a moment, we focus our gazes on eachother, silently getting on the same page so that there’s no chance of Miguel thinking one of us is weaker than the other. 

With a nod to each other, I take a deep breath and open the door. Padded on the inside in order to mitigate any screaming or loud music we might use throughout our interrogations, the room is graveyard silent. Once the door shuts, Max moves with precision, turning the stereo on full blast, and I can’t help but smile at the song that comes on. While all of us are metal fans, it’s one of the most effective interrogation tools we have because those in the hot seat usually either haven’t ever heard metal before (and are immediately disturbed by it) or despise it to the point where they can only tolerate so much. EDM comes a close second, but in Miguel’s case, Metal is the right call as he flinches immediately. Catching Max’s eye, we can’t help but grin as we mouth along to the lead singer’s screaming, the song’s lyrics about lying and choking oddly appropriate for what’s about to happen. 

I headbang along with the double-bass as I grab a five gallon jug of water, hoisting it over my shoulder and letting Max handle the towels as we set things up. When everything’s ready, Max moves into position, arms crossed over his broad chest, his trademark scowl firmly in place. 

I count to three with one hand, and on ‘one’, pull the bag from Miguel’s head, immediately tipping his head back and holding it in place with my forearm as I dilate his eyes. Max and I both stay out of his line of sight for the few moments it takes for the drops to work, and once we see the tell-tale squint, we slowly move to our places. 

“Miguel, ta com cara que tá com sede, meu amigo.” I open, one eyebrow raised, staying just far away enough to be little more than a faceless blur to our informant. 

“Vai se foder!” He yells, trying and failing to get out of the restraints he’s in. 

“Ah, que isso, cara. Não fique assim. A gente só quer falar com você,” I purr, playing the “Nice Girl” routine even though everyone in the room knows it won’t last long. 

“Certo, é por isso que vocês me capturaram, colocaram um saco na minha cabeça, e me levaram a Deus sabe onde. Falar, uma ova!” 

“Já aprendeu Inglês, seu cafajeste?” I ask him, hoping he’s picked up a second language since the last time any of our governments dealt with him, more for the rest of the team’s sake than my own.

“I have,” he says, his accent nearly a perfect facsimile of anyone who’s been born and raised in London. Max’s eyebrow goes up in mild surprise, and if I know my team, the rest of them are all pressed against the two-way mirror, intent on listening now that they can understand. 

“Good, so we’ll do this in English, ‘cause fuck you,” I tell him in no uncertain terms, moving into his space so he can confirm that the woman he wanted to bang at the party is the same one who’s now holding his life in her hands. 

With everyone in the room discreetly mic’d up--including Miguel--there’s no need to turn down the music, and I use it to my advantage, wanting him as disoriented as possible so that he’s not focused on his words or the thoughts behind them.

“Three weeks ago, right here in London, two of our own were killed by a bomb that has your signature all over it. Wanna tell me who you sold that bomb to?”

Miguel laughs, a dry throaty sound that comes from too many cigars, and too much time around toxic chemicals; if one of us doesn’t kill him, I know for a fact cancer will get him in the end. 

“I sell bombs to many people. How am I supposed to remember who I’ve sold to a month ago, puta?”

I don’t have time to react as Max lunges in and connects with Miguel’s jaw in one of the most vicious right hooks I’ve seen him throw in a long time. 

“Talk to her like that again and I’ll dislocate the other side, y’cunt.” Max growls, teeth bared mere inches from Miguel’s face, leaving no room for interpretation of just how pissed he is. Without another word, Max takes Miguel’s face in his hand and relocates the joint he popped out, a scream coming from our informant as soon as he can open his mouth.

“See, Miguel, I’d like to think you’d remember, because this particular order had your initials on one of the plates, and I know you only do that when your order is for a single explosive device. Mass orders go through the factory, but the custom pieces, well...You’ve gotta take pride in your work, right?” I’ll give the man props, because if he’s searching for a lie, I can’t tell. His face stays unreadable apart from the discomfort from the light. 

I shoot Max a look just as the song switches over, and he nods. 

“Fuck this.” He barks, flipping a switch on the wall that immediately sends Miguel’s chair back into a 45 degree angle, the back legs hinged to the floor so he can never truly fall back, but feels  like he’s going to, just the same. With the lights directly in his line of sight, I can’t keep from smirking as I hear Miguel hiss and try to cover his eyes, the steel shackles on his wrists clanking loudly and only causing him more pain. 

“What is it, Miguel? Lights too bright?” I ask as I move to grab the first neatly folded towel from the pile. “Don’t worry, I got you.” 

Pressing the towel firmly against his face, I stand out of the way as Max pours the water from the jug. We both count silently in our heads, Max stopping at exactly the right number as I flick the switch to bring Miguel upright once more. 

Our informant coughs and sputters, screaming every vulgarity I’ve ever heard in Portuguese before spitting in our general direction. 

“THERE WAS NO NAME! IT WAS PURCHASED BY AN ENTITY!”

I roll my eyes, annoyed that a man who once gave up an internationally-wanted terrorist is now spewing bullshit about an entity. 

“So you sold your shit to a ghost? ‘That what you want me to believe?” I ask, feeling my own anger start to rise. I grab a fresh towel and Max and I repeat the process with surgical precision. It takes Miguel a little longer to cough up the water he’s swallowed, but when he’s finally able to speak, his voice is far more defeated. 

“Yes, in a manner of speaking. The entity I sold that bomb to is known as Cenere. I get a call with a location, date, and time for delivery. I get the specs sent via encrypted email, and when the time comes, I deliver, usually to a lock box in the middle of nowhere. That is all I know.”

Max looks at me and I know he’s itching to hit him again. I shake my head, squatting down in front of our informant so that he can see me clearly. 

“Is there anything else you want to tell us that may be important? For example, the location and date of the last delivery you provided for this entity?” I enunciate every word, my tone making it clear that I’ll be the one hitting him next if he tries to lie or get smart again. 

“L-last delivery was in Roma, by the Colosseum, a week ago.” He answers, still hoarse from inhaling water. 

“So whoever these people are, they’re planning another bombing,” I say, feeling the room behind me start moving; Rick and Dom looking up information, Flip packing our gear. We don’t have a lot of time. 

“Y-yes. The bomb that killed your amigos was delivered exactly two weeks before it detonated. That’s how they always do it.” Miguel adds, giving us an even narrower timeline to get to Rome. 

“Cut him loose,” I sigh, wishing Miguel could give us more to go on besides a location we’ll be getting to with zero prep time and even less information. 

Max moves towards him, a wolfish grin on his face. I close my eyes, knowing exactly what’s about to happen. 

