#first time makin a cake at work!

[theminecraftbee]

Joel turns around. Martyn is standing there. His eyes are a burning red that gives Joel the heebie-jeebies. If anyone would know to be scared, it's Joel! He would! He'd recognize a mad dog if he saw one anywhere!

Anyway, all of that is to say that his high-pitched scream had been totally justified. "Oh my word Martyn what are you doing here?" he says, clutching his hand over his heart, several feet further back than he'd been thirty seconds ago.

Martyn snorts. "Is the sign not for me? Figured there was no one else it could be for."

"The what?"

"The sign."

Joel turns around. Outside his base, the other Mounders have hung a helpful banner: "SORRY EVERYONE YOU LOVE IS DEAD <3".

He'd told them it was kind of rude, hanging that up. Sort of made light of the whole thing, really. His wife and Mumbo and Jimmy had died, guys, don't be idiots about it. Bdubs had loudly told him that he was TRYING to be helpful, Joel, geez, why don't you appreciate his efforts? Pearl had shrugged and said they don't exactly make cards for this kind of thing. Joel's pretty sure they do, actually but...

Sorry everyone you love is dead. Hah.

"My wife is dead, Martyn," Joel says.

"Who, Lizzie or Jimmy?" Martyn says, weirdly dark. "Anyway, my husband's dead, so--"

"Your what?"

"Mumbo and I got married one time. Everyone forgets that for some reason."

Joel has to think about it a while. "Huh."

"Yeah. Anyway, you've still got the other Mounders, huh? Don't know what you're crying about. Thought the sign had to be for me. Thought I'd show up. Get cake. Kill some people. You know how it is."

"If there's a TNT minecart in my base, the first thing I do after I turn red is kill you," Joel says.

"That's not really how it works this time," Martyn says.

"Yeah, well, screw you," Joel says. "Also, they didn't make me any cake. I should ask them for that next. Hah. A cake."

"You know, maybe don't ask for that? Parties tend to go wrong in this game."

"And who's fault is that, huh?"

"Hey, don't look at me! Or, do. Since I'm going to kill everyone, on account of everyone I love being dead and all. Really convenient excuse for murder, that. I should use it more often, if it didn't involve the crippling grief," Martyn says.

"Oh, please. At least you tend to have people to love in the first place," Joel snaps.

"Oh, right, that is your curse, isn't it?" Martyn says. "Sorta broke it last time, but you do tend to get isolated and a bit crazy. Hey, I wonder if we're the ones who traded, actually what with the whole wolf thing."

Joel blinks. "What?"

"Oh, we're all cursed," Martyn says. "After all, They like it better that way. Hey, do you think Jimmy's curse transferred to Lizzie, got cancelled out by the fact Lizzie tends to die stupidly, or got broken? Personally, I'm thinking random fluke, when it comes to canary nonsense."

Joel stares at Martyn. His throat is dry. "What?"

Martyn stares back. "Hey, I'm the mad dog this time," Martyn says. "You probably shouldn't be the one growling."

"Well then, you should stop saying stupid shit," Joel says.

"Stupid? Please. It's obvious everyone is cursed. Nothing to be done about it but to play into the--"

"NO ONE IS BLUMIN' CURSED," Joel shouts, his vision suddenly red and blurry in a way it shouldn't be when he's still on yellow. "NO ONE IS BLUMIN' CURSED. THERE'S NO SUCH THING! YOU'RE JUST, JUST MAKIN' UP REASONS IT ISN'T ALL A TRAGEDY THAT EVERYONE I LOVE IS FUCKING DEAD, MAKING UP REASONS THAT IT--NO ONE IS CURSED! IT JUST HAPPENS! IT JUST HAPPENS! IT JUST FUCKING HAPPENS! AND WOULDN'T IT BE BLUMIN' NICE IF THERE WERE A HIGHER POWER BUT THERE ISN'T SO SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT CURSES!"

He's panting. Martyn is staring at him. He stares back, a snarl on his teeth, the echoes of wolves and of grief, grief, grief, grief playing at the back of his throat.

"Joel?" Martyn says, hesitant.

"My wife is fucking dead. My best friend is fucking dead. One of my new possible best friends is fucking dead. Sorry about your husband, I guess? Get out."

"Bold thing to say to the guy who can kill--"

"I SAID GET OUT!"

Martyn stares at Joel a moment longer, and Joel finds he's not scared of the madness in his eyes at all.

Martyn leaves.

Joel realizes he's crying. The tears turn into giant, ugly sobs. Sorry everyone you love is dead. Sorry everyone you love is dead. Sorry everyone you love is dead.

"I blumin' hate caring about people," he says to no one at all through choked breaths, and he kicks a rock at the banner for good measure. It pokes a little hole through it and bounces off the dick-shaped tower behind it.

"Someone really should have made both of us a blumin' cake, they should," he says next, and he sits down until Pearl runs over, having heard the shouting. His face is red and his vision is still swimming. She stares at him, gathers him in her arms, and cries with him, and for the life of him, he doesn't know if that's any better.

[quietblueriver]

Helloooo! Erm, couldn’t choose between magical or blood for your prompts so just… Imodna, transfusion! (Love your writing btw.)

Thank you so, so much! So kind. <3 <3

Started the below thinking about transfusion of warmth (inspired by the last ep) as a start and then whatever this is happened. Kind of angsty but also absolutely full of them loving each other deeply, as they do.

Thank you again for being so kind and for the fun prompt!

PS-Usual heads up that this was typed in a flurry so pls forgive any errors.

-

Imogen’s filthy by the time she makes it back to their little cabin, calling out to Laudna without much thought as she begins to prestidigitate. 

Made it back from the barn. Think I’m gonna head to the market real quick though, unless you need me. Saw some raspberries and thought they might be nice for if you wanted to try makin’ that cake again. Ms. Sawyer says her daughter has a trick to keep the berries from sinkin’, somethin’ to do with…

She’s so distracted by a loose button on her shirt that it takes her a moment to realize something is wrong. Only a moment, though, and then she’s shoving through the front door, boots still muddy and hands lightning hot, scars beginning to glow. 

“Laudna?”

There’s no music. There are no words. There’s only static, a harsh, painful, pained sound making its way to Imogen and reverberating in her mind. 

“Laudna?”

A grasping black handprint curls over the back of one of the two wooden chairs at their tiny, rehabilitated table, another drips from the wall by the window, and Imogen is sprinting the short distance to their bedroom by the time she sees the third, thick ichor caught on the empty door frame. 

Laudna’s frail body stretches across their bed, legs still over the side, one black leather boot half-off. Her skin is leaking ichor furiously, the red and blue quilt on their bed now covered in rivulets of black. 

“Shit, shit, shit. Laudna? Laudna?”

There’s no answer, but her eyelids flutter and the static continues, loud and angry, and Imogen’s never been happier to feel the dull pulse of an oncoming headache. 

She runs her hands up Laudna’s body, looking for any injury. It’s not until she reaches under her that she feels it, a spot just below her left shoulder blade where the fabric is torn. Taking the scissors from Laudna’s belt, she turns Laudna onto her side as gently as she can to get a better look, cutting away damp maroon material. 

A hiss of sympathy escapes between closed teeth when she sees the gash, open and weeping and clearly magical, eating at Laudna’s flesh. 

“Fuck. Fuck.”

Her hands are shaking, so she takes a minute to breathe deep, calm down as much as she can. Setting their house on fire with anxious lightning isn’t going to help anything. 

It’s not like this is the first time this has happened, but it’s the first time it’s ever been like this, Laudna unconscious and Imogen alone and unsure what has hurt her. She thinks of what Laudna has taught her and what she knows, what she has—hot water, a clean cloth, the box of herbs and healing poultice Laudna keeps tucked into her pack. She can do this. 

But first.

She kneels and finishes taking off Laudna’s boots and then situates a pillow at the head of the bed. With a careful eye to her wound, she takes Laudna’s feather-light body in her arms and turns her, places her on her stomach at an angle so that her wound is exposed to the air. 

“Sorrysorrysorry,” she whispers as she tries her hardest to find a position that looks natural, like it might not be terribly uncomfortable for Laudna to wake up in. 

When she’s as satisfied as she can be, she heats some water, gathers the cloth and the poultice. After she scrubs her hands thoroughly, a concession to the irrational need to feel the aching heat and see the soap even after she has magicked them clean, she folds herself down next to Laudna to get to work, focusing on the task in front of her and, now that the static has quieted, occasionally checking the incredibly slow but still mercifully present pulse at Laudna’s wrist. 

The wound cleaned, Imogen takes another warm cloth to Laudna’s skin, slowly wiping away smears of black. The ichor has slowed enough that it’s not an entirely futile task, although she imagines she’ll need to repeat the process at least once more. The loss of fluids leaves Laudna one step closer to translucent. 

There’s nothing to do then but wait, and she hates it. Hates feeling helpless and impotent and ignorant. She would do anything to be able to help, but she has done all she knows how to do, all she can do until tomorrow, when she might be able to wrangle some useful information from Meena, another woman at the farm where Imogen’s been working as a seasonal hand whose wife is a healer. 

Even then, though, she doesn’t know what to ask, what to say about Laudna’s body or blood or muscle or ichor or the spell itself. She knows nothing, has nothing more to give, and her chest is tight with the reality of her ineptitude.  

Because she can’t be helpful, she keeps her hands and mind busy with nonsense: tidies up her supplies, prestidigitates their quilt, changes and finishes cleaning her own clothes. She cleans Laudna again, clears the handprints she left on her way to the bed without letting herself think at all about why they’re there, picks up and puts down the book Laudna has been reading about 15 times, managing a few paragraphs or pages aloud at a time before she’s too restless to continue. Their boots are polished, their clothes are carefully and unnecessarily re-folded, and Imogen’s nails are bitten to the quick. 

It’s well into the night by the time Laudna stirs, a soft, wounded sound and matched thoughts of confusion and pain announcing her return to consciousness. Imogen’s head snaps up at the noise, and she rises immediately from the chair where she’s been worrying, hovers at the edge of the bed and brings her fingers to tuck some of Laudna’s hair behind her ear. Her thumb, a little bloody at the nail, rubs at the soft skin of her temple. 

“Laudna.” 

Wide eyes blink open, unfocused. 

“Imogen?” 

Her voice is strained, and Imogen reaches for the glass of water she’s had waiting on the bedside table, brings it to her lips with a little lacquered wooden straw Laudna had found a few months back. 

“Hey. Yeah. It’s me. Drink this, okay?” 

She does without protest, and the exhausted smile she gives Imogen when she’s finished almost drives her to tears. She clears her throat and turns away to put the glass back down, takes a second to get herself together. 

She settles more fully on the bed beside Laudna when she feels less like she might start sobbing, rests a hand over one of Laudna’s near her pillow. 

“How’re you feelin’?” 

They don’t lie to each other, but Imogen hears the brief internal debate over exactly how honest to be, knows from Laudna’s somewhat sheepish look that she knows Imogen is aware of what she’s thinking. 

Just don’t want to worry you, dear. 

“You’re worth worryin’ over.” 

Too tired to fight, even though Imogen can tell that she wants to, Laudna concedes the point and answers the question instead.  

“I feel quite terrible.” 

“That makes sense. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but that gash you’ve got back there is real nasty.” 

Laudna sighs and closes her eyes for a moment before blinking them back open, more alert this time around. 

“A cleric surprised me by the stream. He threw the spell before I could react, and it felt like something tangible hit me along with the magic, although I couldn’t see what. A vial of poison, maybe? Or shards of something? Quite creative really. Did an astounding amount of damage on contact.” Imogen bites her tongue as Laudna continues. “In any case, he hit me, and I knew immediately that I was fucked, but I was able to send him running with a quick illusion and managed to make it back here before, well…” She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, shaking her head as she looks down at the quilt. “I’m sorry to worry you. And to make you take care of me. I know you had…” 

“Laudna.” 

