#can’t wait to share more Wodehouse with you all in the coming days!

[lettersregardingjeeves]

Happy New Year, everyone! You might of course have noticed that there’s a little treat in your inbox for the occasion - the first part of “Concealed Art”, a Reggie Pepper story! Reggie’s a pre-Bertie Wooster of sorts, and I hope you’ll like his little yarn before the Jeeves stories come on February 14th!

[patricianandclerk]

For Want Of Sleep

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

It’s a few days after the apocalypse[1], the first time it happens. They’ve been drinking at a comfortable, cosy little bar, the two of them alone together, sharing a bottle of some white wine that Crowley can’t pronounce the name of, but loves. They’re not even that drunk, but when Aziraphale stands up to go, Crowley talks without even thinking, his tongue moving without his permission.

Because Aziraphale says, “You know, I’m actually quite tired. I might even take a short sleep!” and he says it in a sort of cavalier way, but in a hushed tone, as if it’s something naughty, and Crowley’s heart surges in his chest. There’s been no word from Heaven or Hell in a while: for now, they’re floating in limbo, aware it will all probably go back to normal, but at the moment, they are each without scrutiny.

“Er, you know, you could come home, with me,” he says, trying not to sound as eager as he feels. “Big bed.” The idea enthrals him, all at once: Aziraphale almost never sleeps, but Crowley knows from a couple of little moments throughout the past few millennia[2] that his body radiates heat, and the idea of having it next to him while he takes a sleep is intoxicating, more so even than the wine. Crowley is still a snake, at heart, and Aziraphale picks the most unfashionable bodies, yes, but they aren’t half-good for insulation: well-padded and encased in wool, and so soft!

Aziraphale blinks at him from drink-unfocused eyes. “Er,” he says. “Would that be… Oh, dear boy, I really don’t think—” He trails off, and Crowley leans back.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s… too much, I s’pose,” he says, trying not to sound disappointed. Aziraphale coughs, and then he draws himself up to his full height, which is still nearly a half-foot shorter than Crowley’s.

“Yes,” he says, sternly. It is let down only slightly by the wine-red flush in his cheeks, and the way he sways just slightly. “Yes, that’s far too far. Of course, I’ll still walk you home.”

“You don’t need to walk me home, angel,” Crowley says.

“Yes, I do,” Aziraphale says, doing that funny little crinkle of his face, where his nose comes right up, and his lips pout. “There’s still a third of that bottle left, and I’m not letting you drink it all.”

Crowley grins.

They walk the few streets toward Crowley’s flat, leaning heavily on one another, and they share the last of the bottle between them: Crowley tries to toss it into the bottle bank in the car park on the corner, from about twenty feet away. He winces when it shatters loudly, and listens to the quiet clunk as Aziraphale reconstitutes it and puts it inside the bottle bank, rather than on the outside. When he opens his eyes[3], he sees that the carpet of broken glass that naturally surrounds these little islands has also disappeared, likely placed into their colour-coordinated banks. There’s also a new mural on the wall, of a bird singing.

“You always have to take it and run with it, don’t you?” he asks, with more scorn than he feels.

Aziraphale smiles beatifically, and says, “I don’t know what you mean.”

He walks Crowley right up to the door, and then hesitates. Crowley looks at his face, at the uncertainty that shows on Aziraphale’s funny, pudgy features, and he clears his throat, leaning on the door to open it.

He doesn’t say anything. He feels like if he said something, he would ruin it: he just leans on the door, leans into the building, and kind of waits for a second, for Aziraphale to follow him. After a long moment of what looks like desperate deliberation, Aziraphale does, and Crowley has to prevent himself from squirming with excitement. It’s been years since he slept with someone else in his bed, years on years, and he really does miss the way it used to be, where you could sleep in close contact with other people, and no one batted an eye…

Ah, well.

Humans.

They come into the flat, and Crowley hangs up their coats as Aziraphale stands awkwardly in his living room, absently stroking the wide leaves of a Dracaena fragrans, the plant shivering under his touch. It had better not get any ideas.