“I sincerely hope someone strings you up by your balls and cuts them off with a piece of paper. This is for everyone you’ve had a hand in massacring. Especially my friends.” 

I don’t have to look to hear a few of Miguel’s teeth rattle to the floor. 

The room is starkly lit, the sickly blue tone reminiscent of a hospital. Empty aside from a plexiglass box filled with dirt and a pine-board coffin, there’s a feeling dread that emanates throughout the place. 

“Carmen? Carmen! Carmen, if you can hear me, you need to get me out. Get me the fuck out of here, Carmen. Carmen, please!! Please! I can’t-I can’t breathe! Carmen, don’t leave me here!” 

A heartbeat--elevated and distinct--couple with the sounds of hyperventilation to turn dread into pure fear. 

“CARMEN, PLEASE! I’M GOING TO DIE! DON’T LET THEM KILL ME!”

Something cuts through the air with a distinct zing, crashing heavily onto the floor. The box, the dirt, and the coffin are all sliced neatly, trapped almost perfectly between thick sheets of razor-sharp glass. All except the first slice, where the side of the coffin has fallen away, trapped at a skewed angle below the dirt. 

Rick looks like a fish out of water, gasping for breath, tears flooding his eyes. Despite being segmented like some primal experiment, every part of him still heaves with breath, organs pulsing with blood they no longer have, intact structurally despite being completely separated. 

“Carmen, please!” It’s a whisper now, the life going out of Jake’s eyes even as the tears sweep his face.

A long, low horn sounds, finalizing the horror that’s come to pass.

I wake screaming, tears pouring down my face. Not realizing where I am at first, I don’t even see the boys as I fight with my lap belt and haul ass out of the seat, vaulting over Dom’s legs and careening to the bathroom to throw up. It’s rare that I dream, but when I do, it’s never good. This one felt too real; felt like a message from a man I’m certain we buried. The room spins and I heave out what little is left from lunch earlier. When I’m certain there’s nothing left to get out, I sit back, sobbing. 

Once my breath stabilizes, I stand up and wash out my mouth, swilling the jet’s courtesy mouthwash before splashing cold water on my face. Stepping out of the small bathroom, I’m met with utter silence and four sets of eyes staring at me with concern. I can’t bring myself to tell them what I dreamt, and none of them need an intro into nightmares, as all of us, regardless of how little bloodshed we’ve seen, have them from time to time. 

Still feeling the panic in my throat, I decide against taking my old seat, not wanting to be caged in. Instead, I sit behind Dom’s aisle, resting my head against the cool plastic of the window and looking out, my mind reeling. What if the bomb isn’t what killed him and Benj? What if they suffered? What if-- I cut off my own mental processing, not wanting to go down the dark alleys of my mind, wiping my eyes to stem the flow of fresh tears. 

I feel a hand at my knee, and looking down, find Dom’s hand reaching back through the seats. Though he faces forward, it’s easy to tell what he’s doing, and I lace our fingers together loosely, taking the much-needed comfort of his touch. He gives my fingers a gentle squeeze, and I turn my face away further, not wanting any of the guys to see me like this.

[jessicajonesrp]

Trish finds out

Jessica had barely slept after Phillip left for his home- wherever it was that he lived, he hadn’t been very clear on that. Even back in her own home, with Luke supporting her and several bottles of alcohol consumed, she still hasn’t managed to subdue her racing thoughts, questions, and emotions enough to settle into sleep. She lies beside Luke, for once not overly comforted by the solid presence of his body against hers.

 How could it be possible that she had not somehow sensed her brother was alive? How could it be possible that she had let him go throughout all of his childhood and young adulthood, navigating alone? She felt that she owed him a debt she could never even begin to repay, not only for not being there for him through whatever he might have endured, but for taking away his parents, his family, in the first place. If she had never argued, if she had just let him have his way, none of this would have happened. Even then, her impulsive temper had caused far more harm than she could have thought.

 When she did drift off, it was restless sleep, disturbed often with nightmares drifting between her own experiences and those she imagined Phillip might have lived. She is jumpy and quiet when she gets up in the morning, no less thrilled about the prospect of visiting Trish to have to share the information she’s still processing herself.

All the time, she showers and texts Trish to check that she’s free for them to drop by and make plans for later in the week. Trish answers back after a while that she has about an hour break during her show’s taping today, but Jessica doesn’t want to interrupt her on the job. They make plans instead to come by her and Danny’s place once she has let them know she’s wrapped up for the day.

This, of course, is not how Jessica would prefer things to go, meaning she’ll have to delay what she would rather blurt out all at once to have it over and done with. But she takes advantage of the time to do some research on the case she had been given right before Phillip showed up, finding out information on the death-by-fire man and his background and any suspicious movements he or others close to him may have made before the death. She had started to follow a promising lead of possible involvement in experimental surgeries when she checked the time and noticed that Trish had texted her she was on her way home. Calling Luke to make sure he was ready to wrap up and meet as well, she made her way to her sister’s new habitation.

She could tell as Trish let them in that the separation from Danny was affecting her, although this was due more to Jessica’s skills of observation and her knowledge of Trish than because it showed obviously. Trish was as bright in affect and welcoming as usual,, giving both Luke and Jessica quick hugs and fussing about to offer drinks, but Jessica could tell she was more happy than usual to see them and knew Luke was right to suspect she was lonely. Although she was as carefully groomed and didn’t seem noticeably thinner, Jessica could tell a difference in her body movements and thought she looked a little more toned even than usual. Trish explained this without her asking by sharing she had been continuing her training, workouts, and meditations daily and thought even without Danny there, she was making progress.

“You really ought to let me work with you on some of this, Jess,” she told her, “at least watch me do it some time. There’s no way you’ll see how cool and peaceful it is without wanting some for yourself. Come on! You know you want to, deeeeep down.”

“Hey, I got all the coolness and peace I need right here,” Jessica informed her, holding up the whiskey she had snagged from her cabinet as evidence. “I don’t need to mutter a bunch of words no one understands and sit like a frog, or play with swords and sticks.”

“Hey, swords are always cool,” Trish informed her. “Some people can’t use fists and feet. Well, at least not with enough force to break walls. But I’m getting there, maybe one day!”

“Okay, so you’re not having a mental breakdown or relapse right now, right?” Jessica said abruptly, no longer able to maintain any facsimile of brevity. When Trish blinked, startled, and shook her head in confusion, Jessica blurted out, “Right, good then. So my brother, my supposedly dead brother, showed up at my office yesterday and he’s not dead, he’s living. And he’s back. No DNA test but I’m 99% sure it’s him. Also, I’m 99% sure your mother knew it and just lied to my face for the past sixteen years.”

She took a long drink of whiskey, avoiding having to see Trish’s stunned response. “Damn, okay, I’m glad that’s over with, it’s been killing me.”