At Imogen’s tone, she stops, raising her head to meet Imogen’s eyes again. 

“You have nothin’ to apologize for. I’m sorry some ignorant fuck ruined your afternoon and…and…” That I wasn’t there to protect you, she bites back, knowing Laudna will only take it as a chance to turn the focus away from herself. She fists the hand not on Laudna’s, resigns herself to the tear that falls. “I’m so sorry you got hurt, honey.” 

“I’ll be alright,” she says with a smile, smaller than usual but still real. Her eyes hold Imogen’s as she adds, “Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Always,” Imogen says without thought, means absolutely. She breaks eye contact, afraid that she’s going to cry more, and clears her throat again. “You lost a lotta blood, Laud. I wasn’t…I didn’t know what to do about it. I thought there must be some magic but I…” She shrugs helplessly.  

Laudna hums. “I’ll be restored with some good sleep. I can show you some more tricks with the herbs later. Healing magic isn’t in my repertoire and never will be, I’m afraid, so we’ll have to make do.” 

A few days later, Laudna is back to her normal self and working on something or other with bones on the kitchen table. Imogen has been attempting to read the same paragraph of her book for the last several minutes and finally gives up, letting it falls shut where it rests against her legs on the bed. 

“Hey, Laud.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Is there really no way I can learn healing magic?” 

Laudna looks up from her project then, head tilting curiously. 

“I can’t say I’m an expert, dearest. My own experience with clerics has largely been, well…” She waves a hand in the air. “But it’s not just clerics who can heal, of course, and I’m certain we can find someone to talk to you about it, if you’re interested. The conservatory will undoubtedly have people who know much more than I do.” She pushes up from the table and comes to settle next to Imogen on the bed, pressing their shoulders together. “Interested in pursuing something new?” 

She takes a beat, tilts her head to rest on Laudna’s shoulder. I’m interested in savin’ you from pain. In never havin’ to see you like that again. In givin’ those fuckers a little of their own medicine. It’s kind of hypocritical to maintain her own hierarchy of honesty when Laudna so freely offers herself and her truth to Imogen, but she’s not a perfect person, never has been. 

So she tells one part of the truth, promises herself and Laudna she’ll learn to be better, do better, know more. 

“Just curious.” 

-

Is she your favorite? 

Imogen watches as Laudna comes down on Otohan’s blade, her body broken and limp as Otohan smiles wickedly, proudly. She’s smug. She’s smug as she holds Laudna in the air, and Imogen wants to destroy her, wants to obliterate her, but more than that, more than anything, she wants Laudna, wants... 

There is one thing she has to offer, one thing that might be able to fix this, so she gives it, takes down the walls, stops trying to bury the churning power in her stomach and her chest, stops fighting for herself. She makes peace, dirty but rooted in love, with the fact that she might never come back from this. 

And then she lets go. 

Imogen’s mind explodes, white hot fury and pain enveloping her and demolishing everything around her. She’s gone. She’s nothing in that moment, nothing but a vehicle for someone else’s, something else’s, power. It’s what she has, and it’s what she’ll give, even if it means the end of her, to fix this. 

And still, when she wakes up, Laudna is gone. 

She’s done nothing to save her, in the end. Nothing to help. 

All that power, all that fire, and she’s left with Laudna’s head in her lap, Laudna’s body in her arms, homes and friends demolished. Wreckage of her own making. 

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. 

She’ll bring her back. If Laudna wants to come back, Imogen will find a way for her. There isn’t another option. 

But holding Laudna’s body tight to her, Orym’s calls for help and the panicked thoughts of her friends battering at her mind, she has never felt more powerless. She has never felt so deeply that she has nothing useful to offer. 

-

It was a mistake, letting her go on her own. It was such a stupid thing to do, such a selfish thing to do, but Laudna had seemed to know what she needed and Imogen had been so angry at Ashton and everyone had been so checked out, and she’d decided she should stay, decided she could be useful if she stayed. 

Laudna paid for it. 

Laudna was always paying for other people’s mistakes. For Imogen’s mistakes. 

She waits alone in the basement, furious that she doesn’t have a way to find her, that her sending won’t work, that there’s no spell she can try. 

She debates, several times, flying out over the grounds and the forest, but she knows their history, knows the likelihood that she’ll just get herself lost and end up fucking things up worse, missing Laudna or forcing the Hells to split their time and energy trying to find the both of them. 

Familiar feelings of shame and powerlessness make a home in her hands, her chest, behind her eyelids. She should’ve gone with her. She should’ve gone with her. 

She watched Delilah make her influence over Laudna apparent, listened to her preach in that torture chamber, saw what it did to Laudna, what being here did to Laudna. 

It’s not that she believes that Delilah will win. She knows Laudna can fight her, even if Laudna doesn’t know it herself. 

I haven’t been able to fight her for 30-odd years. 

She’d said it like it was some unassailable truth, but Imogen knew better. Knows better. She’s heard everything inside of her, and more than anyone Imogen has ever met, Laudna is full of kindness. Of steadfast love. Of the kind of humor sharp and strong enough to result Pate, who must be a special form of torture for Delilah. Of an optimism so deep that it let her keep going town after town after town and lets her keep trying to play fun-scary games with children in taverns and on the road. In Whitestone, even. 

For thirty years, she’s had that bitch inside of her, and she’s still Laudna, the best person Imogen has ever met. 

So Imogen knows she can fight. 

But fuck, she doesn’t want her to have to. And she never wants her to have to fight alone. Not again. Never again. 

That’s what she’s doing now, though. 

Imogen had let Laudna go. She had let her go by herself, broken from a betrayal she didn’t have the emotional space to process into this place that tortured her, killed her, and then brought her back gasping and cold and alone. 

This didn’t have to happen, and now that it has, Imogen has no way to stop it. Energy hums beneath her skin with nowhere to go, her scars illuminating the graveyard Delilah left here. 

Hours pass and nothing changes. 

Eventually, she wanders up and tries to navigate the absolute shitshow of the post-shard Hells. Chet’s mostly naked doing…something? Some kind of dance, drinking loudly, because of course he is, and she’s frankly grateful for the consistency, but she understands when Allura pulls her aside to ask if Imogen thinks they’re ready for what’s coming. 

Imogen was worried about them before today. Of course she was, because she’s not stupid, and they’ve seen too many battles to be cocky. She’s been in Whitestone before, recalls vividly what can happen when they’re unprepared. So she was worried about them, but now, it’s more than just caution. It’s real, deep concern. 

They’re broken, individually and as a group, and she doesn’t know how to fix it. She doesn’t know what to do with the mess of them in the kitchen, and she doesn’t know what to do with the fact that they’re…

“Does anybody know where Fearne and Laudna are?” 

There’s confirmation, at least, that Fearne is alright, and that Laudna is safe for the moment, but gods, how many ghosts are in this town, in those woods? 

Fuck. 

She can’t blame Chet for telling Ashton to leave, doesn’t have the inclination or the energy to defend them right now, and maybe tomorrow morning if they don’t come down she’ll regret it, but it’s nice, for a minute, to shift a little of the shame and blame to someone else. Ashton and their power grab and their idiocy, their unintentional but undeniable cruelty to Fearne, their betrayal and its rippling effects. 

God, they’re all so fucked up. 

She spends most of the night staring at the ceiling, her mind running the same circles over and over again until the sun is up high enough that she can justify beating down FCG’s door. 

She drags them through the castle and outside and then when they find her, Laudna runs. She looks at Imogen and she runs and Imogen doesn’t want to scare her but this isn’t gonna fucking work, so she’s pressing forward as fast as she can, breathing hard and body tired from some of the shittiest sleep of her life. 

And it’s not good, none of it is good, but at least they’re together. They’re together, and Laudna is okay, and it’s her, and then she’s giving Ashton a doll and Ashton is crying, Imogen is crying, they’re all crying over this tiny model of Ashton, with its chipmunk head and quartz and profanity and Ashton is apologizing, really apologizing, and only Laudna could do this, only Laudna could make them all…

“Love is pain.” Every muscle in Imogen’s body tenses. “But it’s also warmth.” Laudna meets her eyes for a moment and then looks at the floor, back to Ashton. “It was so cold last night.” 

Imogen pulls Laudna into her, releases some of the tension in her body when cold arms wrap around her waist. It’s easy, such an easy thing, to pull Fearne in to join them. 

Imogen can’t banish Delilah, can’t heal Ashton, can’t fix herself or any of the Hells. She can’t change what she did and didn’t do last night. There’s still a chasm of fear in her when she considers her own magic and power in relation to Otohan, to Ludinus, to Delilah. 

But she has this. She can give this. 

Love is warmth, and Imogen is full of fire. 

[jujumin-translates]

Event | Xmas PARK CARNIVAL | EP: Christmas is Just Around the Corner

Izumi: Ah, Sakuya-kun and Banri-kun, you’re finally back. Now everyone’s here.

Banri: Sorry for makin’ ya wait.

Sakuya: We got you a chocolate drink, Muku-kun.

Muku: Thank you! Uwaah, it smells so good and looks so delicious…!

Banri: Whoa, there’s a lot of stuff on the table.

Banri: Roast chicken, meat pies, cakes… did y’all buy all of this…?

Tasuku: No, nothing like that. Some of the staff prepared it for us.

Izumi: It looks like they all went out of their way to get everything ready for us.

Sakuya: Seems like it! Thank you so much for preparing this all.

Sasaki: No, no, it’s nothing! Think of it as a thank you for all of your help this time.

Sasaki: We’ll be doing a few more performances of the show tomorrow, and we look forward to continuing to work with you.

Izumi: Likewise.

Guy: Shall we take a moment to have a toast then?

Tenma: Yeah. Plus I’m hungry.

Masumi: Here, a drink for you, Director.

Izumi: Thanks. Well then, good work on opening day, guys! Cheers!

Sakuya: Good work, everyone. Cheers!

Banri: Cheers.

Tenma: Mh, this meat pie is really good.

Muku: Uwaah, this chocolate drink is so sweet and yummy…!

Guy: This over here utilizes spices well and is delicious.

*Phone rings*

Masumi: …Who’s phone is ringing?

Muku: Sorry, that’s mine! …Ah! Kazu-kun and the others are video-calling me!

Tenma: It’s around noon in Japan right now, isn’t it?

Tasuku: Yeah, that sounds about right.

Muku: Hi, Kazu-kun!

Kazunari: “Ah, good work today, Mukkun~! How are things over there?”

Muku: The opening day of the show went really well, and we’re having a Christmas party right now!

Kazunari: “For realsies!? That’s like totes awesome!”

Kazunari: “We miss you lots over here, Mukkun~.”

Citron: “Ooh, are you video-calling Muku and the others?”

Sakuya: Citron-san!

Citron: “I am missing you very much too, Sakuya. You have been gone forever and ever, uwaahh!”

Citron: “Tsuzuru also misses Masumi so much that he’s been sobbing for days.”

Masumi: Yeah, that’s a complete lie.

Sakuya: Fufu, we’re bringing lots of souvenirs back for you guys, so please wait a bit longer for them!

Citron: “Yaay~! Thank you, I’ll be a good boy and wait then ♪ Do your best with the show, Director, and everyone!”

Izumi: Yeah, thanks!

Kazunari: “BTDubs, TsumuTsumu and Azu went out for tea together since Tax and GuyGuy aren’t here.”

Tasuku: They do that whether we’re there or not.

Guy: Well, that’s okay then.

Kazunari: “Ah, Yukki and Hyodle, c’mere for a sec! We’re talking to the guys in America right now.”