They move into the bedroom, and Crowley doesn’t even think about it, snaps his fingers and puts himself into his pyjamas. They’re good pyjamas, too – black silk, soft and sleek and cool against his skin – and he thinks he actually has a set of Aziraphale’s pyjamas from that business in ’25, where—

Aziraphale’s hand is on his shoulder, and Crowley turns. “Angel, I think I still have your—”

And then Aziraphale’s mouth is on Crowley’s mouth, one of his plump, pretty hands is curled tightly in his hair, and the other one, the other of Aziraphale’s elegant hands, is grabbing at his arse, even as he crowds Crowley up against the edge of the bed.

“Oh,” Crowley says when they break apart, his head spinning.

“Oh?” Aziraphale repeats, even as he hurriedly undoes the buttons of his waistcoat. This is… unexpected. He didn’t even know the angel thought about sex, let alone that he’d be interested in giving it a try. It’s one of those vices that Crowley likes, but doesn’t often bother with himself – not because it isn’t pleasant, because it is, but simply because all the other people involve sometimes get a bit complicated, or difficult to choreograph. Oh, don’t get him wrong, sex can be useful in his line of work: the right blowjob here, the right seduction there, even just enticing a group with the right kiss on the right mouth, but you know, it’s all about the right company, isn’t it? He’s tried pretty much everything under the sun, at least once or twice, just to make sure he’s covering all angles, but sex just isn’t satisfying in the way that sleep is, or in the way a good meal is. Angels and demons do have drives, when they inhabit human bodies, but they’re usually distant, as if you’re feeling them through a screen. Crowley has long suspected Aziraphale actually feels things more than he does himself, but sex? Well.

Sex had always seemed like distinctly unangelic territory.

But—

Well.

It’s not like it’s unwelcome. He likes Aziraphale, and he’s willing to go along with it, especially if they can sleep afterwards.

--

“You’re a demon,” Crowley mumbles into the pillow, sprawled on his belly and entirely unable to move. He’s soaked with sweat, and his whole body is aching distantly, suffused with the pleasant stiffness of muscle that accompanies a long session of sex. And long is right.

“I am not,” Aziraphale says, with a playful smack against his thigh: Crowley’s skin sings.

They got back in at a little past one o’clock, and now, the sun is rising.

“Are you tired?” Aziraphale asks, his soft fingers tracing down the line of Crowley’s spine, pressing down slightly, and Crowley grunts at the wondrous heat his touch leaves in its wake, making his body tingle. “Because,” he continues, and the finger slides between the cleft of Crowley’s buttocks, and Crowley groans.

“Angel,” he says plaintively.

“Hm?” He sounds so innocent! The finger presses down, and Crowley chokes.

“Angel, lie down,” Crowley groans.

“On our sides?”

“On your back.” He miracles the sweat from his naked body, and he doesn’t even bother to put his pyjamas back on, just slides on top of Aziraphale and drops heavy over the comfortable pillow of his chest and belly, closing his eyes. “We are sleeping.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says.

“Oh?” Crowley repeats pointedly.

He falls asleep blanketing the angel’s chest, just like that, and it’s wonderful, better than he could have dreamed: Aziraphale’s heart beats regularly beneath Crowley’s cheek, his chest the perfect pillow, warm and yielding even where it rises and falls with the angel’s breaths, and he lets himself melt in his place.

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmurs against his hair, softly, his hand resting comfortably on the back of Crowley’s thigh, “you wicked thing.”

Sleepily, Crowley smiles.

--

The second time is a few weeks later.

Crowley comes into the bookshop through the back window, slithering in where it’s slightly ajar, and when he slides into the backroom, Aziraphale has a biography of Wodehouse open in one hand, and is leaning back in his armchair, sipping idly at a cup of tea.

His lap, Crowley notes, is the epitome of free real estate: warm, open, and decorated horribly, but the latter could probably be remedied. He slides forward, and instead of bothering with a traditional greeting, deposits himself on the angel’s thighs, leaning forward and putting his head in the crook of Aziraphale’s shoulder, sliding into place in such a way as to not disturb his knee.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chides, but his cheeks begin to flush, and he doesn’t let out any noise of complaint. This sort of thing, Crowley knows, isn’t part of the Arrangement, but things are different now, and he’s warm.