[cicelythereaper]

Hello! I was wondering if you had anything on Y Gododdin 😃

hey! fellow gododdin enthusiast! what a delight

i presume this is a request for reading recommendations - i don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, or how accessible these will be, but i’ve tried to cover most bases here. i WISH there were more literary criticism, maybe there is in the welsh-language scholarship and i just haven’t found it? 

it’s entirely possible that i will have missed some obvious things here, i’m mostly sticking to stuff that i personally have read. if something mind-blowing has come out since the last time i did gododdin reading then it’s not here, i’m afraid! 

but enough disclaimers. on to the recs!

text and translation:

for a translation, i cannot recommend enough joseph p. clancy’s translation as found in the triumph tree: scotland’s earliest poetry, 550-1350, ed. t. o. clancy (1998). this is fantastic. it’s poetic, it’s a joy to read, and having used it as part of a deep read last year where i went through the welsh text in detail i am honestly AMAZED regularly at how well clancy handles the many translation issues that arise. it’s loose, and it doesn’t translate every single stanza unfortunately, but for the spirit of the poem you really can’t do better

that said, if you need another translation to check against/to fill in the gaps, i’d recommend kenneth jackson’s the gododdin: the oldest scottish poem (1969). it’s a prose translation, so it’s harder to use in conjunction with the text, but it’s pretty clear and accurate

text-wise... things get complicated. honestly, the best edition is probably still ifor williams’ canu aneirin (1938), in terms of faithfulness to the words on the manuscript page. (i also really enjoy his textual commentary, but it is in modern welsh so not accessible to everyone.) the major problem with it is that you are not going to get the stanzas in the order they appear in the manuscript - he reorders them into groups of perceived variants. this also makes it harder to distinguish between the A-text and the B-text. AND it means that the stanzas are not in the same order as in any of the translations!

if you can get hold of it, i really really think it is worth having daniel huws’ llyfr aneirin: a facsimile (1989). the introduction is SO useful for understanding the manuscript context, and it comes with gwenogvryn evans’ transcription of the book of aneirin, which you can compare with williams’ edition if need be to work out where a stanza actually goes.

there’s a conspectus of editions which i think thomas owen clancy put together but i cannot for the LIFE of me remember where it is - if you think you’ll need it, PM me and i’ll see what i can do

dating, textual criticism and historicity:

t. m. charles-edwards, wales and the britons, 350-1064 (2013), chapter 11 - this is from more of a historical perspective than a strictly linguistic/palaeographical/dating perspective, but it’s a really good general introduction and i definitely recommend starting with it. if you read nothing else, read this. this whole book is a godsend

t. m. charles-edwards, 'the authenticity of the gododdin: an historian's view', in astudiaethau ar yr hengerdd, eds. bromwich and jones (1978), pp. 44-91 - this kind of lays out the standard view which everyone has been deconstructing ever since. we don’t know anything about what’s going on with y gododdin, but at one point we thought we did know something and this was what it looked like

d. n. dumville, 'early welsh poetry: problems of historicity', in early welsh poetry: studies in the book of aneirin, ed. b. f. roberts (1988) - and HERE is the deconstruction! a pretty good overview of the issues with “knowing anything” when it comes to y gododdin

p. sims-williams, 'dating the poems of aneirin and taliesin', zeitschrift für celtische philologie 36 (2016), 163-224 - i don’t have any notes on this and haven’t read it recently, but i remember it being good (it’s sims-williams so of course it is). almost certainly contains linguistics, but is probably also written readably

o. j. padel, 'aneirin and taliesin: sceptical speculations', in beyond the gododdin: dark age scotland in medieval wales, ed. a. woolf (2013), pp. 153-75 - if you can stand linguistics talk, padel does his best to make it understandable here and gives a good overview of the linguistic arguments for and against suggested dates for y gododdin. this whole book is actually very useful

g. r. isaac, 'canu aneirin awdl LI', journal of celtic linguistics 2 (1993), 65-91, AND 'readings in the history and transmission of the gododdin', cambrian medieval celtic studies 37 (1999), 55-78 - DEEP IN THE TEXTUAL CRITICISM. honestly, my poor attention span means i find it hard to pay attention all the way through these two, but if you want a really in-depth look at the possible relationships between the A and B-texts of y gododdin, this is the way to go

historical discussion and background:

charles-edwards in wales and the britons chapter 11 again

j. rowland, 'warfare and horses in the gododdin and the problem of catraeth', cambrian medieval celtic studies 30 (1995), 13-40 - this is a pretty cool look at the role of cavalry in y gododdin and while i don’t agree with all of it, i think it’s really useful reading if you’re going for a historical take on the poem

p. m. dunshea, 'the meaning of catraeth: a revised early context for y gododdin', in beyond the gododdin again, pp. 81-114 - makes some ESSENTIAL points re the question of: is catraeth catterick? moreover, IS CATRAETH A PLACE?

c. cessford, 'northern england and the gododdin poem', northern history 33 (1997), 218-22 - a historical perspective on the poem with some very useful points, comparing the situation as sketched out in y gododdin with what we know of the area at the time

m. wood, 'bernician transitions: place-names and archaeology', in early medieval northumbria: kingdoms and communities, AD 450-1100, eds. petts and turner (2011), pp. 35-70 - a welcome look at the archaeological and place-name evidence for what was going on in bernicia as it changed from a brittonic to a germanic-dominated area. really useful to have in mind both when reading the poem and when reading more literary history

r. collins, 'military communities and transformation of the frontier from the fourth to the sixth centuries', in the same book, pp. 15-34 - pretty fascinating look at the earlier background running up to the time period depicted in y gododdin, and the possibility of continuity between the roman occupation of hadrian’s wall and the post-roman era there. useful social/archaeological perspective!

f. h. clark, 'thinking about western northumbria', in the same book, pp. 113-28 - an early medieval english perspective on the area at the time, useful for comparison and completeness’ sake 

literary discussion:

ifor williams, lectures on early welsh poetry (1944) and the beginnings of welsh poetry, ed. bromwich (1972, 2nd ed. 1980) - THE CLASSICS. an old-fashioned, not to say outdated, viewpoint, but that’s because this is the guy who INVENTED the viewpoint back when it was new! even now there’s a lot of good stuff packed into these and ifor williams’ prose style is a real pleasure to read. not to be missed

a. o. h. jarman, 'the heroic ideal in early welsh poetry', in beiträge zur indogermanistik und keltologie, ed. meid (1967), pp. 193-211 - likewise somewhat old-fashioned now, but lays out the classic viewpoint well and makes some good literary points. it may also be worth reading the introduction to his edition/translation, aneirin: the gododdin (1988). (i don’t recommend using it as an edition because he conflates the A and B texts and renders the text into modern welsh - this means it reads very smoothly but is quite a bit further away from what’s on the manuscript page.) 