Kazunari: “Here, aren’t you missing TenTen so much too, Yukki?”

Yuki: “Hah? I’m doing great. I can actually focus on my work for once.”

Tenma: Hey, what the hell…!

Yuki: “...What was with that reaction? Do you actually want me to say I miss you? Gross.”

Banri: He’s not gonna admit it~.

Tenma: It’s not funny!

Juza: “...Muku, it’s cold over there, ain’t it? Make sure you don’t catch a cold.”

Muku: Yeah, thanks, Ju-chan!

Izumi: (Muku-kun and Juza-kun’s conversation is heartwarming as usual…)

Banri: Ugh, why do I have to look at his face over the phone?

Juza: “Haah? You’re the one who looked in the first place.”

Banri: You’re the one who came into my view without me askin’.

Sakuya: Ahwah, Banri-kun, Juza-kun, calm down.

Banri: You better not have made a mess on my side of the room just ‘cause I wasn’t there. I ain’t forgivin’ ya if I find candy wrappers ‘n shit all over the place.

Juza: “Stop draggin’ everyone over there down with ya.”

Banri: The fuck…!?

Tasuku: Ugh, here they go…

Masumi: Even across the ocean, they’re still the same.

Muku: Awahhwah…!

Izumi: How about you hang up now, Muku-kun!

Guy: That would be for the best.

Muku: R-Right! Bye, everyone!

[ ⇠ Previous Part ]

[raineandsky]

This is a epilogue to a lil project of mine - loving titled Around the World in 80 Cafes :)

-

Crow arrives in the village, accidentally, under the cover of darkness. His client has made his rounds of the lands a lot more hurriedly than he’d expected, and the opportunity to get the hell away from him as soon as possible was not an opportunity lost on Crow.

“Everyone’s favourite mercenary’s back early,” the guard, Phive, comments from the walkway as he reaches the top of the ladder. Her job’s been rendered a little obsolete since Norveticus brought his family’s little empire to the ground, but she seems more than happy to stand here, with nothing to do, at one in the morning. “Good run?”

“Was a’ight.” He waves her off with a gruff laugh. “Pays just enough to deal with the nobility that comes with the job.”

Phive snorts, gesturing down the walkway with her spear. “Speakin’ of, I think your noble’s been anxious for you to get back. He’s been stress-bakin’ for, like, four days.”

Crow frowns suspiciously. “He's a cook, Phive. He doesn’t bake.”

“Exactly.” Phive grins. “You should get outta town more often. He’s good at it, and it’s usually me that gets first pick of whatever he’s makin’.”

Crow rolls his eyes as Phive laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He pauses in front of his house. It feels strange to think—his house. He spent so long flitting between the houses here in his youth; whoever had the space, had the energy for him. Now here he is, standing outside a house he can actually call home. It’s a strange feeling, and not one he hates.

It smells delicious inside, as always, and he can see what Phive was talking about. It’s definitely the aroma of baking—sweet, a little less intense than usual, and concerningly strong for one in the morning. He can see that the kitchen light’s on from here. He can’t be worried enough to be up at this time, surely.

The culprit of the smell is sitting on the kitchen counter. A cake of some sort, by the looks of it, but not one he’s seen before. The kitchen’s empty though, thankfully, so after a second to marvel at the treat he’s back on his way.

He doesn’t find Norveticus where he expected to; he’s neither in the kitchen or the bedroom, where Crow was mostly hoping he’d be, but instead in the living room. Crow comes across him on the sofa, his arm left hanging over the side and a book dropped heartlessly on the floor. He carefully picks the book up, giving it a onceover—it’s Norveticus’s own cookbook, nothing he hasn’t read a thousand times—before laying it on the table nearby.

He squats down near his face, simply content to admire Norveticus for a moment. He seems so peaceful like this, blissfully unbothered. The light from outside dances over his face, his hair a little ruffled from his obviously unintentional nap. He’s unfairly pretty, as always, and Crow didn’t realise how much he missed him until now.

He knows Norveticus will find something to worry about the moment he wakes up, so he just quietly takes in the view before giving him a light nudge.

Norveticus stirs, kind of. He clearly has no intention to wake up. “Angel,” Crow whispers.

Norveticus makes some halfhearted noise that sounds vaguely like “huh?”

Crow can’t help but laugh a little. He ghosts a hand over Norveticus’s face, his thumb brushing idly against his cheek as he finally opens his eyes. “I’m home, Norv.”

Norveticus stares at him in a blank half-squint for a long moment. Then it suddenly seems to click what he’s seeing—he bolts upright, his eyes wide, his mouth working to probably try and say several things at once.

“Hey,” Crow says plainly, an unavoidable grin working its way onto his face, and the single word seems to break Norveticus out of his stupor.

“Oh my god, Crow!” He throws his arms around Crow’s neck, half-dragging him onto the sofa with him. “You’re back—” Norveticus pulls away rather suddenly to hold him at arm’s length, a frown adorning his face. “… early.”

“Don’t worry,” he says quickly. “The job just finished earlier than we expected.”

Norveticus lets go of him quickly, a disappointed frown on his face. “But I had everything planned,” he whines. His gaze slides past Crow and to the kitchen. “I was going to do this big thing for when you came back. I was going to make that pie you said you liked, and I wanted to get you some flowers and I was going to get Hettie to make another cloak and—”

“Norv,” Crow interjects exasperatedly. He gently takes Norveticus’s face in his hands, like he needs some sense talking into him. “I don’t need a big thing. I came home because I wanted to be with you, okay?”

Norveticus huffs. “Can I at least still make the pie?”

“I’m not stopping you from making anything.” Crow snorts at the slight scowl on Norveticus’s face. “Phive tells me you’re a baker now, anyway.”

There’s a half second where Norveticus looks like he’s about to delve in to explain the exact things he’s been making—a common occurrence, and music to Crow’s ears—before he leaps out of Crow’s hold and to his feet.

“My cake!” he cries. Crow slowly gets back to his feet as Norveticus beelines for the kitchen. “God, I didn’t mean to go to sleep—it’s ruined.”

Crow lingers in the doorway as Norveticus flutters nervously over the perfectly fine-looking cake on the counter. “It looks a’ight to me,” he offers simply, “and it smells pretty good.”

“Smell and taste and entirely separate experiences, Scarlet Crow,” Norveticus says matter-of-factly. “It may smell like a god has made this, but I can assure you the texture will be absolutely vile. I was meant to put it in the ice box, like, two hours ago.”

“Did you seriously just drop my full mercenary name to explain food to me?”

“Yes,” he says flatly. He gives the cake a poke for good measure, his nose wrinkling slightly when it wobbles. “I am the culinary expert here, and I’m telling you that it will taste bad.”

“I don’t believe you.” Crow’s already rooting through the drawer for a fork. “You wanted to have something ready for when I got back, right? Let me try it.”

Norveticus seems to go through the five stages of grief in half a second. “Crow, I wanted to have something edible for when you got back. This will probably kill you.”

“I’d like to see it try.” He reaches for the cake, only stopped when Norveticus tries to block him. Crow tries to nudge him out the way but he’s goddamn stubborn. Nothing particularly new. 

Norveticus grabs his arm to try and stop him and Crow wriggles theatrically in his grip, making another stab for his prize.

“Crow!” Norveticus yelps with a laugh. “Stop!”

The two of them wrestle for a moment before Crow finally manages to tear a bit of cake with his fork. Norveticus notices a second too late, and Crow shoves it in his mouth before the other can stop him.

For a moment, all Crow can feel is victory. Then surprise. Then overwhelming disappointment. Then, like the cherry on top of the cake, acute defeat.

Norveticus watches this cycle of emotions blankly, like he was expecting nothing less.

It takes Crow a second too long to talk around the dough sticking to the roof of his mouth. “It’s… it’s really good,” he chokes out.

“You’re a horrendous liar, Crow.”

“Divine.”

“You’ve never called anything divine in your life.”

Keeping his face passive is almost impossible with the cake practically attacking him from the inside. Norveticus was, tragically, right—the dough clumps and glues to anything it touches. The taste wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t burning itself into every inch in his mouth. 

He swallows it, finally, and it’s equally a relief to have it gone and abysmal going down.

“Welcome home,” Norveticus says flatly.

Crow hums a laugh, planting a soft kiss on the top of his head. “Glad to be here, angel.”

Norveticus smiles pleasantly before a yawn forces its way through. Crow laughs lightly. “D’you wanna head back to bed?” he adds after a moment.

“Ugh, please.” Norveticus grabs his hand and drags him from the kitchen. “But only if you come to bed with me.”

Crow stops him in the doorway to the bedroom, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s short, sweet, frankly atrocious-tasting with that cake still lingering in his mouth—but it’s a kiss all the same, and Crow’s been craving one whether it tastes bad or not.

Norveticus pulls away from him after a moment, his eyes drifting over Crow’s face for a moment. “I missed you,” he whispers into the quiet.

Crow sighs contentedly. “And I missed you, angel.”

Norveticus smiles at that, and it’s so bright and warm that Crow might as well be staring into the brilliance of the sun. 

[beckwritesfiction]

Can you do something with a virgin!reader x rhett abbott from outer range? Maybe they went to high school together and she's the preacher's daughter. He could assume she's not as innocent as she was back then, but he finds out that's not the case after they go on a date and he's ready to take her home? Bonus points if she's been saving herself for marriage but she can't stop herself once she's all worked up with him in his truck?

I hope this covered all the bases! Thanks for the request and I really hope you like it. My asks are open if anyone wants to request anything else.

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Rating: 18+ only! Minor, please do not interact with this post.

Warnings: mentions of religion, semi-public sex, drinking, protected PIV, oral (female receiving), loss of virginity,

a/n: This is the first in-detail smut I've written since like 2014 so please go easy on me.

There wasn’t much that surprised you in town anymore.  You’d been there your entire life.  Every day felt the same, and you liked the routine you fell into.  You didn’t expect that Sunday to be any different than the last.  The first unusual thing was Rhett Abbott showing up with his mother to church.  He looked a little roughed up.  His hair could’ve probably been combed, and he wasn’t wearing anything that resembled church shoes, but you greeted him like you greeted everyone else.  It had been so long since you went to church that he looked surprised when you were by the steps, a few paces away from your father.  He was deep in conversation with someone who had recently moved to town, so he wasn’t paying that much attention to you.  

“Rhett,” he greeted him.  “It’s nice to see you here.”

He wouldn’t ever say he forgot about you, but it wasn’t like you’d spoken much since graduation.  The biggest thing he remembered about you was that you never seemed to have time for anyone.  Any boy that tried anything would leave disappointed.  Some tried hard to be the one that got the preacher’s daughter to give it up for them, but every single one failed. Unlike then, your neckline was a little less modest.  Even though there was a jean jacket over your dress, it was a little low cut.

“How’ve you been?” he asked, unsure of what else to ask.  He wasn’t asking what he really wanted to, after all.  He wanted to know what you’d gotten up to, and why he never saw you in town.  Your hands were bare, except for the light yellow nail polish on her nails.  No ring.  He wanted so badly to know if that meant you were still a virgin.  There was no way, especially not since you were nearing your mid-twenties.  Everyone had sex by then.  

Your smile was ever-present, it seemed, but it brightened a little at his question.  “Pretty good.  Keepin’ busy here, especially with the market we’re settin’ up.”

“Market?” he asked.

“For the local farmers.  Since the old outpost buildin’ burned down we haven’t had a farmer’s market.  Daddy wanted me to take some initiative here, and I thought that sounded like somethin’ the town would love.  Who wouldn’t want some fresh watermelon on a hot day like this?”

“I’ll let my mom know when I find her.  She’d be the one lookin’ for somethin’ like that.”