“G’morning,” Crowley mumbles against Aziraphale’s neck. He watches with one lazy, suspicious eye as Aziraphale sets his cup of tea aside, and marks his page with a bookmark[4], but then Aziraphale leans, tilting Crowley’s head to meet his, and kisses him. It’s slower than it had been before, less urgent, but he still kisses, his hand sliding slowly into the waistband of his trousers.

Oh.

--

The third time, Crowley is already naked, sprawled on his belly like a starfish, and Aziraphale lets himself into the flat. It’s a little past one in the afternoon, but Crowley has no intention of rising until at least this time tomorrow, and he barely stirs as Aziraphale comes in.

“C’mere, angel,” Crowley says. “Take off your coat.”

“I hung it up, dear,” Aziraphale replies, but Crowley hears the noise through a haze of sleepy wakefulness as he takes off his shoes and puts his clothes aside: he feels the mattress decline slightly, and he reaches loosely out with his left hand for Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale’s fingers intertwine with his at the same time as his mouth touches Crowley’s skin, licking up, and suddenly Crowley is wide awake and moaning. They don’t get to sleep again for hours.

--

The fourth time, Crowley loses it.

Aziraphale’s hand had been reaching between his thighs, but Crowley grabs his wrist and wrenches it above his head, moving to pin the angel’s hands above his head and stop him from moving. The angel’s eyes widen, his lips parting, and Crowley sees the unmistakable flush rush over his cheeks. “Oh,” Aziraphale says breathlessly. “Very well, dear boy, let’s—”

“No!” Crowley snaps, dragging his hands back and pressing them to Aziraphale’s still-clothed chest instead. “No, no, no, angel, it’s— I won’t have it anymore. I won’t. I like sex, Aziraphale, I like sex a lot, and I like sex with you, but I’m not trying to fuck you every time I crawl into your lap or get you into bed with me! I just want to sleep!”

Toward the end, his indignant growl becomes more of a plaintive whine, and Aziraphale peers at him, his eyes wide, his lips parted in surprise.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly, his eyebrows shifting up in disappointed uncertainty. “Oh, my dear, I am sorry, I didn’t… I thought you wanted—”

“I like it,” Crowley repeats. “Just— If I’m already in bed, I probably just want to sleep. Unless I start kissing you or something, if I get into your lap, I just want to leech your heat. You’d be furious, wouldn’t you, if I tried to come bother you while you were buried in an important book?”

Aziraphale’s lip twitches, and he gently pats the side of Crowley’s hip, his gaze flitting down. “I’ve been rather overeager with you, I suppose.”

“You could be overeager with me now,” Crowley mutters. Aziraphale inhales, and Crowley shivers as Aziraphale’s fingers slide slowly up to his shirt, beginning to unbutton it. Crowley yawns, his jaw opening wider than a real human’s might, before he says, “You could… while I was sleeping. Another time. I wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, you beast, I could never,” Aziraphale says, in a tight, hotly excited voice, and then he leans, brushing his lips against Crowley's chest. “Oh, have I been dreadful to you, my dear? Demanding all this sex of you?”

“No,” Crowley mumbles, his eyes closing as he tips his head back, lazily grinding his hips down against Aziraphale’s, arching up and into his mouth. “Mm.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, and he kisses the space between Crowley’s pecs, but then summons a thick blanket about his shoulders, drawing Crowley up against his chest. “You sleep, my dear, and I shall reduce you to a quivering wreck once you wake, hm?”

“L’ve you, ‘Zirafel,” Crowley mumbles against Aziraphale’s neck, his eyes closing shut as Aziraphale draws him against his neck.

“I love you too, my dear,” the angel murmurs, and Crowley lets himself drift into sleep.

[1] That is to say, the apocalypse didn’t happen, but the end of days sort of retains its status as the end of days in one’s mind even when it wasn’t actually, per se, the end of days.

[2] Both of these “little moments” had been fuelled entirely by wine, but that’s to be expected.

[3] In the dark, his sunglasses are perched in the black crop of his hair, and his night vision is very good.