h. fulton, 'cultural heroism in the old north of britain: the evidence of aneirin's gododdin', in the epic in history ed. davidson, mukherjee and zlatar (1994), pp. 18-39 - a pretty interesting read, about the mindset expressed in the poetry, its purpose and its construction

this isn’t lit crit but i’m putting in my favourite g. r. isaac quote from his article ‘gweith gwen ystrat and the northern heroic age of the sixth century’, p. 69: ‘Koch writes that the Book of Aneirin’s ‘immediate milieu is… not the Celtic Heroic Age, but the High Middle Ages’, as if the ‘Celtic Heroic Age’ were a period of comparable historical status to the High Middle Ages. This is not the case, however. A ‘heroic age’ cannot be the ‘immediate milieu’ of any literary production, a ‘heroic age’ cannot produce literature, because a ‘heroic age’ is itself produced through literature (taken in the broadest sense). It is a literary product. The Homeric epics are not the product of  a Bronze Age Achaean heroic age, but vice versa. The Irish Ulster Cycle is not the product of an Iron Age, pre-Christian heroic age, but vice versa. And the medieval Welsh poems of ‘Aneirin’ and ‘Taliesin’ (and Triads, sections of the Historia Brittonum, and much else) are not products of a sixth-century North British heroic age, but vice versa.’

honestly there just is not nearly enough lit crit for y gododdin, in english at least, especially to explain cool shit that the welsh text is doing that isn’t visible in the translation, and/or things that could be subversive or ambiguous about it - so, i don’t know what your level of engagement with the medieval welsh text is, but if you’re curious, if you want to know more about what’s going on in a specific stanza (or which stanzas are extended puns), or just which things i’ve been dying to yell about all year, PLEASE message me and I! WILL! YELL! 

articles which are almost certainly good and useful but it’s been too long since i’ve read them to say:

t. o. clancy, 'the kingdoms of the north: poetry, places, politics', in beyond the gododdin again, pp. 153-75

m. haycock, 'early welsh poets look north', likewise in beyond the gododdin, pp. 115-52

FINAL NOTE:

one of the problems with translations is that they give an impression of way more certainty about the meaning of the text... than is actually there. you’re pretty safe with clancy or kenneth jackson, but tread carefully. again, i don’t know your level of engagement with medieval welsh, but if you want to know if there are any major textual issues with a stanza, hmu and i will gladly consult my copious textual notes! but in general, BEWARE of basing anything too heavily on the following groups of stanzas:

A40, A41, B5, B6 (Am drynni drylaw drylenn; Clancy ‘For the feast, most sad, disastrous’)

A42, B25, B35 (Eur ar vur caer; Clancy ‘Gold on fortress wall’)

A48, B3, B24 (Llech leutu tud leudvre; Clancy ‘Standing stone in cleared ground’)

A62, B14, B15, B16, B36 (Angor dewr daen; Clancy ‘Anchor, Deifr-router’)

the Gorchanau if you’re interacting with those, especially the Gwarchan Maeldderw - if anyone tells you they know exactly what is going on in these, do not believe them. isaac has a full translation of the gwarchan maeldderw in cambrian medieval studies 44, and it’s useful, but i’m not by ANY means completely convinced by it, so tread carefully.  

the more stanzas there are in a group of variants (or at least a group that shares lines), the more likely it is that those stanzas are going to be SUPER DUPER TEXTUALLY FUCKED UP, is a pretty good rule of thumb.

[casually-inlove]

Creator tag game

Tagged by @notthatiwilleverwriteit! Thank you bunches ~

1. When did your creative journey begin?

As far as writing is concerned, I started roughly 3,5-4 years ago. Fiction, that is. I've been writing non-fiction stuff since college and it sort of part of my job. But writing isn't my sole hobby. I also dabble in vector illustration. Those go back years.

2. What is the earliest creative piece you remember making?

I didn't take leisure writing up until adulthood. My therapist suggested I take up a new hobby to combat depression, and ultimately it helped me channel my frustration. Pouring energy onto paper has an odd therapeutic power.

3. What is your favourite and least favourite medium?

My laptop for writing and iPad for making corrections. It's odd how changing a format provides a new perspective. Reading what you write on a tablet device (or with a night mode on) gives you a fresh eye. Of course, I always rely on cloud-based services, such as Google Docs and Zoho Docs. Google offers a wide range of useful add-ons to improve your texts, while Zoho has a fancy (and free) writing assistant, which is almost as good as Grammarly's. Writing by hand is... well, problematic. University and postgrad completely murdered my penmanship.

4. What, if any, training do you have?

While not directly linked to writing, I have had applied linguistics and verbal communication courses in uni. In general cognitive studies do pertain the correlation between the mind and language, so you could say that I do have some formal training.

5. Is there a medium you wish you were better at?

I would love to get better at writing longer pieces. I tend to gravitate towards shorter stories and more concise way of narration because it gives me certain restrictions. I have to choose words with caution and I also have to condense my scenes, which helps me make them more intense. While this is how I prefer it, I would still like to try a "looser" narration style. Most readers I know fancy multi-chapter stuff with long-winded expounding and musings, which isn't exactly my forte. 

6. Do you have a favourite muse?

Not in particularly. Sometimes I make moodboards for scenes.

7. What insecurities do you have about your creations?

Either having too much of a dry narrative or slipping into graphomania territory. I love beautiful stylistic devices and I love getting into the character's heads and writing about their psychology (it's evident from what I post here, huh). The problem is, I can get carried away attempting to put their inner worlds on paper, and thus the scene lags and drags. Sometimes the abundant details become redundant and add nothing of the essence to the story. It's a pain to cut them out then.

8. What do you think are your best skills in your creative field?

Since I know a bit about the way language, the eye and human mind function, I can use that to my advantage to push the reader's emotions where I need em'. It's also easy to come up with fresh stylistic devices once you know how the language works. If you know how something is made up, you can take it apart and break it to suit your needs.

9. What advice would you give an amateur creative?

I have two completely antipathic pieces of advice. First, analyze what you read. Try to figure out what makes the text or the sentence work. Pinpoint stylistic devices, note the rhythm and flow, note the structure. Define what type of narration it is. See if you can figure out the popular tropes, archetypes and clichés used by the author. Figure out whether they add to the story or whether they take away from it. Soak it all up. Second, once you get the hang of it, drop reading for some time. When you like something, it's easy to begin inadvertently copying it. An expression might be stuck in your head, or it could be a sentence pattern — either way there's a risk you'd end up copying someone's style, and thus you'll never find one of your own. Who's attention are you going to catch if you end up being one of many facsimiles? It's far too important to find your very own distinct voice. 