“I made some pies to sell, if you’re interested.  Not everyone who comes’s gotta be there for the produce.  Think Missus Murry’s makin’ her famous bundt cakes, too.”

You were either just really friendly, or you wanted to keep talking to him.  Anyone who thought they’d get to greet you just moved on to your mother.  

“You said it’s right after this?” he asked.

“Oh, no.  It’s at three.”

At three, he was there with his mother, and he tried to talk himself down from saying something to you when they eventually worked their way through the mazes of tables, tents, and tailgates to get you.  You sat with your older brother and his wife, who were spreading God’s word to anyone that would listen, waiting for someone to come and talk to you.  

Your conversations about pie were short-lived.  Rhett even cut you off, lowering his voice so only you could hear.  “Are you doin’ anything later?”

You were taken aback, but you were honest.  “No, I’m not.”

“Would you wanna get dinner?  We could catch up?  Six years is a long time to go without talkin’.”

Your smile was different than it had been all day as he looked around, as if you didn’t want anybody to hear.  “You wanna go out with me?”

He wasn’t sure if he would go that far.  That’s why he clarified.  “Pretty girl like you?  Of course.  Don’t think one date would hurt you, would it?”

“Yeah.  I’d like that.”  You’d heard the comments your mother made; how confused she was about how a kid that used to be so sweet could stray so far from the Lord.  You didn’t understand what she meant, but your mother elaborated, disgusted as she explained the town gossip.  Anyone who went out with that many girls wasn’t looking for someone to spend the rest of his life with, or to serve God with.  Especially not with how much and how often he was hanging around at the bars in town.  You didn’t like to judge people, so you didn’t assume the date would be anything other than a date.  And it was.  At first.

You only had two drinks, stretching them out over the two hours that you sat at the booth in the corner of the bar.  Drinking wasn’t something you normally did because your family didn’t.  He noticed this, and slowed down on ordering more for himself.  The conversation was casual, and he let you talk as much as you wanted; which you did a lot, feeling like you needed to seem more interesting if you wanted the date to go well.  He didn’t have as detailed answers to your questions as you did to his, but you didn’t mind.  He had never been someone to say much.  

“You know that’s what my daddy did, before he found God?”

“Bull ridin’?” Rhett asked, knowing that had to be the only reason she’d pivot to that after coaxing out every detail of his so far underwhelming career.  

You nodded.  “He hit his head so hard on one of the railin’; knocked him right out.  Said he saw this light and, when he woke up, someone said ‘Jesus Christ,’ like they were relieved.  He took that as a sign.  Retired after that circuit, started goin’ to church.  That’s how he met my mama.  It all goes back to hittin’ his head  If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t’ve found God, met my mama, or had me and my brothers.”

“Then he would’ve just been stuck being a professional bull rider, and that’d just be sad, wouldn’t it?” Rhett asked, mostly as a joke.  But he knew that was how some people saw him.

You laughed, shaking your head gently.  “What’s sad about what you do?  I think you’re brave.  I’d never last long doin’ what you do.  Besides, it’s better when he tells it.  You should have dinner with us one night.  He’ll tell you all kinds of stories.”

There were so many other things he’d rather do than talk about God with your family, but he didn’t want to make you feel bad.  He deflected with a joke.  “Are you tellin’ me you wanna take me home to your family?”

Your face flushed, especially when he leaned across the table the way he did.  “I like talkin’ to you.  Why wouldn’t I?  Comin’ out with you without you meetin’ my daddy’s not a great start, but he’s forgvin’.”

When the topic of church and the Lord wasn’t on the table, he felt like the conversation flowed easily.  And the way you flirted with him, innocent as it was, made him want to leave sooner rather than later.  When he offered to take you home, you agreed, knowing you shouldn’t stay out too late.  It was already ten o’clock.

There were so many things he did that made you feel like you needed to go outside and get some fresh air.  If your head wasn’t spinning, your eyes felt heavy, or you felt a little hot. It wasn’t a heat you could put your finger on.  It was more internal, spreading through you evenly, flowing like your blood did.

He opened the door for you, taking your hand before you stepped up into his truck.  It was when he got in himself that he hesitated before starting the car.  He wanted to talk, and you thought it was time to tell him how much fun you had.

“Thanks for askin’ me out.  I haven’t been on a date in a while.  Especially not one like this, it was fun.  I like talkin’ to you a lot.”

He brushed his hand against your cheek before moving it to your hair, feeling you tense.  At first he thought you didn’t want to kiss him, but then you did, and quite eagerly.  The sleeve of your dress fell down as you leaned in, moving as close as you could get to him on the bench seat. He only kissed you harder, matching your energy until he reached for your arm, pushing you down against the seat until you felt the fabric on your exposed shoulders.  He kept kissing you, even jerking you down by your hips so your head wasn’t hitting the door.  The movement of your body made him gasp, and you liked it.  

Just like you liked the way he kissed your neck, moving down your body slowly until he got to your chest.  He pulled both your sleeve and your bra strap down, kissing the parts of you that weren’t exposed before that.  There was no denying that you liked it, even if you wanted to.  He could tell by the way you sighed.

His hand against your leg only made you feel even more like you could combust.  Every place he touched you where he hadn’t before felt like such a rush.  When he lifted the hem of your skirt, you tried hard to relax.  Just because he was doing that didn’t mean you were going to go all the way.  You were lying to yourself, and you knew it, but kissing him felt so good that you couldn’t stop.  You weren’t there for that reason, mostly because of a promise you made to save yourself for marriage when you were younger, but the idea of figuring out the appeal of Rhett Abbott.

Then his hand brushed against the fabric between your legs, and you panicked a little.  Even as this happened, you accepted that whatever he was going to do, you wanted it.  “Will it hurt?”  you asked suddenly, grabbing his wrist and stopping him.

“What?” he asked, frowning gently at your question.  Then he realized something.  You looked so dazed so often, so desperate for affection because you weren’t used to it.  “You’ve never…done anything before at all?”

You shook your head, your chest rising and falling with anticipation.  Your grip on his wrist tightened out of fear that he would move away from you and not consider going through with it after all.  

“It’s fine, I just don’t wanna do it here.”  That made you release his hand.  You fixed the top of your dress, not realizing how exposed you were until then.  

The wooded area he took you to was one you’d never been to before.  You thought maybe it was where someone would take you if they wanted to kill you without anyone hearing your screams.  But if he was going to kill you, he wouldn’t have put a blanket in the bed of his truck that he kept beneath his seat.

When he helped you in, getting in after you, he wasted no time kissing you again.  It went on for what felt like ever, but you liked every second of it; feeling him move his hands from one spot to another until eventually it was back between your legs again.  Before he could do what he planned, you decided you were too impatient.

“I want you to make love to me,” you sighed. The way he wrapped your legs around his waist when he started kissing you again made it harder for you to wait.  You wanted to know what it was like, and his hips pressing against yours made you feel weak.

“I’ll do somethin’, but I can’t do that.”

“Why not?  Even if it’s just once.”

“Makin’ love and havin’ sex are very different things.”

You shifted a little beneath him.  You didn’t like that word.  “Makin’ love sounds sweeter, doesn’t it?  Sex sounds so…degrading, doesn’t it?”

“You don’t think there’s a worse word for that?”

“Like?” you asked.  He could see in your eyes you really had no idea what could be wrose than the term sex.  

“I wanted to say I’ll fuck you, not make love, but I didn’t.  Thought you’d like me sayin’ sex over that; you bein’ so proper and all.”  You would’ve felt insecure at this, but he brushed his hand against your cheek, and looked at you affectionately as he said it.  You thought about this for a second, finding the word jarring, but liking how it sounded when he said it.  “But whatever you call it, I’ll do it with you.  And I’ll be gentle until you don’t want me to be anymore.”

“I’d rather you be gentle,” you said, not sure what would prompt someone to want anything but that.  

After reaching into his pocket to get a condom, he noticed how closely you watched what he was doing.  The way your hair spread out beneath you, and how you stopped fixing your dress.  You let it ride up around your waist, and didn’t fix the sleeve or your bra strap that had either been pushed down by him, or fallen down.

He went to undo his belt, then looked down at you.  “Go ahead.”  You did, tentative at first.  When your hands were shaking too badly to undo his jeans, he took over.  “Lay back down.”  He kissed you once again while he put the condom on, kissing down to your neck before he aligned himself.  It was slow, like he promised, and uncomfortable at first.  But the way he went back to your neck relaxed you.

Not long after, you understood what he meant, why he offered to be gentle until you didn't want him to be anymore.  What he was doing felt good, but now you wanted more.  You didn’t know how to ask for what you wanted, or even what it would be like after you did.  Then, after feeling his fingers threaten to dig into your hips even harder, the word came back to you.  Fuck.  You just knew you liked how it sounded, and that felt like enough.

“Fuck me,” you breathed, not being able to say it fast enough.  The last thing you thought he would do was stop.  His breathing was heavy, his expression only hinting at him being pleased with your word choice.  

“What do you want me to do?”

“Fuck me,” you repeated.  

“Don’t you have any manners?”

“Please fuck me,” you replied with ease, having no issue amending your initial request.  You were so desperate to know what it would entail, and for him to move once again, that you were sure you’d say anything it took.  When he pulled out of you, you nearly whined.  This was the opposite of what you wanted, and he could see it written on your face.

“Get up and turn over.”

There was a moment of hesitation before you managed to ask, “Why?”

“Trust me.  If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.  Get on your hands and knees.  I’ll walk you through it.”

You were tense when you listened to him, suddenly insecure about the width of your hips and the size of your ass.  When he put a hand on your hip, you winced a little.  It made him get closer to you again, but his other hand rested against your shoulder.  “Relax.  I’ll go slow again until you tell me you want more.”

“Until I want you to fuck me?” you repeated, wanting him to say the word again.

He smiled, moving his hand from your shoulder down to your lower back.  “‘Til you want me to fuck you, yes.” Then he pushed down on your back, urging you against the bed of his truck.  It was hard against your knees, even with the blanket there.  “Turn your face to the side, put your arms out in front of you, like you’re stretchin’”

You did, liking how your back felt when you did it.  You arched it a little, not realizing it was exactly what he wanted.  He had himself in his hand again, wanting to rush because of how hard he was, but resisting because of the promise he made you.  “You ready?”

“Go slow,” you reminded him.  He did, not being subtle about how good it felt to be inside you again.  You were even surprised at how different it was than the first time.  It just felt good, even right away.  Your sounds of satisfaction mixed with his, only made your heart race faster.  His promise was that it would feel good for you, but it sounded like he liked it just as much.

“Fuck,” he sighed as he repositoned his hands against your hips, moving again when you leaned back a little, clearly wanting more.  The very word made you weak, especially when he said it.  

“Fuck me.”  It was even more desperate.

“You forget your manners again?”

“Please.”

He didn’t stop like he did before, even though he usually would’ve.  You were so tight, and he couldn’t stop himself.  The fact that he was still only moving so slow was already killing him.  “Please what?”

“Please fuck me.”  It sounded more like a cry now, your back arching harder like that was going to do anything.  That made it even better for him when he finally picked up the pace.  His vision even felt blurred, feeling how your body reacted, and how hot you felt around him.  He only got more caught up in the feeling as the moments passed, with each thrust taking your breath away.  Your hand gripped the blanket beneath you, your knuckles white.  “Harder.”  A few moments passed, and you added.  “Harder, please.”  His hips finally moved faster, and your cries only made it harder for him to give you what you wanted.  If he continued the way he was, it would be over.  He slowed, not telling you why, and trying to catch his breath.

You looked back at him, propping yourself up on your forearm.  “What’s wrong?”