[4] It’s made of tartan cloth, and has golden tassels. Crowley hates it on principle.

[organssos]

25 Father's Day Quotes To Share With Dad

Father's Day will soon be here before you realize it, and we've exactly the thing you want to create daddy's day extra special. Even though daddy may insist he does not require such a thing, pairing it instead of only minding these Father's Day quotes is really going to make him feel adored. Give Dad his presents a Sunday morning meal after you have summoned up if you want to really go the extra mile .

  1. You can not die of grief, though it feels as if you can. A heart does not actually break, though sometimes your chest aches as if it is breaking. Grief dims with time. It is the way of things. There comes a day when you smile again, and you feel like a traitor. How dare I feel happy. How dare I be glad in a world where my father is no more. And then you cry fresh tears, because you do not miss him as much as you once did, and giving up your grief is another kind of death. ― Laurell K. Hamilton   2. Freddie experienced the sort of abysmal soul-sadness which afflicts one of Tolstoy's Russian peasants when, after putting in a heavy day's work strangling his father, beating his wife, and dropping the baby into the city's reservoir, he turns to the cupboards, only to find the vodka bottle empty. ― P.G. Wodehouse   3. It all goes back and back," Tyrion thought, "to our mothers and fathers and theirs before them. We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us, and one day our own children will take up our strings and dance in our steads. ― George R.R. Martin   4. And the day will come when the mystical generation of Jesus, by the supreme being as his father in the womb of a virgin will be classed with the fable of the generation of Minerva in the brain of Jupiter. But we may hope that the dawn of reason and freedom of thought in these United States will do away all this artificial scaffolding... ― Thomas Jefferson   5. I understand that fear is my friend, but not always. Never turn your back on Fear. It should always be in front of you, like a thing that might have to be killed. My father taught me that, along with a few other things that have kept my life interesting. ― Hunter S   6. To you who are parents, I say, show love to your children. You know you love them, but make certain they know it as well. They are so precious. Let them know. Call upon our Heavenly Father for help as you care for their needs each day and as you deal with the challenges which inevitably come with parenthood. You need more than your own wisdom in rearing them. ― Thomas S. Monson   7. I suddenly remember being very little and being embraced by my father. I would try to put my arms around my father's waist, hug him back. I could never reach the whole way around the equator of his body; he was that much larger than life. Then one day, I could do it. I held him, instead of him holding me, and all I wanted at that moment was to have it back the other way. ― Jodi Picoult   8. Father, I decree and declare that I will be anxious for nothing. But in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, I will make my requests known to You. I arise in faith today knowing that You hear and answer prayer. Because I bring my needs to You, I will walk in the peace of God that surpasses understanding, and it will guard my heart and mind. In stillness and quietness I will wait for You, and You will lead me in the way I should go. I seal these declarations in the name of Jesus, amen. ― Cindy Trimm   9. My mother always said that I was born out of a bottle of vinegar instead of born from a womb and that she and my father bathed me in sugar for three days to wash it off. I try to behave, but I always go back to the vinegar. ― Maggie Stiefvater   10. A wedding is for daughters and fathers. The mothers all dress up, trying to look like young women. But a wedding is for a father and daughter. They stop being married to each other on that day.― Sarah Ruhl, Eurydice   11. When I was young, my father used to say, ‘If you are alive, there is hope for a better day and something good to happen. If there is nothing good left in the destiny of a person, he or she will die.’ I thought about these words during my journey, and they kept me moving even when I didn’t know where I was going. Those words became the vehicle that drove my spirit forward and made it stay alive.