10. Who are some of your favourite creatives?

I've always enjoyed the creations of Bloomsbury Group and the rich mythos created by H. P. Lovecraft. I used to hate Faulkner during my uni days, but sometime later I came to appreciate certain techniques he used in Sound and Fury and As I Lay Dying. As far as fic writers are concerned, years ago I fell in love with coincident. Sadly, they are no longer active, but the truth is, their writing is so powerful that years after my love for them hasn't dwindled.

Tagging: @wrathyforest @ginmayo @msop222 @nalah2410 

No pressure at all ~ Oh and if any writers/artists wanna tell about themselves, feel free to participate. 

[hoodoo12]

Familial Ties (And How To Break Them) 4/14

Still technically NSFW in this chapter.  Fighting, new demons to meet, breaking the mood. ~

The ominous, heavy feeling in his gut grew, the popped like a balloon. That was not good.

Fuck polite. Beetlejuice slammed open the door to find an empty bedroom, old papers strewn across the bed and on the floor. He almost called out again, but there was only one place she could be: the en suite.

He rushed there, three big steps getting him to its door. He pulled up short at the scene in the small space: Her on the floor, looking nauseous and scared, and him standing before her, pompous and predatory as ever. Immediately he bristled.

"You!" Beetlejuice spat, a red tint flooding the roots of his hair. "Get the fuck away from her!"

He'd have stepped in between them if there'd been room. As much rage that swept over him, he couldn't help turn some attention to the woman on the floor.

"Pate, baby, what did you do?" he asked.

Pate and the strange man looming over her both turned to face the door as Beetlejuice stormed into the room. There was a definite recognition on his face when he laid eyes on the newcomer, and Pate took the momentary distraction to raise herself into a kneeling position, her arms trembling but supporting her weight. Beej's question tore at her insides. What had she done?

"I . . . I couldn't help it," she rasped, her voice coming out raw and scratchy after expelling the other from her own throat.

She hated how pitiful she sounded, how insufficient an explanation it was but it was the truth. It was as though she had been piloted by remote control, and she turned stricken eyes on the demon standing before her.

He was examining his fingernails with a devilish grin that was nothing like the impish smiles she'd already grown accustomed to from Beetlejuice. He caught her eye and the grin widened dangerously.

"Oh, a clever breather? How novel. Yes, I may have lent a helping hand, but I couldn't have done it without you. That curiosity of yours is bound to get you into trouble, wouldn't you agree, Lawrence?"

Beetlejuice lifted his lip at the use of the hated name, but all that information made everything clearer.

"Back the fuck off, Rigel," he growled, and grabbed Pate by her upper arm, hauling her to her feet, ignoring her cry of surprise, away from the taller demon.

He'd much prefer to get her out of here, but not keeping an eye on the newcomer was a bad idea.

"Pate, did he touch you? Did he take anything from you? Ask for blood or a kiss?" he asked, trying to quell both the anger and fear brewing in him.

Alarmed, not just by the unexpected touch and forceful grip but by the realization that Beetlejuice was a great deal stronger than he looked, Pate gratefully hunkered behind him while he continued to glare heatedly at the other demon--Rigel? Was that his name? Shaking all over now, her fingers grasped the fabric of his jacket as Beej's queries momentarily made her overwrought mind go blank.

Shaking her head hard, willing the numbing white noise to abate so she could think, Pate responded, "No, I don't think so. He . . . he came out of me. Jesus fuck, he crawled out of my mouth!"

He locked eyes with the taller, smirking demon.

"Yeah, baby, he does that. It's his own personal fucking kink."

Rigel smirked again, and wiped his own mouth with a thumb, as though he'd been the one to go through the process. Beetlejuice risked a glance away, at Pate.

"I need you to get back to Fuch's book and find that passage again," he muttered, quietly, urgently. "You have to send him away, you have to get him out of here--"

Pate jumped and gasped, her attention focused so intently on Rigel that it startled her when Beetlejuice turned to her with whispered instructions.

Her eyes were on the other as she released her death-grip on the back of Beej's jacket and began slowly inching back toward the bedroom, Rigel regarding her with his head cocked slightly to the side as though he were observing a fascinating animal in a zoo. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Pate spun and made to dash for the book still lying on her bed only to run directly into a shape blocking the doorway.

She had a face full of waistcoat in deep blue brocade, her gaze traveling up the svelte chest to meet burning red eyes and a smile that was a twisted facsimile of courteous. With a choked off scream she backed hastily away until she met Beetlejuice's back once again, looking round to see that he was still squaring up to Rigel standing demurely in her bathroom with his hands clasped loosely at his back.

Facing forward again, Pate couldn't deny that Rigel was also barring the bathroom door.

"How uncivil," Rigel simpered, tutting as if disappointed. "Showing a guest the door when I've only just arrived? Didn't your mother teach you better?"

This? Clones? Really?

Internally, Beetlejuice groaned. He'd been so ecstatic to be free, and now he had to deal with this?! If he had any sense at all, he'd leave her to her misery.

But as his mother often reminded him, sense wasn't his strong point. Without taking his eyes off the demon who'd taught him this little trick in the first place, he conjured up two doppelgangers of his own that immediately grabbed Rigel's double from behind.

Pate blinked, wondering if maybe she'd hit her head because there were suddenly two additional Beetlejuices on either side of Rigel's double in the doorway, twisting his arms between them. Or at least, they bore a passing resemblance to Beetlejuice; the striped suits, the green hair, though his had turned an angry, fiery red.

"Get the book!" Beetlejuice growled, spurring her to action.

The Beetlejuice clones hustled the secondary Rigel out of her path and Pate sprinted for the bed, practically launching herself onto the mattress and letting out a relieved breath when she felt her hands close around the text block left open and forgotten in the covers.

Rising onto her knees she tried to pull it to her only to meet resistance. Looking up, Pate found herself face to face with Rigel, his long slender hands grasping the other end of the open block. He winked and blew a kiss at her that produced sulfuric sparks like a firework.

He wasn't the only demonic prick who could move like that. Beetlejuice stepped through the ether to Pate's side, leaving his two clones to deal with Rigel's one while he assisted her.

Rigel might have height on his side, but that wasn't everything.

Shadowy tentacles filled the air, some wrapping themselves around Pate's arms and hands to support her grip, others latching onto the book.

Rigel threw his head back and roared.

"Learn something new about disgraced family members every day!" he crowed. "You've been hiding things from us, Lawrence! Were tentacles what your father used to get passed all those teeth mom has in her dried up, dusty cunt?"

If Rigel thought talking smack about their mother was going to break him, he had another thing coming. Beetlejuice put his full weight into tugging that book away, and to his horror, the only thing that gave way was the old cracked spine.