“Sit up,” he said, and you did.  He pulled your dress down, and unclasped your bra.  He didn’t have to tell you to take your arms out of the sleeves.  He was inside of you again the moment you laid down, feeling he had a better chance of lasting longer.  This wasn’t the case at all.  You were so vocal, he couldn’t stop himself like he did before.  His fingers dug into your hips, making you moan.  That was enough to make him come hard, his thrusts getting sloppier with every passing second.  He hadn’t been vocal until then, and you know that whatever he felt was all-consuming.  

When he was beside you, breathless, you rolled over onto your side, running your hand down his arm.  You didn’t want it to end.

“Is that why people are so tempted?” you asked, eyes fixed on him.  He’d completely forgotten about your inexperience, and he knew you wanted more from him, even if you didn’t fully know what that was.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never even touched yourself?”  You averted your eyes, embarrassed.  “Look at me.”  You did.  “I’m not makin’ fun of you, I just can’t believe it.  You’re so innocent, so…”

“Clueless.”

“Maybe, but you don’t have to stay that way.”  He was moving between your legs again, running his hands against your legs until he was pushing them apart.  “Lay back.”

“We’re doing it again?”

He couldn't help but smile.  “Trust me.  If you liked me fucking you, you’ll like this.”  There it was again.  It made you weak enough, inadvertently relaxing you and overshadowing your doubt.  He began working his tongue between your legs, spreading them farther apart the less tense you got.  He thought you were so tense all the time not just because you were nervous, but because you weren't getting laid.  

The natural way your hand went to his head, and how your fingers were in his hair made him consider doing this with you again.  Among other reasons, but that sealed the deal.  That, and you were already so close and he’d spent so little time on you.  He helped you as he held your hips down, knowing you were about to experience something you never had before.

The moans and gasps, as hot as they were, he had already grown used to.  It was the sudden way you said his name that told him you were fighting it.  He reached one hand up, caressing your side.  You knew it meant he wanted you to relax and, when you did, you felt like you couldn’t breathe.  The tensions that had gathered inside you loosed, and a feeling like nothing you’d ever felt before washed over you.  You were gasping when you realized you’d forgotten to breathe.  Rhett was still between your legs, and stayed there until he thought you were finally done.  

When he was behind you again, fixing your dress from where it was gathered around your waist, holding it against your stomach as he wrapped his arm around you.  He moved your hair from where it fell in your face, tucking it behind your ear.  

“You forget how to speak?” he asked, his tone playful and quiet against your ear.

You nodded, pulling your dress up above your chest again, but not putting your arms through the sleeves.  It took a few more moments of catching your breath before you could find the right words to say.  Your entire body was buzzing, and alive in a way it had never been before.  “Thank you,” was all you could think to say.

“I’ve never had someone thank me before,” he mused.

The embarrassment was the only thing that gave you the strength to roll over so you were facing him again.  “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.  This kinda thing clouds your mind.  That’s why people have no self control, and they sin left and right.”

A hand found her face, and it was then that she realized how hot she was.  “Don’t remind me.  I can’t believe I just did that.”

“But you don’t regret it?”

“No.  I didn’t even know that’s what that would be like.  That’s probably why they don’t really tell you what it is.”  He offered a small smile, and you continued.  “I should really get home.”

“You really had no idea?” he asked.

“Daddy doesn’t even know how Jesus would feel about the internet.  We really only use it for things like recipes and directions, if we have to use it at all.”

Rhett pondered this, not because he was trying to guess how Jesus would feel about the internet, but because he was beginning to feel like he’d just corrupted your mind.  But he decided to wait and see if you came to him again, or if you thought you could go on living your life the way you did before you knew what sex was like.  He didn’t think you could.

[dwn024]

Wondering... do you always come up with the lyrics and like... uhh... idk music terminology the singing melody ig...????? Before the music itself? My only music production knowledge is from me age 11 making undertale au music on musescore 2 so idk much about making stuff with lyrics but I'm curious how that process usually goes?

i have never once in my life made a song doin the instrumentals first but that is because i cannot make music without the aid of some mysterious higher power sending me lyric samples that i have to do something with. like prismo in fionna and cake

i also have zero musical training whatsoever so like, the thing that comes First first is the lyrics, but they happen in tandem with a melody, like it's not just writing un-melodic poetry the lyrics pop into my brain already set to a melody. and if the melody they come packaged with Sucks and sounds Like Shit i either have to tweak the melody myself when i input it into whatever DAW or sequencer, or i just have to scrap the whole thing altogether cuz there is no way to untangle em. so the lyrics + melody happens all together at the same time, and then the instrumental comes last and the only time i have ever gotten to that stage is with the CMY2K OP cuz i was lucky enough to get sent a fully-formed "this song comes with an intro a verse a bridge and a chorus" so it's all the parts necessary for a whole song.

my dad though has been makin music since the 90s [though has literally never ever finished or released jack shit] and he does it the Correct way which is you get a chunk of backing instrumental music, then come up with the vocal memory to work in tandem with it, then keep going back and forth like that until you have a whole song. although i kinda do something similar but in a stupid way in which i can Hear what the full finished song is supposed to sound like with the instrumentals and whatnot but i'm not allowed to start actually Working on the instrumental until all the vocals are done. because i'm cute n crazy^_^

but in general with music production, you want to at Least be able to picture how the vocals and instrumental will work in tandem with each other, and with a lot of amateur songwriters it is extreeeemely easy to tell they don't know what they're doing if the instrumentals don't work to complement the vocals they're just there out of necessity or if the vocals don't do Jack Shit to support the instrumental

[amoirsetpacis]

@punisheye

★ --;; Vash lets Wolfwood think that it’s all a small affair– which, really, it still is. He kisses him good morning, long and sleep-soft and sweet, quietly smiled ‘mornin’, birthday boy,’ murmured between them. Any eventual wandering hands get swatted away, laughing.

“You have work,” Vash snorts. He’s got their fingers laced together, pinned up next to Wolfwood’s ears in a quickly failing attempt at keeping them under control. “And I’m makin’ breakfast.”

“And I’m the boss and we got managers,” Wolfwood grins, matching his namesake. The hands against the mattress give a little jostle, a mere threat at upsetting the balance. “Yer’ the one who wanted t’ do stuff today anyway. Yer’ gonna deny me a birthday wish? Really?”

Ah; Vash has gone and created a monster of his own design once again. Incredulously, he laughs, “Now you’re just milkin’ it–!!” only to squawk and be flipped the rest of the way over.

They do eventually make it downstairs, and only a bit late at that. Vash makes good on his word as well; Wolfwood might be the one usually kicking him out of the kitchen for pilfering whatever ingredients are hanging around on the counters, but Vash isn’t half bad at cooking himself. He does have quite a bit of a leg up when it comes to how much time he’s had to practice, though. Not as much of a stickler for chasing the other body occupying the space, either.

“I’ll see you later,” Vash smiles with a peck, following their typical walk together to Cafe December before turning on his heels in the direction he normally wanders off in to head towards Cotes.

–Only to completely round on his route once he’s well enough out of sight, back in the direction of the housing they’d originally been put in. A ‘sneaky’ ( read: hasty ) request for the day off had been approved, even under short notice, and sometimes Vash thinks maybe there is a facsimile of a god somewhere.

He pops back into Kugisaki’s place to pick up the cake he’d left there overnight with a quick thanks and promise of being in debt before heading back home to deposit both it and the supplies he’d entrusted to her in his own kitchen. He’s out again just as quickly, gone to pick up any other thing he’d need at the store only to return yet again with probably too much.

In retrospect he probably didn’t need the whole day to prepare everything; if anything, he’s quickly realizing that having the entire day off is only giving him more grounds to get anxious over preparation instead. Still, he waits as long as he can stand ( which still isn’t that long ) before getting to work. 

It’s… a task. This part he’s not as familiar with; dishes he’s not a practiced hand in but he knows are some of Wolfwood’s favourites. He’s got about six different tabs open for each for comparison purposes, along with his own fairly detailed memory of what he’d seen Wolfwood do before, and slowly but surely familiar smells start to waft through the house. In comparison to the morning, though, the resulting messes are far more prevalent. Taste tests prove similar enough results to what Vash has had before, but he’s ultimately not going to be the judge, here.

Whereas before time felt as though it were akin to molasses, it flies as Vash is getting everything together. A few hours later sees the last deep pot simmering on the stove; the only reason he hadn’t started panicking at how little time he had left was because there was only one thing left to do. 

The frosting is… an arduous task, at best. He’d had Kugisaki’s help when it came to the cake itself, but even following the directions as closely as he can it takes Vash more than one attempt to get the butter cream concoction right. The cake decorating doesn’t go quite as smooth as he’d hoped, either; any cute ideas he’d had for frosting shapes very quickly go out the window once the first one or two or five little flowers going around the edge end up looking far too wobbly. He’s almost tempted to squash them flat, but winds up keeping them anyway.

Besides, time is still rapidly ticking down, and he’s still got an absolutely demolished kitchen to make look somewhat-presentable before Wolfwood gets back. Saving graces appear in the form of invitees peeking their heads in through the door, though, and Vash can handle a bit of teasing if it means getting everything back in order– no matter how much he might whine about it.

One big, fat candle gets stuck in the middle of his creation, chocolate on chocolate, before one of the lighters lying around the house gets snatched up and the lights turned out. There’s no hiding the lingering scents hovering in the air as the invisible timer nears zero, Vash’s phone pinging with an ‘on the way home’ text not too long prior. ( It’s only then that he realizes his near radio silence the entire day had probably been some sort of giveaway as well, but it’s too late now to do anything about it. )

"SURPRISE! Happy birthday," the younger Stampede cheers with full enthusiasm, alongside his fellow party-goers. It's possible that Wolfwood might've spotted the guy's party hat atop his head before he's popped out from behind the kitchen island; so caught up in his excitement, he's forgotten to remove the giveaway of his hidden presence. 

“SURPRISE!” The cake gets held well off to the side of the explosion of confetti, candle already lit and its soft glow definitely not making their hiding place any more obvious along with any of their other giveaways. Vash’s smile is big enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes; despite the stress he’d put himself under, the fact that they get to share this moment in the first place, that he gets to give this sort of love and care back, makes his chest feel full.

Before anything else, Vash rounds around the counter corner; it wouldn’t do to have the wax start to melt too much, after all. “Thought I’d be nice and spare you the singing,” he grins, eyes bright as he holds the cake out for the flame to be extinguished.

During the dinner itself, the younger Stampede's appetite seems to be in full-force. He'd be busy reminiscing on hangouts with Wolfwood if his mouth isn't full. Either way, his plate ends up clean. 

While Meryl's just as chatty as always during dinner, she's also content to simply sit among her friends, enjoying the peace and domesticity and feeling grateful, as always, that they get to have this in Spirale (usually). And afterwards, she cleans up her confetti disaster!

Being familiar with the household, the other Stampede helps out with further clean-up and putting food away, handwaving off any offers to take leftovers home—he happens to have "plenty stored away in advance" back at Home, and promises he's been eating well these days.

Gifts are opened, eventually, over slices of cake that turned out not half-bad, thank you very much. Meryl's gift is covered in several layers of tissue paper to protect what's inside: a set of colorful ceramic berry baskets to hold fruits and vegetables in the kitchen! She feels like Wolfwood probably has a penchant for practicality above everything, so the multipurpose containers are bright and colorful to have just a splash of something interesting.

The younger Stampede’s is something with weight to it; wrapped in a slightly-excessive amount of taped-up bubble wrap, and placed into a small blue paper gift bag. He emphasizes, with body language and words both: despite its heft, what's inside is fragile, and should be handled with care. 