― Ishmael Beah   12. This is a lttle prayer dedicated to the separation of church and state. I guess if they are going to force those kids to pray in schools they might as well have a nice prayer like this: Our Father who art in heaven, and to the republic for which it stands, thy kingdom come, one nation indivisible as in heaven, give us this day as we forgive those who so proudly we hail. Crown thy good into temptation but deliver us from the twilight's last gleaming. Amen and Awomen. ― George Carlin   13. I'd love to know how Dad saw me when I was 6. I'd love to know a hundred things. When a parent dies, a filing cabinet full of all the fascinating stuff also ceases to exist. I never imagined how hungry I'd be one day to look inside it. ― David Mitchell   14. The thing that most haunted me that day, however...was the fact that these things had - apparently - actually occurred...For all his attention to my historical education, my father had neglected to tell me this: history's terrible moments were real. I understand now, decades later, that he could never have told me. Only history itself can convince you of such a truth. And once you've seen that truth - really seen it - you can't look away. ― Elizabeth Kostova   15. Why are we so attached to the severities of the past? Why are we so proud of having endured our fathers and our mothers, the fireless days and the meatless days, the cold winters and the sharp tongues? It's not as if we had a choice. ― Hilary Mantel   16. Isn't it true that you start your life a sweet child believing in everything under your father's roof? Then comes the day of the Laodiceans, when you know you are wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked, and with the visage of a gruesome grieving ghost you go shuddering through nightmare life. ― Jack Kerouac   17. Make sure to tell our baby that his father loves him every day of his life, just like I will always love you every single day. ― E.L. Montes   18. Jon wanted nothing more. No, he had to tell himself, those days are gone. The realization twisted in his belly like a knife. They had chosen him to rule. The Wall was his, and their lives were his as well. A lord may love the men that he commands, he could hear his lord father saying, but he cannot be a friend to them. One day he may need to sit in judgement on them, or send them forth to die. ― George R.R. Martin   19. Her father had taught her about hands. About a dog's paws. Whenever her father was alone with a dog in a house he would lean over and smell the skin at the base of its paw. This, he would say, as if coming away from a brandy snifter, is the greatest smell in the world! A bouquet! Great rumours of travel! She would pretend disgust, but the dog's paw was a wonder: the smell of it never suggested dirt. It's a cathedral! her father had said, so-and-so's garden, that field of grasses, a walk through cyclamen--a concentration of hints of all the paths the animal had taken during the day. ― Michael Ondaatje   20. Most of the time, it felt like my father and I were completely different species. Possibly literally, depending on the day and whether or not I actually qualified as human at the time. ― Jennifer Lynn Barnes   21. Every day He humbles Himself just as He did when from from His heavenly throne into the Virgin's womb; every day He comes to us and lets us see Him in lowliness, when He descends from the bosom of the Father into the hands of the priest at the altar. ― St. Francis of Assisi   22. One day Bird had approached his father with this question; he was six years old: Father, where was I a hundred years before I was born? Where will I be a hundred years after I die? Father, what will happen to me when I die? Without a word, his young father had punched him in the mouth, broke two of his teeth and bloodied his face, and Bird forgot the fear of death. ― Kenzaburō Ōe   23. Our father was a great warrior. Our mother is proud and strong. They shared only one flaw: that their only loyalty was to themselves above all other cats. We're not like that. We understand what it means to be loyal to our Clan. We have the courage to live by the warrior code. And because of that we'll be the most powerful cats in RiverClan one day, and our Clanmates will have to respect us then. ― Erin Hunter, Dawn   24. If we will build righteous traditions in our families, the light of the gospel can grow ever brighter in the lives of our children from generation to generation. We can look forward to that glorious day when we will all be united together as eternal family units to reap the everlasting joy promised by our Eternal Father for His righteous children. ― L. Tom Perry   25. My Father and my God, I submit myself to Your authority today and declare that my spirit will grow and become fruitful as You lead me by the virtue of Your flawless character. I submit to Your wisdom as You freely give to me my heart’s desires. I align my heart with Your heart and my will with Your will. May Your blessings overtake me and the boundary lines fall for me in pleasant places as You have decreed. In Jesus’s name I declare that this is so. ― Cindy Trimm Read the full article