When it broke, Pate stumbled backwards into him. She was immediately caught and embraced by the shadows, and Rigel hissed in frustration at only half a prize.

"Better be careful, little breather, little bleeder," the taller demon addressed Pate. "He's not had the chance to fuck a breather for a while, I'd guess, so be careful. Those tentacles could tear you in two if he gets too excited. He'd only last about twenty five seconds, however, so you may be safe enough."

With another smirk and blown kiss to the both of them, Rigel flicked a glance at his twin, and they were both gone.

The tendrils of writhing shadow were a bit of a shock in what had quickly turned into a night full of shocks, and Pate hadn't been able to suppress the cry of alarm when they coiled around her wrists and over her arms, grasping the book. They had substance to them despite their spectral appearance, but they didn't hurt her. In fact, as Beetlejuice stepped up at her side, they seemed to be helping. At least until the text block tore in two, littering the comforter with loose pages and sending her sprawling back against Beej's chest. The squirming tentacles absorbed her, curling around her in a way that might be protective. Though Rigel's spiteful comment about them tearing her apart did make her eye them with a bit more trepidation.

With no fanfare and another mocking smirk, the demon disappeared. Pate's heart was hammering, gradually slowing now that the danger appeared to have passed, and her mind was a whirling tempest of questions and fears and bits and pieces gleaned from Rigel and Beetlejuice's banter. She hazarded a glance over her shoulder and saw him, wreathed in the undulating shadows and also somehow their epicenter. Of all the words and thoughts swirling in her skull, only two managed to make it to her mouth:

"Holy fuck . . ."

"Nothin' holy about him, sugar," Beetlejuice corrected.

With a thought, he sent his clones away, and although it was nice to have her wrapped in so many extra appendages, the tentacles disappeared too. She'd been through a lot already, and an in-depth discussion of them wasn't high on his list. He turned her on her heel to face him.

"You okay, baby?" he asked in concern, keeping her to him with two normal-ish arms. "He didn't hurt you? You didn't get hurt when you fell?"

In fact, her knees were aching and she must've whammed her elbow on something at some point because it was sore as well. But just at the moment, with his arms around her, holding her against him while his hands searched for hurts to soothe, she was much more aware of the return of the squirming eels in her stomach and the warmth creeping into her face.

'Seriously?' she thought, irate at her body's treachery. 'After everything that just happened, this is how you respond?!'

Pate huffed a shaky laugh.

"I think so," she answered finally. "Thank you, for . . . before."

He gave her a cursory search and didn't try to linger on her hip or small of her back or under her arm near her boob too much. Her thanks was nice, as was her heat and the fact she was still more dressed for bed than anything else in that shirt that kept sliding over one shoulder. Plus she hadn't pushed him away . . .

"You're welcome, babydoll," he told her quietly. It was easy and natural to tilt his head and lean forward to brush his lips against hers.

Her mouth opened slightly and a tiny gasp escaped her at the soft press of his lips to her own. He pulled back just a bit, like he was giving her an out if she wanted it. Wide eyes searched his face for a beat, looking for... she didn't even know for sure. Surprising even herself, Pate raised up on the balls of her feet to kiss him more firmly, her hands coming to rest against his chest to steady herself.

Her reaction, her pressing more insistently into a real kiss surprised and delighted him. His hands automatically slipped to her waist and held more tightly, making her shirt rise up. His left hand eased backwards and his fingertips found the silky fabric of her panties, and even more gently, slipped under the elastic of them.

Speaking of rising up, the front of his trousers got a bit more constricted too; he discreetly shifted so his boner didn't advertise itself right against her belly.

Carefully, because of his fangs, he deepened the kiss.

Pate sighed through her nose at the feel of his hands finding her waist and squeezing her against him. There was still the rational corner of her brain wagging at her that this was not the time, but the adrenaline rush was still going and it just felt so damn good.

A thrill jolted down her spine when his chilly, nimble fingers found the waistband of her underwear, dipping ever-so-slightly further south. Her own hands were drifting over his chest, sliding just past the lapels of his jacket and gliding down his suspenders to curl around the tops of his hips. His lips were cold but soft, softer than she would have thought to expect, and she opened her mouth against the gentle probing of his tongue, her fingertips pressing harder into his sides.

He hummed his approval deep in his chest of her hands exploring and the taste of her mouth. His tongue lapped hers, and he smiled through the kiss. She was so warm and so sweet, and he nudged her bodily backwards towards the bed, fully intending on easing her back onto it.

When was the last time she had wanted someone this much? When was the last time someone had wanted her this much? Pate couldn't even remember, feeling Beetlejuice's smiling lips against hers, allowing him to shuffle her backward on her toes until the backs of her knees met the edge of the mattress.

Her hands slid quickly around his middle under his jacket, gripping at the small of his back as though to keep herself from falling. But she didn't fall, Beetlejuice was still holding her and it felt like her heart was going to hammer its way out of her ribcage. Shit, was she really doing this?

As Beetlejuice maneuvered them strategically towards her bed, she felt the bulge in his pants for a moment before he adjusted himself, a flood of heat gushing through her and settling in the pit of her stomach.

There was a bump as the back of her knees met the mattress, and Beetlejuice used that to leverage her down. When she was flat on her back, he stayed between her thighs but pulled away a little to look at her spread before him: her hair mussed, bright spots of color on her cheeks, her lips parted and shiny from the kiss they'd just shared.

Although he couldn't get a good impression of her tits, hidden by the damn shirt, the hem of it had written up enough that he finally saw her satin panties were peach colored, and between her legs the color was darker because of the pubic hair under them.

He licked his lips as he took her in, and two fingers slipped up her bare leg, towards that dark thatch.

"Jesus you're beautiful," he murmured.

Pate ducked her head, smiling at the words but too bashful to look him in the eye as he said them. She hummed her pleasure as his clever fingers trailed up her leg, angling toward the apex of her thighs. Her eyes fluttered shut, reveling in the soft tickle that made her pulse thump in her ears and her chest and her pussy as she nibbled on her swollen lower lip. But it wasn't enough contact, she wanted more, needed more of him.

Raising herself on one elbow she reached down and stopped his hand before it reached its destination, curling her fingers around his and looking up at him through her lashes.

"C'mere," she said. "Please?"

The curious and slightly put out expression that crossed his face when she stopped his ministrations vanished at once, replaced with that broad grin that she wanted so very badly to kiss.

"Sure thing, babydoll," he said, his voice low, rumbling in his chest as he braced himself with an arm on either side of her hips and crawled into bed after her, settling partly beside and partly on top of her.