Inside: a glass paperweight in the form of a wolf, sitting with its head tilted upward. Its mouth is open; looks like it could comfortably hold a standard ballpoint pen between its little glass jaws. There's a business card from the Umber glasswork craftsman who created it, hole-punched on a corner and tied to the handle of the bag. If asked, he’d would bashfully explain that Paulo's a wonderful artist with a reputation for being a local Umber bar's arm-wrestling champion—well, up until recently. He'll have to explain the full story sometime!

Vash’s comes last– though he’s quick to swipe the card away, face a bit pink at the realization that it could very easily be read by other nosey parties; “This can be read later,” he laughs. The wrapping on the gifts themselves is a bit plain, considering who’s giving them, but it’s clear that it was done crisply and neatly with care and attention to detail. There’s plain twine around them as well; two boxes, one marginally bigger than the other. Inside one sits a case full of a new set of wood carving tools of all varieties– both in the form of knives as well as ones with handles that allow for more precision, as well as a few blocks of varying wood types. The other holds a set of various paint brushes, just as finely made as the tools. Later, he’ll pull out a few canvases he’d managed to squirrel away without getting noticed.

Eventually their guests get shooed off from the front porch after much thanks and well wishes to get home safely and to message when they do, and finally the door closes on comfortable silence instead of the cozy drone of friends around a table. Any PDA having been kept to a ( relative ) minimum, Vash immediately turns to wrap his arms around familiar shoulders and kiss the man he loves silly.

“I love you,” he smiles when he finally pulls away. “Happy birthday, Nicholas.”

[ask-chef-teruteru]

TERUTERU!!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!! I wanted to come in SUPER early today to be the FIRST to wish you a happy birthday! And of course give you a present!

*Places a very small cake box on the table and inside is… A Cake! Sort of… the icing doesn’t seem to have set right and is mostly liquid. The cake itself, despite having multiple layers, I’d rather thin, and just a tad underdone*

I’m.. not good in the kitchen, obviously, but I thought something store bought isn’t personal enough and I’d already gotten you flowers plenty of times and I can’t sew or knit to make anything So! I hope this is enough to show my love for you! And how happy I am that you were born, so that we could meet!

“Aaah! You— honey, you—you! You’re so sweet n’ good to me! You really went through all the trouble o’ makin’ this just for lil’ ol’ me?”

He takes a closer look at the birthday cake, lower lip beginning to quiver and eyes threatening to grow misty. In an instant, his arms are thrown around his partner in a tight hug. To the chef’s credit, he only blubbers a little.

“You—you— you hush with that 'obviously' nonsense! You think I ain’t been in the kitchen long enough t’see when somethin’ was made with love? Weren’t born yesterday— several years ago to this day in fact!— y’all can’t go sellin’ it short on how much work makin’ a cake can be! Even more so if y’ain’t experienced! I love it, n’ I love you too! Havin’ a precious darlin’ like you in my life at all’s gift enough, so this is just a lil’ somethin’ somethin’ extra if y’all ask me!

Thank y’all so very much, Emile!”

[diabolik-boys]

The Founder woman gives Ayato Takoyaki and a chocolate cake without smelling poisonous

Well I guess you’re birthday is today Hm? As Long as you don’t make me angry. By the way would you like a Candy Apple as well?

The first time she smiled warmly towards a Vampire

((It means that Yuu has a soft spot for him, but not the others (expect Azusa and probably Subaru)) )

"'Don't make ya' angry'? The hell? It's my goddamn birthday. The one ya' should worry 'bout makin' angry is Ore-sama. Ya' better get on yer knees and grovel if ya' don't wanna make me angry, I don't care if yer a Founder or not."

"Or just gimme yer blood. That works too. Ya' got me some takoyaki, so I can let that little slip slide."

"The takoyaki tastes alright. Well? I'm waitin' for my blood now. Ore-sama ain't gonna just let ya' go."

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

macccc hi. hi hi <3 ik u don’t watch qsmp but i wanna cry in ur inbox for a second. we got. fucked up sibling dynamics. it happened. cellbit had a twin sister named bagi and he went missing and was thrown into a war and she searched for him endlessly. his first memory is standing over a dead body and having to eat it to survive. bagi is slowly recovering her own memories and is desperate for him to remember her. he keeps pushing her away bc he can’t fathom that he had a LIFE and a FAMILY and people who CARED about him. he thought he came from war but he came from love and didn’t even know it. bagi became a cop just so she could try to break him out of prison but she never got the chance bc he broke out first and she lost him again. she spent fifteen years looking for him and he spent fifteen years trying to survive. they’re both devastated over this in different ways. this always happens with media i get into it always comes back around to messed up siblings i’m going to start eating the floorboards. the strider bros the plant twins ccrimeboys. this is my brother and i need a shovel to love him. you can get a new son or a father but who can grow me a new brother. yk. just gonna lay here and cry for a minute brb

anyway how r u doing!!! how’s it going!!!! how r ur blorbos!! i never got into adventure time as a kid what’s it like what’s the recent series like how’s it going :3 how r ur little guys i wanna know!!!! i’m still watchin hannibal btw makin my way thru s2e2 AS WE SPEAK!!!

OH GOD OH FUCK I LOVE HORRIBLE TRAGIC SIBLINGS !!!!!!!!!!!! i keep saying this but im so glad im not directly into qsmp because i KNOW i would be imprinting on cellbit like a baby duckling. it was A JOKE AT FIRST because i saw he had a white streak but every new thing i learn about him im like. of fuck thats my type of character like. to a t. unbelievable.

I AM DOING GOOD its sooooo cold today and i cannot wait 2 be done with work so i can get all cozy (<< guy who is dumb and chose a career path that is Almost Always Outdoor Manual Labor) . adventure time is soooooooooooooo so so so good. i actually have not seen ANY of the post-canon series which is why im currently rewatching the main one!! i want 2 watch them so bad. ive heard such good things about fionna and cake. ouuguguhg. its a very good show its the perfect balance of really silly and lighthearted and also.... emotions. <3 formative piece of media. u are speaking to the worlds biggest flame princess kinnie. also i have been thinking abt my ocs a lot lately bc i havent drawn them since artfight. this is a DISGRACE.

IM SOOOO GLAD UR STILL ENJOYING HANNIBAL. oh season 2 goes nuts. season 1 is probably my favorite as a whole but my favorite Individual Episode is the season 2 finale. ohhh the season 2 finale makes me so insane. ouguha. also lmk when u meet a character named mason verger i have a funny story about him <3

[demonichikikomori]

Trips Ahoy!

Floyd Leech x Ruggie Bucchi Word Count Tumblr: 1.8k

This was mostly written as a joke from this post. For immersion reasons I wrote this after getting high. Please enjoy <3

SUMMARY:

Ruggie needs some money. So, he plays Cub Scouts with Floyd and makes cookies to sell on campus.

Tags: Making edibles, eating edibles, this plan backfired a little, pining, no smut here on Tumblr but lots of these guys bein' bros, the crocs stay on during sex

Mostro Lounge was closed tomorrow. 

Which was extremely unusual for the greedy Housewarden of Octavinelle, especially on a Friday night. He proclaimed there was an issue in the kitchen that was currently being solved. But, that wasn’t exactly the case. The truth is, Ruggie had made a deal with Azul. Politely asking to use the Mostro Lounge as his base of operations. This project was far too complex to allow customers to see the work in progress. The four-eyed octopus didn’t like what Ruggie’s plans entailed, but was promised compensation for letting Ruggie close shop for the sake of ‘work’. The only way the hyena was even allowed free reign of the lounge was because Floyd would be there helping him tomorrow while everyone else attended class. 

Jade had nothing to say on the matter other than mentioning that his brother is allowed to have hobbies and friends outside of the ‘Octrio’. Azul’s disapproval was painted on his face but he waved Ruggie off with the keys to the lounge tossed in his chest. “If you break anything, you will be paying for it.” He warned as Ruggie offered his signature snicker in response. “Have a little faith in me, me and Floyd will save you both a cookie from our first batch.” He offered with a quick wave, turning away with the giant twin following after him with a lazy smile. His droopy eyes scanned the beastman over with excitement. “What we makin’ Sharksucker? Brownies? Gummies? Oh, I’ll bring my speaker out of my dorm tomorrow so we can use it.” He offered, curious what his classmate had in mind for his grand Cub Scouts plan. Ruggie gripped the keys tightly in his fist, turning back towards Floyd with a sly grin. “Good ol’ fashion cookies.” 

=+=

The music was loud, bass rattling the walls in the kitchen from Floyd’s speaker nestled on the counter. Ruggie had connected to it with music he and Floyd both liked, even stuff the Prefect of Ramshackle had shown them. It was early, rounding up to 9am as the pair gently dissed each other's choice attire as they made themselves comfortable in the empty kitchen. Ruggie arrived at the same time as Floyd with a rolling tray tucked under his arm. It made things much easier and calming for their day long project. His bangs were pinned back with a mix match of colorful child-like charms he had gotten from Leona (who got them from Cheka). A baggy pair of black cargo shorts hung low on his hips that he constantly had to pull them up his thin body. With every small movement they would slip down to expose the hemline of his briefs if his fingers weren’t fast enough. A mustard yellow tank top hugged his torso, a size too small and riding up on his midriff and exposing hints of his belly button to Floyd’s gaze. The icing on the cake were the brown flip flops with beads braided into them. Surprisingly, they looked like they actually fit him. It was just that… Ruggie had exposed his teal colored toenails to Floyd’s delight. “What the fuck? Are those all Leona’s clothes? Did he give you some pipe before you got here?” Floyd asked with squinted eyes and a snort, paying particular attention to the hyena’s feet. Before the hyena had a chance to answer, his pointer finger slipped into one of the belt loops and tugged roughly on Ruggie. 

The biscuit blond reeled from the playful display of force and gasped trying to regain his balance. The merman slunk towards the fridge with a chuckle as the beastman tried to recollect himself. Ruggie frowned and pulled the shorts back up, Floyd should know he’s not one to just take without giving back. He crept closer before twisting his leg to kick his knee into Floyd’s ass cheek. Hard. “Don’t be weird! He gave them to me because they don’t fit him. I haven’t hemmed the shorts yet.” He snapped as Floyd dramatically crashed into the door of the silver plated fridge. “Not that you're on the cover of Vogue either, Floyd.” Ruggie used a mocking tone as he bounced onto the countertop beside the sink. The tray tucked under his arm was now balancing on his lap as Ruggie fished out a small plastic bag from his right pocket. Floyd wore dark gray sweats and a lavender colored shirt, the emblem of Octavinelle was printed over his heart. It wasn’t the plainness of the outfit that Ruggie hated, oh no. What Ruggie hated the most about the outfit was the lavender colored Crocs on his feet, lined with a pale purple fur. A small round yellow flower charm was popped into one of the many craters of his left clog, but just the one. “You and those ugly ass cheese slippers… Why do they have fur in them? You live in the ocean.” He rolled his eyes, watching as Floyd frowned and pulled open the fridge’s tall doors. “Ehhhh? You don’t like them? You’re jealous because you don’t have any.” The merman scoffed and removed a long bag of chocolate chips and something rectangular from a shelf that was pushed far to the back. The small brick was wrapped in wax paper and seran wrap, a sticky note taped on top with Floyd’s name scribbled on the thin paper. Of course it went untouched. “I think they look stupid.” Ruggie chuffed as Floyd placed the ‘brick’ carefully on the counter and slipped a hand into his pocket to pull out a thin plastic two pack of cigars with gold writing across the top. 