[scarletjedi]

Do all the fanfic asks you haven't yet! (And for ones that require a specific fic, go with your original stor ♡)

Cut for length

things that inspire you: Good writing in other people

things that motivate you: panic, fear, love

name three favorite writers: Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, Gail Simone

name three authors that were influential to your work and tell why:  J K Rawling was a real inspiration as this book, loooooong ago, began life as a HP fanfic. Samuel Delaney was a major influence mostly because he was my graduate advisor and gave me some of the realist writing advice that I'm only now coming to understand. PG Wodehouse taught me how prose could be like poetry--and be cutting and funny at the same time. (Pratchett did the same thing, but I read Jeeves first)li>

since how long do you write? I’ve been writing since I was very wee, with a dedication to writing for publication since I was 16, and a dedication to improving my craft since I was 18 or so. 

how did writing change you? It gave me a greater appreciation of script, and a greater appreciation of the way language works. Anything other than that, I’m not sure because it’s been me for so long. *shrug*

I’ve already answered this :P

what time are you most productive? Morning, which means vacations are not productive because I sleep in. 

do you set yourself deadlines? Nope. When I do, I don’t meet them and it spirals. 

how do you do your researches? google, usually. For something more complicated, I have access to several different academic libraries :D

do you listen to music when writing? I do and I don’t. I do when I need to focus, and I don’t when I can’t focus. I try, and if it doesn’t work I shut it off. 

favorite place to write: My office

hardest character to write: My protagonist, Chris. He’s the main focus, so he has to be perfectly executed, and there’s a lot of pressure. 

easiest character to write: Jamie, his romantic interest. He sprang fully formed into my brain, and he’s a delight. 

hardest verse to write: 3rd? 

easiest verse to write: 1st!

favorite AU to write: TIME TRAVEL AU

favorite pairing to write: Jamie/Chris (my main pairing)

favorite fandom to write: right now, I’m diggin Star Wars - it’s been a love for so long. But I miss LOTR, and I’m trying hard to get the next chapter of WAMW out. 

favorite character to write: Katie, the protag’s little sister. (she’s 16)

least favorite character to write:  Pat, the dad. 

favorite story you’ve ever written: fanfic - Comes Around Again, though Old Man Luke is creepin’ in and I have a fondness for Pineapple. Original fic, I’ve got a porn ficlet called “Thanksgiving” that may see light sometime soon. 

least favorite story you’ve ever written: It’s not that it’s my least favorite, but I posted “Love Letters” before I was completely happy with it, and it twitches sometimes. 

favorite scene you’ve ever written: In fic: Bilbo recounting the Winter in CAA. In my book: interviewing The Beast. :D

favorite line you’ve ever written: “Everyone in the room wants to fuck me,” Jamie said airily, his smile sharp. “Lesser mortals use Tinder, now.”

story you’re most proud of: Comes Around Again, the BEAST

best review you ever got: I was told my fic, “Drowned in Moonlight” said *exactly* what someone wanted to say, they just couldn’t find the words. 

worst review you ever got: i was told CAA moving towards the movie ‘verse was lazy writing and they “thought better of me” 

favorite story/poem of another author: Sansukh - god, that last chapter killed me. 

hardest part of writing - getting it out initally. 

easiest part of writing - Revision

alternate title for (insert story title) - My book has had several titles, all terrible. It’s currently “The Beast” but it has been both “Weather Magic” and “Breaking” 

alternate ending for (insert story title) the original ending of the book involves a cross-country escape and a full-scale battle. it’s scaled back now, and better for it. 

alternate pairing for (insert story title) - there has never been another pairing for my original fic. Pineapple could also be Obi-Wan/Rex or Obi-Wan/Qui-Gon/Rex

single story or multi-part story? MULTI

one-shot or multi-chaptered story? MULTI

canon or AU? depends on the AU. GIVE ME TIME TRAVEL

do you reread your own stories? On occasion. sometimes, the story I really want, is the story I wrote. 

do you want to be published some day? VERY BADLY. 

which one of your stories would you most like to see as a movie/series. I’d love to see my book on TV. My wife and I talk about fancasts all the time. I think Netflix could do it - they’d make it gay enough without the gratuitous violence (HBO). That being said, the fact that CAA wont be filmed PAINS me. 

one song that captures (insert story title): Uuuhhhh….

do you plan or do you write whatever comes to your mind? I write from an idea, whatever it is, then I plan a bit, then I write between main points. 

would you ever write a sequel for (insert fic title here) My original work is the first in a series. :D

do you write linear or do you write future scenes if you feel like it? I write out of order. Usually, I have an idea, then a moment later in the work (like the climax) that I write out, then i fill in the blanks. 

share the synopsis of a story you work on that you haven’t published yet: BOY DISCOVERS MAGIC IS REAL, the Gods are real, and the world is about to end. Also, he’s bisexual. 

share a scene of a story that you haven’t published yet: Meet my main boys:

Chris sighed, knocking his knuckles against the car window. “You gonna tell me where we’re going, yet?” he asked. Jamie tapped his lips with his finger, humming, and Chris rolled his eyes. “I will hit you,” he said, mild.  