Humming contently, Pate hooked one leg around his as he leaned in to press his lips to hers again, mouthing at her lower lip until he pulled it gently between his teeth. She moaned against him, threading her fingers through the hair at the back of his head to hold him close. Her brain was a fog of pleasure and lust, but that damned little voice of reason was still warbling away at the back of her mind.

'This is not like you!' it insisted. 'What the hell are you doing?! Did you forget that there's a demon on the loose? Did you forget what he did to you?'

Actually up until that moment she had forgotten, or at least pushed it to the furthest corners of her mind. Rigel had done something to her, that strange headache, watching her limbs move without giving them instructions. Beetlejuice broke off kissing her and buried his face into the curve of her neck and shoulder where her nightshirt had slid down. Lost in thought, she raised a hand to cup his cheek. Rigel had manipulated her into getting what he wanted . . . What if . . . ?

It felt as if a bucket of ice water had dumped into her stomach, chilling her to the bone and making her shiver. Beej must have felt it too because he chuckled, diving back in to continue sucking tiny bruises into her skin.

Grasping his shoulder Pate eased him back until their eyes met. "Beej, this isn't . . . You're not . . . are you?"

"Eh?" he said, confused.

It'd all been so hot, pressing her down into the mattress, the heat of her so pleasant, the taste of her skin . . . his cock ached from being trapped behind constricting fabric. He was half ready to strip away all clothing from the two of them and settle more properly between her thighs, when she stuttered out that awkward half sentence. He looked up at her with narrowed eyes.

She was blushing again, not just from arousal this time, just from feeling like such an idiot. There had been nothing so far that might indicate he was puppeting her the way Rigel had; no pain or discomfort, no involuntary actions. Everything she had done since deciding to kiss him properly she had done of her own free will. And now she may have gone and ruined everything.

"Sorry," she said, unable to bear looking at him as she tried to explain. "I'm sorry, I just started thinking about... about him and how he used me and I started to wonder if . . ."

She trailed off, ashamed.

It took him a second for him to catch up, because his dick was still leading the way and truthfully, it was more one-track determination than anything else. When Pate stopped all proceedings and the atmosphere dropped about twenty degrees, however, it didn't take a genius to figure everything out.  Her sudden worry also dumped ice down his back.

"What? You were thinking about that asshole Rigel and how he used you to get free, and now you think I'm using you too?!" he asked.

It hurt worse than he expected, and he couldn't keep that completely out of his voice.

Pate winced at his completely justified outrage, and she didn't miss the pained tinge to his tone either.

Cursing herself she scooted out from under him and sat up to face him instead, desperate to reach out and touch him in some way, to show him that no, she didn't think that in the slightest. She hesitated, her hand stalling halfway between them before she withdrew it, fisting it in her lap.

"No!" she assured him, shaking her head to emphasize her point. "No, Beej, I don't think you'd do that. I just . . . got a little lost in my brain, I guess. I got scared! You're nothing like that guy!"

Her rejection--the articulation that she worried he was puppeteering her to get laid, and now the fact that she'd been perfectly fine touching him just twenty seconds ago and now couldn't? Wouldn't?--instantly flooded him with the worst of his memories, fears, and thoughts. All the shit his mother put him through making sure he knew he was worthless; fucking Rigel and how he was everything everyone wanted; all the times the short asshole version got called instead of him, reinforcing his second-place-is-first-loser place in the world . . . it all came crashing back on him.  How dare he even fathom that a breather--a pretty breather, no less!--would want him? What a joke.

Beetlejuice wilted.

He backed away from Pate. More like threw himself backward, to be honest. He worked hard not to let any tears fall. He didn't want to blow the lie that demons didn't cry. Instead, he took on an icy tone that he hoped would hide his true emotions.

"I'd like to say I'm nothing like my half-brother," he told her sharply, "and some of that's true. I'm not going to possess you just to fuck you. But I am a demon, breather, and don't forget that. Cockteasing a demon doesn't typically end well."

There was a painful clench in her chest, constricting her heart and making it difficult to breathe that had nothing to do with any supernatural force. Pate swallowed the lump in her throat, watching his face crumble, knowing it was her fault. She gasped softly, surprised by his speed when he all but launched himself away from her, as if he couldn't stand to be close to her any more and if he didn't who was she to blame him? God, she wanted so much to go to him, to wrap her arms around him.

His frigid warning sent a tiny spike of fear shuddering through her, but she dismissed it at once.

"I know you wouldn't," she agreed with him. "I was wrong, Beej, and I'm so, so sorry. All of this . . ."

She paused, looking from him to the scattered pages still lying at the foot of her bed. "All of this is my fault but I promise I'm gonna figure out a way to fix it!"

He turned his attention to the papers and the half Fuch's book they had left, since he managed to fuck that up beyond belief too. It was easier to look at the destroyed book than her anyway, because her shirt was still too short, and only another inch or so would give him a fine view of the satin-covered pussy he'd have loved to put his mouth on.

He ignored her apology because lies hurt.

"Fine," he said, after she'd made her statement about the book. His voice cracked a tiny bit, but he powered through it. "That sounds like a task a demon can agree to. Fix the book. Is that what you'll ask of me, summoner?"

Pate frowned, upset that she'd upset him, wracking her brains for some way to make it up to him but coming up short. His question, still frosty and clipped enough to make her sink in on herself, did make her think, though: would repairing the book be enough? She shuffled off the bed and collected the strewn leaves and the cover boards, carrying them to him.

"Would that work? If we fix the book? Would that trap him again?"

The quick and easy way she'd shifted gears, didn't press the larger issue at hand, and her obvious dismissal of him stung.

"Opening Herr Fuch's book didn't release Rigel, and repairing it alone won't send him back," he told her primly. "You'll need the proper incantation to do that."

She wanted a demon who could help her repair a fucking book that should've been burned hundreds of years ago? Okay. He could do that. He could be professional, just like mom always wanted. Maybe when all of this was over he'd have proven something to her at least. He decided he'd also need some privacy once, maybe twice a day, because working closely with Pate was going to be more difficult now that he'd been between her legs.

Pate sighed, flipping idly through the handful of pages.

"I should've figured it wouldn't be that easy," she admitted. "Do you know the incantation? I said . . . something before he showed up. At least I think I did . . ."

She frowned deeply, trying to remember, but a lot of what had transpired while under Rigel's influence was hazy in her mind at best. Mostly she just wanted to take him by the hand and drag him back to the bed, but if his demeanor were any indication, such overtures would not be appreciated or reciprocated at the moment.

Beetlejuice watched her page through the half ruined book and swallowed hard. He'd rather have those fingers on him. She'd made her distrust clear, however.

"No, I don't know it, and even if I did, me saying it wouldn't work. It'll be in there somewhere. Fuchs was meticulous about that sort of thing," he told her quietly. He felt a little hollow inside.