They were cheap, but much better than a small pack of thin rolling papers. At least, they both thought so. Game leaves tended to burn slower and had a taste zig zags couldn’t compare to. “Here.” Floyd handed them over with a pout as Ruggie untwisted his bag containing the weed they would be smoking with instead of baking. To them, the smell was tame. However to someone else it would be suffocating. The hyena was pulling apart the sticky green bundles of weed, dropping the smaller pieces back into the bag to not spill anything on the tray. Not yet at least. Ruggie shook his head with a smile as he pulled open the plastic pack of cigars next, carefully shaking the cigars into the shallow divot of the tray to look over for the ‘vein’ in each one. “I’m being honest, y’know, there’s a reason you don’t have a girlfriend Floyd.” He teased and used his nail to tear along the browned vein of the leaf to empty the dry tobacco into the tray. “Oh? It’s not because we’re at an all boys school?” He asked jokingly while scouring the kitchen for a large mixing bowl. Ruggie flipped on the faucet, carefully washing the leaves under the cold water and dumped the tobacco down the drain so it wouldn’t be found by Azul later. “Why would that change anything? There’s an all girls school around the corner from us.” Ruggie didn’t look up from his work as he patted the leaves dry with a paper towel. He could feel Floyd staring at him. It wasn’t malicious, in fact, Ruggie wasn’t sure what it was. “It’s not because of my Crocs that I don’t have a girlfriend. You’re just an asshole.” He answered, starting to unwrap the brick to reveal a green butter inside. The scent of the potent flower began to fill the room with its stink. Not that either of them could smell how powerful it really was. Good thing they were closed all day. “I speak the truth. Don’t get upset because you can’t handle it.” Ruggie joked and began to roll two healthy sized blunts, quietly rapping along to the music playing as he did so before licking the blunts closed and patting down any openings along the sides. “Done.” Ruggie held out the tray to show Floyd, as if he was silently searching for praise from his schoolmate. Floyd smiled and fished a lighter from the pocket of his sweatpants. “Thanks for rollin’ up Sharksucker. I don’t forgive you for dissing my Crocs though.” He hummed cheekily, sparking up and inhaling as Ruggie looked up at him, expecting to be passed the lighter. “Hmmm? What’s wrong?” Floyd asked as he slipped the lighter back into his pocket. “Oh, here,” He took the tray away from Ruggie and placed it on the counter. “Huh, wait Floyd-” There wasn’t enough time to speak as the blunt was placed between Ruggie’s lips and Floyd’s large hand wrapped around his skinny throat. The hyena became stiff from the curling of the eel’s fingers as he came closer, bumping the cherry of the burning game leaf against Ruggie’s unlit one. 

Oh.

Ruggie slowly inhaled with Floyd, feeling the taller student slot himself between the beastman's thighs, exhaling smoke through his nose and into Ruggie’s face. The hyena’s senses were telling him to stay still as the pair locked eyes. Big and round greyish blue met thin and droopy olive and gold. Ruggie attempted to stand his ground as he inhaled the smoke, squeezing his tearing up eyes shut as he let out a soft sputter. Comical clouds of smoke were coughed up as Floyd let his throat go to instead tug at skinny hyena's belt loops again. “I wiiiin!~” He chirped with a smile as Ruggie leaned back on his arms. One of Floyd’s hands gripped at Ruggie’s thigh as he continued pulling on the belt loops of the baggy shorts. This was getting dangerous. “Hey, Ruggie,” He called out breathlessly and the biscuit blond froze. Floyd never calls just anyone by name. “Your toes are cute, did you pick the color on purpose? I like it.” He whispered and Ruggie looked away, ears folded back as he eyed the mixing bowl with a reddening face. Floyd was close, too close. He has to be the responsible one. “The butter is going to melt if we don’t start baking.” Ruggie cleared his throat and Floyd started to pout from his advances being delicately rejected. “Boooo.” He muttered and stepped away from Ruggie with a sigh. He was mumbling to himself as he occupied himself with opening the back of chocolate chips. The beastman took the moment of reprieve to calm down. The downsides of smoking or ingesting cannabis, it can cause you to act strange sometimes. It’s just the effects of the weed is all. Yeah, that’s it. That’s why he painted his toes the color of Floyd’s hair last night. Thats’ why Floyd had that stupid yellow charm in his Croc that looked similar to a dandelion. And only that charm was being worn. It was just the weed that caused this.

[fitnessgeekandcoffeefreak]

2.10.2023.

Anyone else love to have barefoot workout days? When I don't have a ton of running around for moves it's my go to option. Today was the first time I didn't have to drop in weight for this pyramid 💪

Back to work I go! It's all makin' cake and dippin' balls today.

[paleparearchive]

The Lucky Guy's Birthday

Kuroda's Birthday 4★ story (1/3) ( 1 - 2 - 3 )

Location: terrace (evening) | Characters: Kuroda, Renoir, Monet, Raffaello, Giotto, Watteau

Kuroda: This is… Your painting, right, Raffaello? You're doing better than before.

Giotto: Yeah, you're paintin' the shadows darker than usual, ain't that nice!

Raffaello: Is that so? Well, I have been painting with softer shading, so... I thought I could try something different for a change. I am relieved to hear you say it is good. Thank you.

Kuroda: You don't have to thank me. I learn a lot from your paintings.

Renoir: Okay, now let's take a look at my painting–

Monet: No no! Today's art appreciation session will end with Raffaello-san's painting!

Renoir: Oooh? Is that so?

Watteau: Right? Next time we can admire Renoir's paintings, next time!

Kuroda: Hm? There's still time to…

... No, let's end this.

Giotto: Aight! Well then, let's have a drink–

Monet: Giotto-san! We just finished drinkin’!

Giotto: … Ah! Now that I think of it, you're right! Sorry, sorry, I forgot.

Kuroda: –If there's no alcohol, I guess it's time to call it a day.

Giotto: Yeah. Sorry to say we've run out of booze…

I'll clean up today. Kuroda, ya can go back first, 'kay?

Kuroda: … I see. Well, take care.

Giotto: Yeah, leave it to me!

Monet: … Phew. Looks like Kuroda-sensei's gone!

Raffaello: Well then, let us start discussing.

Renoir: What do you mean discuss?

Monet: We need to talk ‘bout Kuroda-sensei's birthday, which is comin’ up soon– We talked yesterday ‘bout how we should all think of ways to celebrate together.

Renoir: Ah! Come to think of it, you're right.

Watteau: So, what are we gonna do? I'd say we should celebrate, but Kuroda-sensei doesn't like sweets, does he?

Raffaello: That is true. If he does not like sweets, it is not going to be possible to celebrate with a cake…

Giotto: If that's the case, there's only one thing left to do!

Raffaello: Giotto-san, what is this "thing"?

Giotto: It's alcohol, alcohol! We're gonna have a drinkin’ party for Kuroda!

Monet: Huuuh, but that doesn't sound any different than a regular drinkin’ party…

Watteau: Hmm… Well, why don't we try makin' it more gorgeous? A birthday special version! Somethin' like that?

Monet: Uuh… Well, that makes it feel special, doesn't it…?

Raffaello: … So, we have to be more enthusiastic with our preparations than usual.

Renoir: Well then, I know a place where we can get the booze.

Giotto: Great! Then ya can order it!

Raffaello: Thank you, Renoir-kun.

Ah… Good drinks need good snacks, too.

Giotto: Snacks, huh… Yeah, that’s important. Makes the drinks taste better.

Monet: Yup yup! So how 'bout Watteau and I come up with some snacks, huh?

Watteau: Okay, I'll take care of it. I'll prepare the best snacks for our boozy birthday party.

Giotto: Well then, Raffaello, why don't we go and see if anyone else can join us for a drink?

Raffaello: Yes, it is a birthday party, so the more, the merrier.

Watteau: Alriiight! So, this is how we decided to divide the roles, right?

Giotto: Yeah. Well then, let's get ready–

Monet: W-Wait a sec! Since we're here, why don't we prepare without Kuroda-sensei knowin’ 'bout it?

Renoir: I see. So you mean a surprise party.

Watteau: Nicee! I wanna see Teach's surprised face!

Raffaello: Then we will have to act as discreetly as possible.

Giotto: Gotcha! Let's do it!

Monet: We all gotta work together… Let's make Kuroda-sensei's surprise birthday party a success!

Everyone: Yeah!

[soapfcrce]

 meme: note. 

The care package is the best that Beth can do. Body soap, wet wipes, lip balm, sun-screen, chewing gum. Instant coffee, dried creamer and sugars. Protein bars and a variety of candy both American and British. Hot sauces, water flavour packets, beef jerky, sunflower seeds. Hand sanitizer, high quality socks, and a couple compact sewing kits. There's fresh decks of cards, batteries, a few new books and magazines, a thumb drive with music, pictures, and little voice greetings. These are a king's ransom worth the world in gold for the soldiers far from home. There's one box at the bottom that is specifically addressed to MacTavish. These have many of the same items that were sent to his unit. But there's a picture of the other tenants in the building, taken on the roof with a banner reading "Come Home Soon." Another photo, of her and Houdini this time, in the late afternoon sunlight. She's smiling at him and it's likely that Sebastian took the photo. The other secret item no one else got is some Irn Bru. She's pretty sure wherever he's stationed, it's not an easy access item. Tucked into all the things is a little note. Expensive bone-coloured paper, that signature purple glitter-gel ink. Delicate writing that is as sweet as it is brief. Soap, Thought you and yours needed a little pick-me up, so there's some gifts for everyone, they can feel free to share and trade alike. This particular package is yours. I hope it finds you hale and hearty, and I hope you're doing okay. I also hope you make it back sooner rather than later. I miss having my 'braw man' around the building. See, just trying to hear me say that like one of your country women just made you smile. Mission accomplished. You can't see me wink but I did. Fair winds and following seas, B.

He hears about the box before actually seeing it. Or much of the contents for that matter, half of Credenhill probably nipped most of the stuff as soon as he dragged himself out of his little work hovel. At least the boys had the sensibility to leave him the stuff for him.

Not that Soap had any doubt. When one controlled the explosives kept in the base, one could get just about anything.

A quick thanks to the private that made the delivery, and maybe a quiet prayer to what sounded like two others getting into a fist fight over the Jaffa Cakes, good luck and godspeed to both of them. Into his room the rest of the box had been dragged and onto the sad excuse for a workbench he had and unpacked. It almost reminded him of the first package his mother had tried to send him. Almost.

Eyes quickly reading over the note he had plucked out, eventually stopping to shove the other box back out his door to get its remains plucked over, and he settled back inside. Toying idly with the photo and staring at a bottle, Soap eventually sighed. “Not makin’ this easy, are ye bonnie…”

He eventually set the items down in favor for his phone, punching in the extension for the upper floors. “Aye, it’s me. Know how we’re paying out the lease in a few days for that flush job but… cancel that, yeah? I’ll pay the rent outta pocket.”

It’d be nice to have a home away from home.

[amplifyingtrace]

@ofdetonation​ asked:  “so i got roped into makin’ the idiots in both classes a sorta christmas dinner, but i can’t go ‘n makin’ all of it by myself.  can’t trust anyone else in the damn kitchen ‘n i need someone who knows how t’make decent desserts.”  many hands make light work, after all, but katsuki did not enjoy having so many people in one space.  “you in?”

By roped in, does Katsuki mean that he was told he was going to not only make a christmas dinner for his class, but her class too and that’s final? That’s a lot for just one designated person to prepare all by themselves for so many people. She had so many questions she wanted to ask him on how this was all decided, but those questions can wait.

He had come to ask her for help which she wasn’t about to refuse, not only because he is a dear friend of hers as she would help anyone who asked. However Katsuki didn’t ask just anyone for help, only those who he trusted wholeheartedly and felt comfortable with.

“Of course, I’d be more than happy to help you!” Leia beamed widely, bouncing on her toes a few times in excitement. They were going to make an amazing team in the kitchen together and get to hang while having fun at the same time. 