“Sure, why not.” Jamie said at last, and ran his hands over his steering wheel in a quick, practice move. “We’re looking for Burnt Mill Road.”

“Oh, that’s not ominous,” Chris muttered. He squinted to try and make out the writing on the street signs as they passed, but was hard to see; Mid-August rain had soaked the roads, and now it rose as a lingering, ground-hugging fog. That, combined with what felt like two-hundred percent humidity, meant that the letters of the street signs blurred in the headlights and didn’t come into focus until just as they were passing by.

Jamie grinned, his dimples casting shadows in the scruff on his cheeks. It was too short for a beard, but Jamie made sure to keep the edges trimmed like the vain peacock he was. Fuck him, if it didn’t look good on him. Adult. “Are you scared?” Not that he acted like one.

“No,” Chris said, strangled, and he winced. He wasn’t, really, but there would be no way of convincing Jamie that when his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “How many time have we done this shit? Have I ever been scared.”

Jamie barked out a laugh. “Every. Time.”

Chris sighed. Every. Single. Time. “I’m not scared, I’m cautious.”

“Uh huh,” Jamie said dryly, chancing a glance over at Chris. “Did caution check the flashlights three times? Did caution make me wait half ’n hour while his phone charged?” HIs voice dropped, like he was in on a secret, and he glanced down at Chris’s lap. “Is caution wearing your lucky underwear?”

Chris’s mouth twisted, and he sucked on a tooth. “It’s practical,” Chris ground out.

“You fucking are,” Jamie said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you just admitted it. What’s practical about lucky underwear?”

“Not that!” Chris said, rolling his eyes. He was, in fact, wearing his lucky underwear. They were comfortable, okay? But there was no need for Jamie to know that. “I meant the phone.”  

“Yeah,” Jamie snorted. “If we get a flat tire, not for ghosts.”

Chris looked out the window, conceding the point. He folded his arms. “How do you even know what underwear I’m wearing?” he grumbled.

Jamie sighed, overly put-upon. “Hello?” he said, sing-song, and rolled his hand to gesture at himself. “Gay. What do you think gay-dar is?”

“Knowing who in the room would fuck you?” Chris offered, shooting Jamie a lopsided grin.

“Everyone in the room wants to fuck me,” Jamie said airily, his smile sharp. “Lesser mortals use Tinder, now.” Chris laughed, finally, and Jamie’s grin brightened.  

They drove on, and Jamie ended up behind a boxy old Chrysler, its back end covered in bumper stickers that had been bleached white in the sun. One of them was one of those ribbon magnets, but Chris couldn’t tell which cause it supported. Maybe it supported all of them, or none of them. Schrodinger’s ribbon. A street sign caught his eye, and he frowned.

“How many “Pine” streets are even in Jersey?”

“All of ‘em,” Jamie answered without pause.

Chris crocked his head, still looking out the window. They passed a sign that said Welcome to Atco. What was in Atco? He pulled out his phone, and typed “haunted Atco” in the search bar. Loading. Loading. Loading. Fucking 3G. “All of the streets are called ‘Pine’? or all the streets called ‘Pine?’ are in Jersey?”

Jamie hummed. “I stand by my earlier statement.”

“I request clarification,” Chris said, closing the app and darkening his phone.

“Request denied.”

“Ass,” Chris said, with a crooked smile.

“Ginger.”

how many unfinished ideas/stories are you working on at the same time?: 7!

three spoilers for (insert story title): The boy gets the boy, the Beast Speaks, HE CAN FLY

open question to the writer: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS I’VE BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOR OVER AN HOUR!!