His voice sounded so dead, so despondent, so at odds with the boisterous and flirtatious manner she'd been so taken by. A terrible ache was crushing her heart, clawing its way up her throat, burning in her eyes, made all the worse by the knowledge that she had only herself to blame.

Pate fell silent and looked up at him, his eyes looking anywhere but at her. To hell with her own uncertainty or guilt or whatever else, before another thing happened she was going to show him that she did care about him. If he wanted to push her away, then so be it but she had to at least try.

Without another word she slung the book onto the bed and stepped into him, sliding her arms beneath his jacket to grasp at his shoulder blades, burying her face against his chest.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled against him, the words muffled and throaty as she swallowed around another hard lump in her throat. "I hurt you and I'm sorry. You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me."

Instantly he tensed. This was a trick, he'd been fooled before, he'd been fucking stupid before--!

But she smelled so nice and her embrace was strong and she'd just put her entire face into his chest. He should be strong, he should channel his inner cold demon that he'd been told so often was proper unless he was manipulating someone . . . but instead his arms came up awkwardly around her until he could relax enough to make it more natural. He couldn't quite make a flirty or dirty joke out of it. He just liked her standing so close.

When she felt his arms come around her Pate let out a sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp. Just like that, whatever dam had been holding everything back since Beetlejuice had first appeared out of the ether finally gave way and a veritable flood of emotion burst from her. Fear and excitement and desire and horror, all jumbled together in a confusing and overwhelming tide that threatened to swallow her whole.

Her shoulders shook with the effort of keeping it in, clinging to Beetlejuice like he was the only thing keeping her from being swept away.

"I'm so so sorry," she croaked again, but it didn't matter how many times she said it, it might never be enough.

She kept repeating she was sorry and she was trembling and she was squeezing him so tightly he'd have trouble drawing a breath if he needed to breathe. He knew that sort of pain.

So despite the quick, unexpected turn of events, thinking he was going to get lucky, then being rejected, then this, whatever this was --and jesus, had it only been twenty-ish minutes since Rigel had left?!--Beetlejuice held her and even dared to press a kiss into her hair.

He did not make any further physical advances and he willed his cock to stay the fuck down, boy. If Pate was worried she'd be possessed, then anything further that happened between them would have to be initiated by her, he vowed to himself.

She finally managed to even out her breathing, a little embarrassed to note that she'd left tear stains on the front of his shirt. But then again there were so many assorted stains and discolorations maybe he wouldn't notice.

She smiled and sighed when his lips pressed softly into her hair and it almost felt like maybe things had returned to . . . well, definitely not normal, but it was nice, just holding each other like this.

"Shit," she breathed, turning her head to one side. "I don't know that I've ever fucked up so badly so many times in less than 24 hours. Might've set some kind of record."

He winced a little, because he was one of those fuck ups, but since she wasn't looking directly at him, she probably hadn't noticed it.

"Oh, you'd be surprised," he assured her, thinking over some of his own misadventures. That was neither here nor there, at the moment. And as nice as it was to have her just standing against him, he pulled back a little to look down at her. "You look exhausted. Why don't you try to get some more sleep?"

Pate whined internally as he gently dislodged her, tipping her head back to look him in the eye.

"Yeah, I am," she admitted with a weak laugh.

She debated for a moment, sheepishly asking if he'd like to join her, wanting him close while she drifted off. But she was also terrified by the idea of making things worse again after just barely managing to salvage them by the skin of her teeth. Pate sighed again and took a step back, smoothing out the wrinkles she'd made in his shirt front, needlessly straightening his tie.

"What about you? I can make up the couch for you or . . . ?"

The bit of clothing adjustment she did gave him a ridiculous feeling of warmth. Was he really that needy and touch-starved? Yes, of fucking course he was! It was on the tip of his tongue that he didn't need sleep, per se, but the idea of having someone do something like that for him, of just making sure he'd be comfortable, made him nod and grin like a fool.

Pate gave him a nod and a smile and rounded the foot of the bed to her closet to retrieve an extra blanket or two, grabbing a pillow off her bed. She draped a sheet over the seat of the sectional, tucking it into the cushions so it wouldn't slide out from under him. Fluffing the pillow between her hands, she laid it at one end and the quilt at the other.

"Anything else you need?" she asked, clasping her hands together in front of her to keep her fingers from fidgeting.

Even more on the tip of his tongue was "I need you, baby," but he beat that down with a stick. Instead, he gave her an awkward half-shrug, half-shake of his head.

Satisfied, sort of at least, Pate started back towards her bedroom intending to leave him to it. She stopped short when she drew level with him, practically able to feel his eyes tracking her, and looked up at him. The fluttering/squirming sensation resurged in her stomach but she didn't want to risk another mistake.

She wanted to do something, quickly before she talked herself out of it, reaching out a hand to the center of his chest to balance herself as she raised once more on tiptoe to press a soft, chaste kiss to his face, landing between his cheek and the corner of his mouth.

"Good night," she murmured, all but scurrying away before the blush on her face became too evident.

He couldn't prevent a quiet moan from escaping him at the warmth of her hand on his chest and the peck of a kiss. Gods he was pathetically needy. He tracked her as she hurried away, separating them by a room and a door. When she was gone, he sat on the couch she'd done up for him, wrapped the quilt around himself, and tried not to think about things too much.

Pate lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling while her mind worked feverishly to process all that had transpired. On top of having all this new information to turn over in her head, the heat that had risen to her face and sunk to her crotch had not yet dissipated. Her thighs squeezed together under the sheets but it wasn't quite enough. Had it really only been a short while ago that Beetlejuice had been in this bed with her? And just look at how marvelously she'd shot herself in the foot on that.

Even more pressing, though perhaps she had tried to avoid even thinking about it because it felt so beyond her, was Rigel. He had escaped with part of Fuchs's book because of her.

After a length of time that seemed very brief and interminable at the same time, Pate gave up on sleep. Her mind was too busy, too loud. She shucked her nightshirt for a thin cotton hoodie and a pair of pajama pants, retrieving her laptop and the remnants of the book. Not wanting to disturb Beetlejuice in the living room, she kept her light off and worked off the glow of the laptop screen.

⁂

The quilt didn't warm him; breathers never remembered that a blanket only trapped their own body heat and he had very little. But he kept it tucked around himself because it smelled like her. Beetlejuice drifted, not sleeping, but only partially aware as well. He was brought back around, a little, by soft noises from Pate's bedroom. Feet shuffling on the floor. The faintest squeal of a drawer being opened.

Curious but not wanting to disturb her, he got up, padded to outside her door, and sat beside it, pressing the side of his head to it, still cocooned in the quilt.

tbc