“If you need any help with any of the other dishes, please let me know and I’ll do the same.” Not that she doubted they wouldn’t be able to handle their own tasks perfectly fine on their own, but she still wanted to offer her help if he needed it.

“Are we going to ask our classmates what they’d like to eat too or are we going to make this more of a surprise?” Perhaps a surprise as this was the first time she was hearing about this christmas like dinner. “There are so many things I can make, let’s see….” Leia paused, tilting her head to the side in thought for a moment. Holding up one of her hands to count on, bringing a finger up for each dessert she mentioned “Gingerbread cookies, cakes, brownies…”

[mikenips]

Anemone

The first time I ever really checked out the Brian Jonestown Massacre goes back to the first time I played Outer Limits in 2019.  I had only known Brendan for a few months at that point.  But he offered to put a tape out for us on his label Remove Records.  We were playin’ with the Pontiac Stags.  With all five members.  And they did a cover of “Anemone.”  I was on acid that night.  We played a horrible set.  But that cover really reverberated through me.  So in a roundabout way, Brendan’s the one that got me into this mess in the first place.

Fast forward another month.  It’s my twenty-first birthday.  I’m on molly in my kitchen makin’ pizza rolls.  I got a band playin’ upstairs.  And the house is full of a buncha faces that would soon become recognizable to me in the drunken blur of shows to come.  “I pulled up behind a car with a Brian Jonestown Massacre bumper sticker and knew I must be in the right place.”  This guy says to me as he fills a bottle of water.  Hit a joint.  I’ve never met him before.  But he’s supposed to do an acoustic set in my back room under the name Kid Infinity.  After his set he asked if it would be ok if he set his projector up for the other bands to use durin’ their sets.

Fast forward a few years.  Just a few months ago.  Second annual Freaksgivin’ is just gettin’ started at Bowlero.  208 is playin’ near the end of the night.  And I’m coked out.  Makeup runnin’ down my face from sweat.  And frustration at my inability to figure out how to get a fuckin’ DVD player to work.  Forgetting the crucial first step.  Turn it off then back on.  So I pull up Dig! on the laptop and play that through the bowling alley instead of Gimme Gimme Octopus.  “You know they just showed a full cock on the screen right?”  Gabe asks me as he DJs and I speed off to do a bump and help get the first band set.  The goal was to find somethin’ family friendly at the beginning of the night.  But the only movie I could think of that was free on YouTube was the BJM doc.

You can see how the Brian Jonestown Massacre became a bit of a motif in my life.  Appearing as an omen for something beautiful about to begin.  A sign that I’m at the rest place.  And I don’t think anyone idolized Anton the way they did Iggy.  Well…  Maybe Joey.  Everyone has at least one time they remember him putting on Dig! in their presence.  So it made it all very surreal when I checked my phone as my acid was kickin’ in today to a message from Kyle.  “We’re opening for BJM tonight.”

The benefit of workin’ for ultra neo-lib bosses is that they will do whatever the fuck you ask if they think it will help their image.  So I had already gotten some free tickets to BJM.  “Whatch you’re sayin’ is 208 is just the little cherry on top of your trip tonight?”  Will raises his eyebrows at me as we stand outside smokin’ cigs after their set.  Yes.  That’s the best way to put it bud.  208 is the rotten cherry bomb.  Caked in fuzz and drenched in blood and spit.  With a short fuse to send your fractured teeth rattlin’ in your fuckin’ skull as you bite down on the crunch of guitar and drums.

“That’s a huge jump.”  Josh, the bartender I know at the Majestic, says to me as he turns down a shot.  Gotta keep it professional behind the bar when you’re workin’ the Theater apparently.  “I thought it was a typo when I got in and saw the set times.  They’re an above the lanes band.  Not an opener for a show like this.”

It is a huge jump.  I look out my bedroom window to the front lawn I plan on doin’ house shows on this summer.  Again.  Another mess of sludge and dirt that I got rooted into once I met Brendan.  As I smoke a cig.  Thinkin’ this is some crazy delusion caused by the D in LSD.  I can see the spot Kyle first gave me a 208 tape durin’ a show at my house a couple years ago when him and Shelby moved here.  They didn’t say much to me then.  Shit.  We still don’t even say much to each other now.  It’s always hard to have a conversation over the feedback.  The drugs.  And the general lack of social skills we all have that probably brought us together in the first place.  They just thought I might like their band.  They heard about me through some clout chaser whose name won’t even tarnish this fuckin’ beautiful moment.

Now if you were one of the boomer acid casualties in the audience for BJM and saw Kyle doubled over.  Spittin’.  Screamin’.  And bleedin’.  With the mic held between his teeth.  Shelby behind a pair of sunglasses.  Still behind the kit.  But beatin’ the shit outta the toms.  Every bit of chaos distinguishable through a PA of this quality.  If that was your first impression of 208.  You might think the two are unapproachable and terrifyingly cool.  And that last part is still true.  But they are the two most genuine people you could meet.  Quiet.  Tame.  They aren’t there for the party.  They aren’t there to get in with Hala or the false prophet of garage Jack White.  They aren’t even lookin’ for a good anecdote to tell their grandkids when they catch ‘em smokin’ grass.  They are there for the same reason any of us have been there.  Cause that shit makes our tinnitus sound siiiiccckk!!!  Clippin’ just right.  They’re just tryin’ to vibe like the rest of us.  They both are there because they simply enjoy the music.  It just so happens we’ve all become friends along the way.

“Do you ever think of looking into doing something else in the music business?”  My mom asks me that afternoon.  I’m not on acid yet.  208 doesn’t even know they’re openin’ for BJM at this point.  I was just tellin’ my mom about this movie I watched last night.  24 Hour Party People.  The story behind Factory Records and Tony Wilson.  I started tryin’ to summarize it.  But just watch the movie.  It’s good.  All you need to know is Factory Records never really existed.  It was just some words Tony Wilson put on a sleeve so Joy Division could have full creative control of their music.  None of this is about makin’ money.  Or bein’ immortalized in underground, subculture Reddit threads.  It’s about feelin’ the sound guy turn the subs up after Anton bitches at him that there doesn’t need to be that much low end.  Even if it does sound sick.

Even if it does trigger Sean as a sound tech.  That chaos.  That noise.  That feedback, delay, fuzz, reverb.  Six twelve string guitars.  The pretension and desire to be seen and heard.  That audible mess is what makes the constant noise in our brain feel it belongs.

My mom has only smoked weed once in her life.  She took one hit and didn’t like it cause it hurt her throat.  But she loves watchin’ and readin’ about Warhol and the Factory.  About the Beats.  These little cliques of artists that have sprung up time and time again.  I tell her stories of house parties or what happens when an after hours gets raided.  I tell her Dee is workin’ on an interview with Half Japanese for our blog that nobody ever remembers to promote their writing on.  And it’s always “you guys need your own little thing like the beatniks…”  And she doesn’t get it.  We don’t need to be immortalized.  We live our own urban legends in real time.  The shenanigans of doin’ whip-its and makin’ pancakes at three in the morning means just as much as if nobody else ever knew about it.  It wasn’t just Kerouac and Ginsberg ya know?  And it wasn’t just Warhol?  There were vast networks of artists feeding into each other.  Through space and time and the whole damn continuum.  It’s all the same sound wave.  Just ran through a few different pedals.  It’s all the same energy.  Kerouac is Warhol is BJM is 208.

It’s not just one party.  It’s not just one gig.  It’s constant.  The old heads are talkin’ with the up and comin’ scenesters.  Everyone’s there.  All the faces radiate in familiarity in the red lights of the Theater.  Spot a Stool.  A Toehead.  I’ve missed things like this.  A guy collapses face first from a combination of body heat.  Probably a psychedelic of some sort.  And the raw sounds of 208.  These sounds.  These sights.  These vibes.  This community of people that aren’t afraid to admit they have no idea what the fuck is happenin’ anymore.  I’ve missed it.  Goddamn!  I picked the wrong month to finally get off blow.  Although…  A lawyer once told me if you drive on psychs just deny.  They can’t test ya for it.  Addiction is nothin’ more than a habit we form to cope with the burden of bein’ human.  But sometimes the habit we turn into an addiction can be a healthy coping mechanism.  Like sacrificing your hearing in the name of tone.  Or beatin’ the shit outta each other and lobbin’ beer cans at someone’s skull.  These addictions form bonds.  These bonds form community.  And I’ve been too busy turnin’ other habits into addictions.  Somethin’ as visceral as 208 can’t help but make you think.  All that bottled up, raw emotion from the humble duo released into raw sound.  You can’t even call this shit noise rock anymore.  It’s just sound.

Em steps back inside after Kyle spends at least four minutes tearin’ strings from his guitar.  Every bit of noise distinguishable.  Speakers clippin’ just right.  White noise for the deranged.  Head welted from him bangin’ the wood against his skull.  They said last time we played Outer Limits they know good psych when it feels like they’re gonna have a panic attack.  And I know some of the punk purists don’t wanna say noise is psych cause they don’t like hippies or Deadheads.  The guy that talks the most shit about the Dead just had to play an hour set.  And mostly jammed feedback.  At least Jerry played fuckin’ notes man.

Regardless.  Sean says good psych gives the panic attacks a feelin’ of purpose.  Now there’s somethin’ at least to attribute to the general anxiety.  “What was the name of that band?”  An older woman behind us asks.

“208.”

“Ok.  I need to know so I know never to see them again.”

“I’ll tell Kyle and Shelby you said that.”  Don’t worry ma’am.  They’ll take it as a compliment.

I went to see Melvins and Ministry a few days ago with Sarah.  And she described the experience as spiritual.  Well…  That doesn’t nearly compare to the spiritual experience I have everytime I see 208.  Spiritual in the way Kyle supposedly sold his soul to the devil.  It feels like my soul just nutted.  Or maybe that was me puking.  I don’t know.  I drank that PBR too fast.  And I don’t know how Joey got from the stage to the crowd to start a pit so fast.  All I know.  I fuckin’ needed 208 in my life.  It never gets borin’ tryin’ to come up with new and exciting ways to describe the noise.  The midwest, construction bumble of Shelby’s drums.  And the staggering mess of Kyle emerging from a swamp of sound in his Remove Records t-shirt as he throws his guitar in the air and the mic crunches against the floor as it falls from his teeth.  Glob of drool hangin’ from his lip.  I imagine that was how he was walkin’ on the shitty scaffolding when he got vertigo readin’ the text “do you wanna open for BJM tonight?”

I could sit here and describe how mesmerizing Kyle moves on stage.  I could tell you how my head spirals following Shelby’s sticks.  Describe how mind blowing it was to hear them fill a room that size with so much dissonance.  I could tell you how sore my neck is.  Or make jokes about all the BJM fans that couldn’t understand seein’ genius before their very eyes.  But you really just have to be there.  Be here now in the moment to truly understand the ritual of 208.  I let the euphoria of that surreal, beautiful experience exist on its own.  I didn’t buy any blow.  And it’s a lot harder to write comin’ down from acid without it than I thought.  I’m addicted to these people and the way they kill the dreadfully mundane.  I enjoy the moment with the community I feel at home in.  The place where the mess of noise in my head feels it belongs.  BJM has always been a sign I’m in the right place.  If you wanna see the set you’ll have to see Kid Infinity’s footage eventually.  He was on stage filmin’ the whole thing.  All I’ll tell you.  It was fuckin’ sick.  Watchin’ them figure out how to fill an hour set.  I don’t think they’ve ever played longer than twenty minutes.  And the two of them deserve every fuckin’ second of that hour.  Even Shelby cracks a triumphant smile on stage.  The two radiate on stage.  Open in full vulnerable expression like an anemone.  Reminding us all just to relax and enjoy the beautifully surreal chaos this life spirals us through.